Page 85 of Misadventures with a Duke

Though all of her invisible ghosts now bear a name I cannot ignore.

Mine.

Chapter Sixteen

Raegan

“Bastien!” I cry, and then again, though the sound is so far away. So raspy and weak. “Bastien…”

Why isn’t he answering?

What is going on here?

Am I dead? About to be dead?

Mom and Dad, in the name of peace, love, and magic crystals, always held to the view of letting me try any “natural substance” anytime I wanted. None of those wild trips from my youth compared to this. All of this. The threads of my sanity, slowly unspooling over the last two days and nights, tugged much harder with these episodes I keep trying to explain away…

But not now.

There’s no excuse for this. Not the tidal wave of crazy that pours in now.

The waves of recall, making my head spin with their detail. Big things, like the size of the night sky—where did all these stars come from?—to the enormity of Versailles’ stench in the summertime. But there is no time to process a grimace because I am dancing with Bastien again. A waltz—where did all these spins come from?—during which we are flirting in too many ways. With each other. With danger. With the idea of a union that can never be because Louis has now made him a duke.

A duke.

Never will I ever be accepted as the wife of a duke.

What?

I force myself to blurt it aloud, no matter how much it feels like a gong against the inside of my skull. I’m worth ten dukes, damn it! Twenty!

Too late, I realize I’ve let all that spew out too. The gong is now a hammer. A huge one. But as I grimace and fight it, equally mighty arms hold me close and tight.

It’s all okay. I’m safe. Supported. Better than that, I’m alive.

I…think.

Because Bastien is still here. Closer than ever before. Caressing my forehead with his lips, which recite a nonstop litany of French. His voice is earnest and rough. Too rough. Filled with too much…of what?

I can’t figure that out right now. Where would I even start? Weirder still, why is he thanking saints I’ve never heard of—and even some of his dead ancestors? At least that’s what I think he’s saying.

No. That is what he’s saying. I understand it. Every single word of it. But I shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t.

“Bastien.”

I’m not sure if it’s a plea for him to stop or continue. But when he halts, I hate the silence. A world without his gruff baritone and adorable archaisms…it’s terrible. Terrifying.

“Bastien?”

“Here,” he assures, but it’s not enough. I have to see him. But that means compelling my eyes to open. It’s painful, but I thank myself for it at once. “See? I am right here, ma magnifique.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Oh yes. Hi there, gorgeous.”

Every syllable carries my heart-deep worship. He’s never been more beautiful, with his eyes a pair of blazes past the tumbled disarray of his hair. New stubble has returned to his jaw, shadowing the formidable angles in unbelievably alluring ways. As soon as I run a hand along the spiked plains, the rest of my body wakes up too. All too quickly. All too awesomely.

“You had me utterly dicked in the nob, woman.”