“Genius,” Lady Ursaline crows, patting her mouth and waving the footman over to order more stewed tomatoes.
“It’s a citizens’ dividend,” I explain. “Universal basic income.”
“You have that?” Frankie looks impressed.
“Yes.”
“And Benedict came up with it all,” Lady Ursaline says.
Frankie seems truly curious when she asks, “How did you do it?”
I focus on my plate, which is rude, but Frankie’s attention is rather flattering. Typically, when I bring up economics with a brunch date, their eyes glaze over. Which is probably why Frankie is my first date in five years. “It’s made possible by a specific tax on the nation’s highest dividend earners.”
“It mostly affects members of the royal family,” Lady Ursaline says, waving her cloth napkin before patting her lips. “A tax on the royal fund. Didn't they moan and groan over that one?” She looks absolutely delighted at the thought of a bevy of complaining royals. “Made him quite unpopular with our set.”
That’s an understatement. The tax bill wasn’t expected to pass, but when it did, officials took notice. Overnight, I made enemies—many of them members of my own family. Which makes holiday dinners quite uncomfortable. Not that socializing with my own set was ever very enjoyable.
“Let me get this straight.” Frankie sets down her fork and leans closer to me, her cheeks flushed in that charming way they get when she’s excited. “You implemented a tax on dividends that pays into a fund. And you take the dividends on that and give money to everyone in the country.”
“That’s right,” Lady Ursaline says, ”Everyone, from the eldest citizen to the smallest child.”
“The royal fund is in the trillions. We can well afford it. It was the right thing to do,” I tell Frankie quietly.
She’s looking at me as if she’s seeing me anew. “That’s incredible.”
I shake my head slightly. “Anyone would have done it.”
“They didn’t. You did.” She goes back to eating, a small smile on her face. “You should be proud.”
And, for the first time since implementing the tax and fighting it through to law, I am.
Frankie
Daniel is waiting for us when we leave Lady Ursaline’s palatial home. “Well?”
“It didn’t go so badly,” I report.
“No?” Daniel looks to the duke to confirm. Benedict raises his chin slightly. “Good then. We’ll debrief later.”
“Frankie, ride with me,” Benedict orders. He helps me into the car and waits until the divider goes up between us and the driver before turning to me. “You are entirely too naughty, Miss Beaumonde.”
“Really, Benny?” I slouch in the seat. It feels good to lounge and indulge in manspread.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Or else what?”
“I’ll punish you.”
I ignore the warning signal flashing: Danger! Danger! “How do you propose to do that? Force me to actually marry you?”
“That’s it,” he growls, and pounces.
I end up on my back with one hundred and eighty pounds of lean strength on top of me. The duke catches my wrists easily and pins them above my head.
“Now I’ve got you.”
“So you do. Now what?”
“Find a way to shut that mouth.” He lowers his head and kisses me. Sensation sizzles through me. My toes curl so hard, my heels fall off. My feet scrabble on the seat, trying for leverage. I want to press my hips into his, press my whole body against his firm one. Benedict stops my struggles, pinning me soundly. He reaffirms his grip on my wrists and I can’t even slide my fingers into his silky hair. My fingers flex, palms itching to touch him. I whimper and he draws back to give me a dark smile, enjoying my helplessness before his lips stroke at mine again. His tongue invades my mouth, licking the insides of my cheeks until I’m rocking under him, unable to do anything but spar with his tongue with little licks of my own.
When he finally draws back, I’m a puddle of goo on the car seat. Woozy as if I’ve drunk a draught of brandy.
“Fuck, Benedict,” I pant. Vaguely, I sense him withdrawing further, a huge dark hunger camouflaged in a civilized suit. “Fuck me.” I reach for him but he’s already sliding away.
“Not here, darling. We’re at the courthouse.” He straightens his already perfectly straight tie, and flicks a glance over me. “Fix your hair.”
He exits the car, leaving me to pull the scattered pieces of myself together. Daniel’s waiting on the curb, folio in hand. The two bend their heads close. Benedict looks as cool and crisp as ever. His hair and suit are unrumpled. Meanwhile, I look like I’ve been tossed in a dryer.
“Fuck you, Benedict,” I mutter, combing my fingers through my hair. Damn him for making a game out of seducing me. Testing his control and mocking mine.
No more. I’m never kissing him again.
I bundle my hair into a bun, smooth my skirt and find my shoes. My lips are still puffy. I swing out of the car, and before my heels have hit the sidewalk, Benedict’s attention snaps to me. My lips first, and then my cleavage. And as I sway towards him, I get an idea.
I will kiss him again. But this time, I’ll win. Leave him wrecked instead of me.
I’ll be the best damn fake fiancée he could ask for. I’ll act so well, I’ll win a damn Emmy. And I’ll make him sorry he ever toyed with me.
I slow my walk the final few steps, and savor the way the conversation between Daniel and the duke drops away.
“Ready, Miss Beaumonde?” Benedict offers his arm.
Oh yes. I sidle up to him and take it, leaning close enough to brush my breasts against his bicep. Then I look up at him through my lashes, noting the slight widening of his pupils. His gaze goes unfocused a moment. “Ready, darling,” I murmur.
This is war.
Frankie
“He kissed you?” Mina gasps into her headset microphone later that night. “For reals?”
“For reals reals,” I confirm. I’m in the movie room with Elvis. To Catch a Thief is playing on the screen, but I’m too wound up to watch.
“Was it good?”
“It was incredible.”
“Aww, yeah.” Mina types faster. “And I called it.”
On screen, Cary Grant gives Grace Kelly some side eye as she lead-foots the convertible up the mountain. “It doesn’t mean anything. It was just a kiss.”
“A good kiss isn’t nothing.” Her typing hits hyperdrive. Any faster, and her keyboard will catch fire. “So things are moving along?”
“We posted the banns, whatever that means. After that, we attended a small ceremony—the christening of a new building for the Ministry of Finance. Benedict cut the ribbon. The press got wind of our engagement, but didn’t arrive until we were about to leave.”
“I saw it. He does look good in a suit.”
“Yeah,” I reluctantly agree. I’ve got to up my game if I’m going to hold up my end of the bargain. I need to be more like Grace Kelly. Demure, elegant, less of a mess. “We have a bunch more little ceremonies to attend this week. Daniel thinks it’s good for us to be seen together this way.”