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I was about to compliment him on it when he said, “So is that what Henry’s all about?”
Supper went down my throat like a stone. I poked at my food. “I told you. I love Henry.”
“Yeah, but does Henry love you?”
My cheeks warmed. “Of course he does.”
“I mean like, breeding successors love.”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, has he ever kissed you?”
“Of course.” Indignance lifted my nose just a touch.
“When?”
“It doesn’t matter when.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, it probably does.”
My nostrils flared. “We were eight.”
A laugh burst out of him. At my visible frustration, he held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not trying to be a dick, I swear.”
“I’m sure you weren’t, and yet.” This time when I sighed, it was to vent the heat of my annoyance, unsure why I was even defending Henry. The script had long been written and recited, I supposed. “I think we’re a lovely match and would be quite happy together. Our best friends are getting married. I could even move somewhere like Africa with him, my parents wouldn’t care. It’s Henry,” I said, as if that explained it all.
“And you want to move to Africa?”
“Well, not if I don’t have to. But?—”
“I’m just saying, have you thought it all the way through?”
“I’ve been thinking it through since I was all of eighteen, thank you.”
He nodded at his food. “Honestly, the whole thing makes sense now. I mean, I still think he’s a dumbass, but I get why he’d fit the bill. He checks those pesky boxes. I mean, aside from not ever kissing you, but what do I know.”
I stared at him. “And here I was enjoying your company, forgetting how terrible you are.”
“Oh, come on, Duchess. You have to admit how stupid it sounds.”
“I will not,” I blustered. “You know nothing about me or Henry.”
He set down his spoon, his eyes narrowing. My chest cinched tighter with every increment. “I know you’re too good for some dipshit who won’t even kiss you. Any man who wouldn’t is a fool. That idiot douchebag has no idea what he’s got.”
I blinked, stammering quietly, “He...he’s not an idiot or a douchebag.”
“I fucking know,” he growled. Actually growled the words like an animal through his teeth. “But I hate him anyway. I watch you look at him like you do, and he has no clue. Not one fucking goddamn clue.”
I stared at him with my lips parted, not breathing as I attempted to process the words that had left his mouth and the order with which they exited. Thoughts and questions exploded in my mind like fireworks, too loud and shocking to separate.
But I didn’t end up needing to—a groan of wood from the direction of my room preceded a snap, followed by a wet whoosh of water and a crash.
18
o, holey night
JESSA
