Duchess of Mine by Red L. Jameson

way he did. She kept repeating that to herself as she
couldn’t help but stare into his eyes.
    He cracked a small lopsided smile. “I can try
to talk to the lads, but I doubt they’d stop.”
    Sense finally came back to her. Actually, it
was anger. She huffed and crossed her arms under her breasts. From
her periphery, she realized Duncan had noticed her movement.
Something a lot like desire tripped her heart then sped through her
body, then lulled around her breasts and at the apex of her legs.
Okay, it was desire, but there was no point to it, now was there?
She would leave soon.
    “I’d think ye’d be used to it.”
    Fleur turned to Duncan with an arched brow
clearly aimed at him, but he didn’t further clarify what he’d
meant. “Used to what?” she finally asked.
    He leaned close, close enough his nose
nuzzled into her hair, a lip just touched her ear. A zip of dark
and beautiful energy nudged between her legs. She hardly heard him
speak what with her body beginning to buzz for him.
    “Used to being stared at.”
    She spun to face him, finding his lips mere
inches from hers. She liked the way the candlelight blazed against
the red stubble of his cheeks and chin. She liked seeing his eyes
turn a dark green. She liked watching his nostrils flare slightly.
Still, something about his comment bothered her, and what amazed
her was before she could stop herself, she let him know it. “Why?
Because I’m Indian? I should get used to being stared at because
I’m a little different? Is that what you think?”
    He straightened in his chair and gained a few
inches distance from her, making her wish so badly she hadn’t said
anything. What was wrong with her anyway? She never was
this...argumentative. Sure, she hadn’t been completely quarrelsome
with him, but she found herself pointing any and all discomfort
right at Duncan. The one person she liked the most since arriving
in this odd time.
    Wait—had she really just thought that?
    His jaw line kicked, but he said, “Aye,
they’ve never seen a woman like ye, but ’tis because ye’re the most
bonny—beautiful lass they’ve ever seen. They ever will see,
for that matter. That’s why they stare. That’s why I thought ye’d
be used to it.” He leaned farther away, staring at the fiddle
player who finally found a boisterous tune.
    The flattery augmented the already sparkling
energy zipping through her body, and she crossed her legs,
something again she observed Duncan took note of too. God, she
liked the way he’d reticently take peeks at her.
    But why? Why like something that wouldn’t
last? And why hadn’t she said thank you to the compliment? She knew
she should have. Should have acknowledged it. If anything, she
didn’t want Duncan to think she was a brat who expected such
accolades or was used to being stared at for such a reason.
    However, she sat mute, looking at the fiddle
player who had started to hum with his melody. The lute musician
drank a beer with his eyes closed and bobbed his head to the
beat.
    She wanted Duncan to kiss her. The thought
interrupted her mind and instantly her body stopped, then jerked
into a too vibrant and delirious state. It became so clear in her
mind—he’d plant those perfect dusty pink lips of his on hers, and
she’d lick at the seam of his mouth until he opened for her, then
she’d plunge...Dammit, what was wrong with her?
    Annoyance at herself and her damned endocrine
system flooded her thoughts. She’d never wanted a man she’d known
less than a day to kiss her before. She didn’t do those sorts of
things. Dating had been somewhat interesting thus far. She’d find a
man who had similar likes, dislikes, same political party
affiliations, comparable education, then have the requisite coffee.
Then a lunch. If she liked the guy, then dinner. A kiss. It was a
linear path to finding success in a relationship. After the kiss,
if she still liked him, there would be more dinners. Maybe sex. All
right, she’d had sex