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“You never cease to surprise me, Miss Dawson.”

She brushed a kiss on his shoulder, then moved her attention back to the frying pan. “Can you blame me? You have a nice arse, Your Grace.”

He glanced over his shoulder, craning his head to try to get a look at his backside. “I didn’t realize women liked arses.”

“Depends on the type of arse you’re speaking of.” She dropped a pad of lard into the frying pan. Sizzling and hissing immediately filled the kitchen. “Men who are arses. No.” She stepped slightly behind His Grace to get out of range of the spatter. “Men’s arses. Yes.” She pressed herself up against his back, going up on tiptoe to watch over his shoulder. His muscles flinched and twitched, and she reveled in his reaction to her.

“You are distracting,” he said, voice hoarse. “And I have no idea what I’m doing.”

She pinched his cheek.

“Miss Dawson!” He spun to face her, jaw practically on the floor.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she purred.

He narrowed his eyes. “You are trouble. We’re never going to get breakfast made at this rate.”

“I couldn’t agree more. If you want the egg to fry, Duke, you need to actually put it in the pan.”

The look he shot her had a laugh bursting from her. It was so exasperated. If he rolled his eyes any harder, they’d get stuck in the back of his head.

He turned to the pan. He gently tapped the egg on the counter, his tongue peeking out between his teeth.

Something tender swirled around in her chest. He so clearly had no idea what he was doing. It was the most adorable thing she’d ever witnessed—the Iron Duke attempting to fry an egg. “Put a little muscle into it, Duke. The goal here is to break it.”

He wrinkled his nose and let out a humph. But this time he succeeded in cracking the shell and dropping the egg into the pan, albeit a bit messily. After both eggs were in the pan, he looked over his shoulder at her.

“Now what? How do I know when they’re done?”

She popped a shoulder. “That depends.”

His expression went flat. “That’s not helpful.”

She grinned as she placed some buttered slices of bread on the range top to toast while the eggs cooked.

“It depends on how you like your eggs. In general, you want the egg whites to be solid, with a bit of a golden-brown crust on them. But most importantly, you’ll watch the yolk. The brighter yellow it turns, the more well-done it is. I like mine a bit runny. I also like to fry mine on both sides, to get that crispness on top too, but you have to be quick about it if you want to keep the yolk soft.”

“I like mine like that too. Though that seems advanced for my abilities.” He turned back to the pan. “They’re white! Shite. Do I flip them now?”

Theo barely held back her snort. “They probably need another minute or two.

He stood, stiff as a board, gaze fixed on the eggs. He held his spatula at the ready, as though the eggs were about to spring from the frying pan at any moment and attack.

Since it appeared her kitchen was sufficiently protected against mutinous eggs, she set them each a place at her worktable and kept up with the toast.

“Bugger!”

She hurried back to his side. Ah. She saw the problem. “You broke one of the yolks.”

“You’re observant,” he grumbled.

“Happens to the best of us, even us experienced egg fryers. Retrieve our plates; I’ll salvage this. Toast should be all done.”

He set the plates down on the counter. She glanced his way just as he dropped the finished toast onto the plates with a pair of tongs. “Do you like your egg on your toast or beside it?”

“On.”

She carefully plated the still-intact egg on one of the slices of toast. The broken yolk was firm enough now that she should be able to get it without it falling apart further. Slightly more done than was to her liking, but still soft. She handed him the plates, and he piled on some slices of cold ham while she closed the dampers so the range fire would die out.