26. Duchess-heir, Unsupervised
DUCHESS-HEIR, UNSUPERVISED
FRANCESCA
B eing in a car alone with Eric really does feel illegal.
Despite deciding to take a risk tonight, I chose the most cowardly version of it. I said Bertie needed to see me, and the moment the words left my mouth, I wanted to dig a hole, jump inside and choke on the fucking dirt. Can’t even remember the vague excuse I gave for why Philip couldn’t do it.
Still, Eric volunteered to drive me even though I know he doesn’t believe me.
No driver, no chaperone, all because Philip believes the gatepath will keep us contained.
As soon as he left to change, I typed out a quick message to Bertie to pretend that he invited us for supper.
Battenwen Manor remains a risk, albeit one with training wheels.
It’s outside the estate’s controlled space—a lie I’m repeating to myself—which gives me some breathing room.
Should be enough for now.
We left Redford about twenty minutes ago; now I’m rummaging through the glove box for Philip’s stash of breath mints.
My stomach is about to eat itself in desperation.
Night air sluices through the opened window on the driver’s side, tangling through my hair and breezing its way down the back of my shirt as I lean forward.
There’s nothing edible in the car, it seems, because I only end up finding folded maps, a half-dry pen that leaked onto an old notepad, and a slim silver carton of cigarettes.
Coming from the man who’s been trying to demolish the smoke shack behind the stables.
Oh, Philip, you hypocrite.
Eric peers over at my findings. “Hm, didn’t peg you for a Marlboro girl, duchess.”
“They obviously belong to the owner of this car.”
He gives me a slanted glance that warms my cheeks. “Ah, I see. So, what, the two of you sneak off for late-night smoke breaks? Highway makeout sessions?”
I death-glare at him, willing myself to not take the bait. Failure comes easily. “Firstly, I don’t smoke. Secondly, Philip is practically my uncle, you idiot.”
“So you’ve never tried one?” He sounds personally offended.
Wait until he discovers I’m not allowed to wear dresses without stockings at formal events, lest another incident involving Lord Harvardly and a stroke occur.
The memory of that old fart injects an extra bit of venom into my retort. “Lungs are useful, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Free will is useful too, you know? Beauty of the modern age.”
“Very Socratic of you; I’m almost impressed. Does that mean you smoke?”
“I can if I want; that’s my point.” He shrugs so effortlessly it barely disturbs his impeccable posture.
God , his side profile is infuriating, and it doesn’t help how the icy wind has his hair curling around his face.
He nods towards the carton. “Light me one. Let’s see if you can break one rule today. Or, half a rule, I guess.”
I blink, wondering if the universe is playing jokes on me.
Given my conversation with Percy, his wording seems a little too specific.
Unbury yourself. Against my better judgement, I dig around for the black Zippo buried beneath everything else.
My hands tremble so badly I nearly drop it, but Eric doesn’t comment, just gives me the occasional glance.
The car slows down the gatepath as he leans in, and when I lift the cigarette, his lips part just enough to accept it.
I flick the lighter; the scent of butane burns sharp, and the tip burns bright orange.
His lips tighten, eyes heavy-lidded as he inhales; the perfect image of an old habit being dragged to the surface.
With an infuriatingly lazy confidence, his left hand lifts and removes the cigarette.
A slow curl of smoke ghosts across my still-raised wrist before coasting towards the window. He drags his gaze back to the road and asks, “Want a taste?”
It takes a moment for my tongue to realise it’s a working organ and that I need it to produce coherent words. “I prefer breathing, thank you.”
Lightning illuminates the sky, and I jump, turning so fast that my elbow knocks his wrist. The cigarette tumbles from his grasp, pinwheeling to the floor mat by his boots.
He jerks the wheel, steadying the car with a low curse. “Really? Now you’ve done it. Hope you’re prepared to tell Philip why the upholstery smells like burnt tobacco.”
Too big of a risk. Too big of a fucking risk.
I fumble for my belt release and dive . Hair falls into my eyes as I tilt further, my left hand searching blindly under pedals for the cigarette and completely uncaring that I could potentially burn my fingers. I’d take that over a pissed-off Philip any day.
My right hand, still pressed to the edge of his seat, slides for balance towards his thigh and lands on a thick, unmistakable shape beneath his trousers.
Eric’s breath goes tight, and the car doesn’t slow, but my world does.
It slows, tilts and tips me off the edge of it into the goddamn abyss.
I realise (ploddingly, mortifyingly) exactly what I’ve touched.
It’s not thigh.
It’s not even almost-thigh .
“Francesca.” His voice is strained. “Wrong gearstick, love.”
Why’s he breathing like that? Why am I breathing like this?
Leave the castle, sure. Take risks, even better.
Palming girthy royal appendages? Fuck no.
I refuse to believe I’m holding his penis.
Eric isn’t moving— oh my God —does he think I do this a lot?
Does he think I reach out and just grab penises for fun?
I’m going to jail for assaulting a prince.
Let go, Francesca.
Let. Go.
But I don’t move, and he speaks again. “You’re holding onto my cock.”
“No, I’m not,” I blurt, as though that would undo the last minute of my life.
“Yes, you are, clever girl.”
I make a strangled noise. Every molecule of blood swerves towards my face.
Shock shoots up my arm, and I whack blindly at the floor.
My left hand finally lands on the smouldering butt, and the burn stings my fingertips, but I don’t care.
Without another thought, I yank myself upright and toss the cigarette into my empty smoothie cup from earlier.
Crisis averted; other crisis, not so much.
Rain thrums louder, and the wipers thrash, but the world may as well be a crypt for how silent it feels within this bloody vehicle.
I pop my seatbelt back in, with hair in my mouth and heart running faster than when someone tells Percy her mum will be at an event.
Eric’s knuckles are tight around the wheel, jaw clamped down on either a laugh or another curse.
What escapes is a rough, delicious chuckle. It’s intoxicating enough without the mineral smell of wet earth slipping in through the top of his window.
“Are you okay?” His exhale trembles with amusement.
“I just shook hands with the future of the monarchy while searching for contraband. Going through several stages of grief right now.”
“Should I get down on one knee or pretend I didn’t notice?”
“Stop laughing; I’m gonna cry.”
Though the road is empty, he still stops at a red light. He reaches across the console, takes my singed fingers in his hand and strokes his thumb over the sensitive skin. The temperature spikes five degrees, and the rain continues its mocking applause.
“Foolish girl,” he mutters, eyes on the welt. His gaze lifts from my blistered finger, locking onto mine. Stormy— no , unsheathed steel—in this light, sharp enough to wound. “Next time you want your hand there, ask . I’d prefer to pull over first.”
My mind flails for something clever, but my brain refuses to cooperate. “I hate you.”
It’s breathless. Weak. A shameful response because this night has already begun horridly.
And Eric delights in it.
His thumb drifts lower, finding the pulse at my wrist and stroking lazily. “You realise I can feel how much you don’t.” The words are muttered so low, I feel them more than hear them, and the beat beneath his touch turns frantic. I watch his pupils dilate. “Right here.”
Only when the lights shift to green does he drop my hand, but he’s pocketed my reaction like a secret he gets to hold over me.
I lower the offending limb to my lap, folding it into the layers of my coat to hide how it twitches with nerves.
I don’t realise I’m glaring at the drowned cigarette until Eric jokingly asks whether I want one.
“ Never .”
“Good. I’d rather I was your only bad habit.”
His retort lights a fire within my cheeks, and I’m begging the cold air to do its job before somebody’s ego grows to unhinged heights.
When that doesn’t work, I employ the blade I’ve promised to set down. “How ambitious of you, considering yourself a vice of sorts. I’m sorry to burst your bubble and all, but you don’t even rank above my rooibos addiction.”
And by God, he disarms me within an instant. “Doubt rooibos makes you blush like this, Francesca.”
I bite my tongue and turn away, his low laughter becoming background music to the sad music video I’ve found myself in. The rain is even hitting the windows harder, extra dramatic, just to remind me I’m rendered illiterate when verbally sparring against Prince Problematic.
Can even picture the little Vevo symbol hovering over my left tit.
The ambience of ‘awkward rainy drive’ is broken a millisecond later when he takes a swerve to the right so suddenly that my seatbelt nearly strangles the hell out of me. “What the fuck are you?—”
My words die on my tongue as I come face to face with one of the many gate sensors’ blinking red lights.
I’m unable to produce even a single word as Eric smugly tips towards the glovebox and snatches Philip’s access card.
He swipes it, and the gate hisses open as though welcoming an old friend.
The guy in the gatehouse doesn’t even glance at us.
I don’t realise that my jaw is comically dropped until Eric taps my chin and says, “Did you think I offered to drive you to your Nanna’s out of goodwill?”