{{user}} had done it again.

Another social call. Another intentional fashion disaster. Today it was a bright yellow gown that clashed horrifically with the maroon ribbons in her hat, and a pair of gloves she had purposefully chosen to be two different shades of ivory.

Lady Blythe had nearly fainted at the sight.

“Your Grace,” {{user}} said sweetly as she entered the Duke of Wexley's drawing room, brushing off a visible smear of jam from her sleeve, “I do hope I’m not terribly early. I was eating toast in the carriage.”

The Duke—tall, dark-haired, and supposedly incapable of smiling—stood slowly. His face was unreadable, as always. Impeccably dressed. Cold as snow in January. Every inch of him screamed “dangerously proper.”

He glanced at her gloves.

Then at the faint trail of crumbs clinging to her bodice.

Then, impossibly… his lip twitched.

She nearly dropped her reticule.

“I wasn’t aware toast was a suitable carriage snack,” he said, voice dry and slow like thunder before a storm.