The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(12)
“What is the line? Uneasy is the head that wears the crown.”
“I sense we are discussing more than your costume this evening.”
“Costume?” He tried to appear affronted. “Je ne vois pas de quoi vous parlez.”
She laughed, a musical sound. “Oh, you don’t know what I mean?”
“Your French is excellent, by the way.”
“As is yours. Though I’m better with Spanish and Italian.”
A cultured woman who was this uninhibited? He could practically salivate at the possibilities. “Impressive. Tell me, what is your favorite French word?”
Sipping her champagne, she stared at him over the rim of her glass, her light brown eyes dancing. “Pamplemousse.”
“A fine choice.”
“But I also like étoile.”
What a strange combination, grapefruit and star. The two words were some sort of insight into her mind, but he wasn’t certain what it meant. Yet.
“And which are your favorites, King Louis?”
He had many, but he decided to see how deep her knowledge of the language ran. “Embrasse-moi is certainly one.” Her gaze dipped to his mouth, so she clearly understood the words. He tried again. “Baiser is another.”
Her lips pursed. “Basically the same word, no?”
“Not quite. As a verb, baiser takes on a more vulgar meaning.”
“Oh.” She took a sip of champagne, her throat working as she swallowed. “Do you mean . . . ?”
“To fuck.”
“Oh,” she repeated, a hand flying to her throat.
He chuckled. The innocent reaction was adorable. An act, of course, because no innocent woman would dare to step foot inside the French Ball. Regardless, the angelic response sent waves of heat through his blood, twisting and turning, tingling along his skin. There was something so pure, so honest, about her. He hadn’t been this intrigued by a woman in ages.
He gave her his best seductive grin. “A king’s mistress is no doubt familiar with these things.”
That relaxed her, tucking them firmly back into their roles for the evening. “Of course, though I’m certain your majesty could teach me all sorts of interesting things.”
Yes, he liked the sound of that. Probably too much. “What is it you wish to learn, mon chou?”
She was quiet for so long that he worried she wouldn’t answer, her fingernail tapping on the side of the coupe as she stared at him. “Tell me about you,” she finally said. “Are you married?”
He sensed she wanted to know about him, Preston, so he answered honestly. “No.”
Her shoulders eased slightly. “Children?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
He draped an arm over the back of the sofa. “Twenty-five.”
“Oh. You seem older.”
“Do I?” Was that a compliment or an insult? He couldn’t tell. Damn these masks. “Most women are actually pleased when they learn my age.”
“Why?”
He dropped his voice to a seductive whisper. “Stamina.”
She laughed, her face softening as it had below on the dance floor. She looked young and carefree, a bright-eyed ingenue, but that impression was dashed when a flirtatious smile twisted her lips. “And here I thought kings made their mistresses do all the work.”
“Not this monarch. I have a very hands-on approach.”
“They are nice-looking hands.” She tilted her chin to where his hands rested on the back of the sofa. “Strong and competent.”
He flexed his fingers. “They are, indeed. Would you care for a demonstration?”
“Not yet,” she said and sipped more champagne. “I’m enjoying our conversation—and I haven’t decided if you’ve earned more yet.”
His skin crawled with anticipation. Madame de Pompadour’s shyness had Preston’s mouth watering for the tiniest taste of her. “I’ll have to see what I can do to convince you. How old are you?”
“Twenty as of a few months ago.”
“And what do you do when not attending scandalous balls?”
“Attend to my king, obviously.”
The words were a blast of electricity to his insides, veins sizzling like he’d touched a live wire. “And what if your king needs attention here? Right now?”
“Then I would tell him to wait.”
“You’re adorable.”
“Adorable?”
She seemed surprised, so he elaborated. “So adorable that I’m dying to kiss you.”
She bit her lip, the plump flesh disappearing between straight white teeth. He couldn’t read her expression, not with the mask, but she seemed uncertain. “We’ve only just arrived. I’m not certain . . .”
“A kiss, madam—and I’m able to wait until you decide. Just know that I’m thinking about it.”
“If I kiss you, will you keep your hands there?” She nodded toward his arms, one on the sofa back, the other on the armrest. Was she nervous he would accost her?
Of course she is, you idiot. She has no idea who you are and has likely seen many women groped or accosted tonight.
He gave a regal incline of his head. “I swear it. I’ll not touch you unless you ask me.”