Page 60 of Misadventures with a Duke

“And I am the king of fucking England.”

She pivots around. Her hands brace to the edge of the sink, poised as if to help her lunge forward any second. “Why have you suddenly decided I’m the enemy here?”

I arch one brow. “Because I am concerned about your health, ma chérie?”

“Because you’re watching every move I make.” Her knuckles get even whiter against the counter. “Honestly, what’s with the Bond-level antics now?”

I listen to intuition, holding my reply until another break ticks by. “And honestly…what was in the small parcel that Drue snuck to you?”

“Not a bomb or a gun, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She sniffs when I give her no rise for the quip. “And as I already told you—”

“Oui. I know. Female things.” I push away the food container, clearing room to spread my elbows on the small dining table. “Regrettably, that is not an answer to my satisfaction, Rayonnement. You see, I am the man privileged enough to have enjoyed your female things most recently. And the man who would also be honored to delight in them again. But if, in my passion, I have caused you pain or injury—”

“Unnnhhhh.” Her outburst is small but significant. Her head falls between her shoulders. “Okay, I should’ve known you’d go there. And I’m sorry for calling you out about it.” When she looks back up, her features have softened again. “I really am fine. You have my word. Takes more than some epic love bites and mind-bending orgasms to break me, buddy.”

“I am relieved to hear that.” I rise as well. “But it also takes more than a sweet smile to deter me from my ultimate purpose. You have been tense and conflicted since the moment Drue gave you that white paper package. Was it truly for feminine needs, or is there something troubling that you are keeping to yourself? Are there new developments about Logan and his activities?”

“No!” Her urgency rises in proportion to mine. “I mean that, okay? As soon as I get the latest on that front, you’ll get it too.”

I smooth the air with my hands, assuring her I believe that. But at the same time, I prod, “So what is really going on here? And why is it causing your spirit such contention?” From the moment I observe how hard I have struck her target, I move back around the table to re-approach her. “Your intimate tissues…are they tender or sensitive? Or is it time for your courses? It is naught to be discouraged or embarrassed about. I can certainly be…more creative about things.”

But the desirous dip in my tone does not comfort her.

“Gah!” she blurts, wrenching to the side as I approach. She crisscrosses her arms until gripping her opposite shoulders and visibly shivering. “Please, Bastien. Please. Can’t you just drop it? You…this… Being so nice isn’t helping shit at all, okay?”

“Ah.” It is the verbal version of how I brutally halt myself. “Well, then. My humble apologies for annoying you with my nice, Mademoiselle Tavish. But perhaps if I had some explanation to be less nice—”

“Seriously?” She whips back around. “Oh, that’s such a mature recipe to follow. Hold on, I’ve got to make sure I post all this. Hashtag wokeandwonderfulguy. How does that one work for you?”

“What works for me is helping you. If hashing is required for that, then give me a sharp knife and point me to the sideboard. But love of Christ, let me into the kitchen first. To me, that is a mature recipe.”

She opens her mouth as if a ready rebuttal is already there, but not a sound spills out. She remains there, her back against the wall, visibly raw but tough—just like a sideboard full of uncut vegetables. I am just as stoic now. Out of ideas about wrestling her for the big blade. I cannot help without knowing where to dig it in first.

Our impasse continues, silent and inelegant. I have nearly resigned myself to walking away without expiation when she inhales and then exhales with ponderous intent. Her arms fall to her sides. She flattens them to the wall.

“I’m…sorry,” she mutters. “And I promise that’s sincere. I’m just facing a dilemma that’s new for me. There are lots of weird feelings because of it. But if anyone has a right to know about it, that’d be you.”

“Me? Why?” I let my own hands drop, though it is impossible to keep them idle. With measured purpose, I flex my fingers in and out. “To know about what?”

At once, my flexings are not so steady and slow. It is not comfortable to witness the creep of tighter tension along her slim shoulders.

“Drue went to get me…a morning-after pill. That’s what’s in the white bag.”

I honor her sincerity with my own. Admittedly, my confusion is not difficult to summon. “Assume I am from the eighteenth century and know naught of what you speak of. A pill? You mean for medicinal purposes? The morning after what?”

She straightens her stance. Visibly pulls in another breath. “After having…relations…with a man and not taking precautions about it.”

My hands go limp. I start to regret my persistence. More than I want to.

“And this pill is a precaution…after the fact?”

“In basic terms, yes.”

“So it terminates anything that has begun to live inside you?”

“No.” She is flustered again, her face in conflict. And damn it, I have never been happier to observe the emotions. “I mean, not usually.”

“Not usually? What about the unusual times, then?”