“I’m changing my answer,” Søren said. “It’s his fault.”
“Who is that?” she whispered in a panic. Søren did something she’d never dreamed she’d see him do. He rolled his eyes.
“‘La Marseillaise’—the French national anthem.”
“Who’s in the building?”
Søren sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead.
“I suppose tonight’s as good a night as any,” Søren said.
“For what?”
“For you to meet the in-law.”
18
Eleanor
THE WHISTLING SOUND GREW CLOSER. SØREN TOOK her hand in his.
“Eleanor, allow me to apologize in advance.”
“Apologize? For what?”
“For him.”
“Who? Moi?” asked the man who strolled through the nearest door and right up to them. “I hope I’m interrupting something.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened at the sight of the man.
“I love that reaction.” He pointed at Eleanor’s face. “That is the ‘you didn’t tell me how pretty he was’ look, oui?”
“Didn’t I almost punch you on a set of stairs once?” she asked him.
“You broke into my house. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“You have Eddie Vedder hair,” Eleanor said, which was the only thing she had to say for herself. She was still trying to recover from the shock of the man. He wore the most amazing suit she’d ever seen in her life. Black trousers, riding boots, long black jacket, black-and-silver embroidered vest. He had dark shoulder-length hair and a face that belonged on a male model. And to make matters even worse, he was French. So this was the brother-in-law? The best friend? The Kingsley?
He picked up her hand as if to kiss the back of it, but at the last second he raised her fingertips to his nose and sniffed them. She pulled her hand back.
“So this is elle?”
“This is she. Eleanor, this is Kingsley. Kingsley, Eleanor. Now please go back to the rectory, Kingsley, before Eleanor starts liking you.”
“Liking me more than you, you mean. Too late. Isn’t it?”
“You are seriously French,” she said.
“Would you like to see how French I am?” He imposed himself between her and Søren and stared down at her with the most seductive expression she’d ever seen on the face of a man with all his clothes on.
“Kingsley, please,” Søren said.
“I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to her.”
Kingsley stepped even closer.
“How old are you?” he asked her.
“Seventeen. How old are you?”
“Thirty. Is your hymen intact?”
Eleanor stood up straighter.
“Is your brain intact?”
“I ask for a reason.” He shook his finger in her face to hush her. “I fucked a virgin last week. I didn’t mean to.”
“What happened? You trip and fall into her hymen?”
“You jest, but do you know how hard it is to get blood off raw silk upholstery?” Kingsley asked, sounding positively perturbed. “She could have told me before I fucked her. I would have put a towel down first. But c’est la guerre. What’s the etiquette for accidentally fucking a virgin? Should I send flowers? If I fucked you and broke your hymen, what would you want from me after?”
“Hair of the dog that bit me?” Eleanor suggested her father’s favorite hangover cure. “Fuck me again?”
Kingsley looked her up and down. He seemed to like what he saw.
“Would you like to play a round of Justine and the naughty monk with me?”
“Never heard of it.”
“I swear I will have you arrested,” Søren said to Kingsley. He sounded stern but Eleanor saw amusement in his eyes.
“Have you ever read Justine by Le Marquis de Sade? Wonderful book. Little twelve-year-old Justine runs away to a monastery and the monks rape her and subject her to orgies and beatings over and over again. So that’s how you play the game. Shall we?”
“How do we know who wins?”
“Whoever has lost the least blood by the end of the game wins.”
“Sounds fun,” Eleanor said. “I’ll play the monk. You play Justine.”
“Why, Kingsley,” Søren said in a taunting tone, “it’s like she knows you already.”
Kingsley only gazed at her a moment and she sensed him taking stock of her. The smile left his face; the amusement disappeared from his eyes. In a warning tone, the man addressed Søren.
“You are asking for so much trouble with this one, mon ami.”
“He didn’t ask for trouble,” Eleanor interjected. “I offered.”