I jab a finger. “Sit. Look pretty.”
“I am very good at looking pretty.”
“You are. Now, sit.”
He takes a seat. I rise, rearranging my skirts as I move in front of him. Then I drop to one knee and put out my hand, my gift on my outstretched palm.
“Nicolas Dupuis, would you do me the honor of being my husband?”
He blinks. That’s all he does. Blinks.
I scramble up, my cheeks heating. “Is it too soon? You said you wanted to slip a marriage license into my stocking, but if you were only teasing—”
He catches me up in a breathtaking hug, matching it with an equally breathtaking kiss. Then he twirls me around. “We are getting married!” His gaze shoots up, and he says it quieter. “Non? That is what you mean? I have not misunderstood?”
“You have not.” I exhale dramatically. “You seemed overly shocked, and so I feared it was an unwelcome present.”
“Shocked, yes. Unwelcome, no.” He squeezes me and twirls me around again. Then he stops and clears his throat. “Pardonne-moi,crécerelle. I am doing this quite poorly.” He bats his lashes. “Why, yes, kind mademoiselle, I would be delighted to be your husband. How sweet of you to ask.”
I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him.
“I have only one concern,” he says.
I try not to tense. “What is it?”
“How soon?”
“That depends on you.”
“If it depended on me,crécerelle, I would be stealing the Courtenay coach tonight in hopes of finding someone to marry us, though I do believe that would not endear me to your family. Can we say ‘as soon as possible’?”
I smile down at him. “We can absolutely say ‘as soon as possible.’”
He grins and twirls me around. Then the clock strikes twelve, and he lowers me in front of him.
“Merry Christmas, Miranda.”
“Merriest of Christmases, Nico,” I say, and I kiss him.