Page 2 of Misadventures with a Duke

I shall never take this feeling for granted. Her sweet little livre is quivering so hard. Waiting for me to flip her every sweet, hot page. To get lost in her secret sentences, paragraphs, and punctuation…

“Sorceress?” she giggles out. “Now I know you need to have the nonsense fucked out of you.”

“Mmmphhh.” There is not much volume to it, and I am not sorry. She is already clenching around me, so warm and tight and perfect. “Why should it not be the truth? You are their little compendium of all the facts they refuse to keep straight, oui? And for that matter, their weather dial and their lice preventer and their—”

“Monsieur De Leon,” she cuts in. “If you are happier discussing the behavioral patterns of lice right now, perhaps we should—oh!”

Her yelp is delicious as I buck my hips, stabbing my stalk deeper into her channel. “That is Monsieur le Duke De Leon, girl. And the only thing we should be doing is exactly this.”

“Profuse apologies, your grace.” Her last word quivers, already overtaken by the magical pout across her plush lips. I am captivated. Mesmerized. Especially as some of her paprika-colored curls tumble between the strawberry tips of her full breasts. “Oh, mon dieu, Bast. Are you truly a duke?”

I reach for my dusty satchel, still on the table next to the bed. I cast it down there last night in my haste to get the woman beneath me. Now, I reach for the inner pocket that possesses one of the most precious physical objects of my existence.

The scroll is printed on the finest paper and secured by a silk ribbon. With a deft tug, I loosen the bow. With an equally confident sweep, I extend the document to my beautiful Magique. With a chest that swells with pride on many levels, I watch her pick apart the words.

“Louis the Sixteenth, by the Grace of God and the Con—Consti—”

“Constitutions,” I prompt, using the same gentle tone from when I first guided her into the world of letters, sounds, and all the magic they would open for her.

“Constitutions,” she dutifully repeats. “And the Constitutions of the Republic, Emperor of the French, do hereby bestow upon my loyal subject, Bastien Eneas Jacques De Leon, the title of Bastien, Duc de Savennieres, to include all lands, properties, and dom—domin—”

“Dominion.”

“Dominion thereof.” With a gasp, she stops to look at me again. “Oh, Bast. It is like a dream.”

I reach up a finger to lower the sheet of parchment behind which she has hidden her face. “Then why do you look ready to face a nightmare instead?”

Her face pinches. “Because now His Majesty will demand to know when you will be giving him new subjects with a proper duchess.”

Her point is unsurprising. But so is my heart’s answer to it. “If that is what he demands, then you should be fitted for a gown and a ring right away.”

“I said a proper duchess, monsieur.”

“As you shall be, Mademoiselle De Lys.” For the first time, I push my brows into a scowl. “Hmm. ‘Mademoiselle.’ That does not sound right at all anymore, does it?”

Her fingers go limp. The parchment slips free, and I catch it with little effort, returning it quickly to the table. Only after I return my grip to her waist does she gain her voice again.

“Bastien. What are you saying?”

“Exactly what I mean.” I curve a tender hand along the outside of her arm. “I love you, Magique De Lys. With all my heart.”

“And I love you. But Bast—”

“But what?” I skim my fingertips over her collarbone, already imagining how beautiful the area will look when complemented by the neckline of a noble gown. “I love you. And, dieu merci, you love me too. And I already know my entire family will love you too. I cannot wait until you meet them all—especially Maximillian.”

She laughs as if nervous. “And I think I would adore him too, based on everything you have said. But—”

“But what?”

I detest being so firm about it, especially this moment. Until today, I never thought there was room in my life, physically or financially, for properly keeping a bride. More rare were any dreams of offering the role to a woman I deeply cherish. Still, I am fairly certain that marriage proposals should be followed by things like happy tears and salty kisses. The weeping and affection that absolutely are not emanating right now.

“Bastien.” Not a single sniff or dainty dab at her eyes either. “You are the Duke of Savennieres now. And I am a ladies’ maid, nowhere near the station Louis would give you permission for.”

“My love.” I stroke my hand up to the side of her neck. My thumb traces her proud jawline. “The man adores you. Not too much, thankfully, or I would be obliged to call him to the Bois de Bologne to carve out his testicles—”

“Bastien!” she rebukes.

“Do you know that the king of Sweden married his own servant—twice? And the Archduke of Austria, with a common bourgeoisie? Genghis Khan did it numerous times.”