I relax. “They are not yet available publicly, but they will be.” Which is true, given that we are nearly a half-century before they will be published. “I secured a publisher who has paid me quite well, making this trip possible.” Also true.

“Will they be under your own name?” he says. “Miranda . . . ?”

“Hastings, but no. They will be published under Randall Hastings.”

His brows shoot up. “You write as a man. Is that necessity or choice?”

“Necessity if I wish anyone to read them.”

“Are they about men, then? Adventures, I hope. You do not strike me as a woman to write poems about posies.” He stops and clears his throat. “But if you do, I am certain they are enchanting poems.”

I laugh. “No, they are definitely not poems about posies. They are adventures about women, which does not make it any easier to publish as a woman, particularly . . .” I clear my throat. “There are racy bits.”

His smile broadens to a grin, dark eyes glittering. “Racy bits? Miss Miranda, how very shocking. Also, may I say I am less surprised by that than I ought to be.”

“I take that as a compliment. Yes, they have both bloody bits and racy bits, and neither is appropriate from a woman, particularly an unmarried one. Randall Hastings may be a bachelor, but if Miranda Hastings, a maiden, wrote them, it would be far more scandalous than my sister’s bakery. However would this maiden know about such things to write them?”

“The racy bits or the bloody ones?”

That makes me sputter a laugh. “I suspect no one would think to ask about the bloody bits, though they certainly should. I believe in writing what I know, and Rosalind says she fears the day I turn my attention to murder mysteries.”

He pauses, and it takes a moment to realize what I’ve implied. That I write the “racy bits” from experience.

My cheeks heat, and I clear my throat. “That is to say, I do not always write entirely from experience. I have an excellent imagination.”

He frowns and then bursts out laughing. “That part did not give me pause at all, crécerelle. As a gentleman, I would have drawn no attention to it. As a Frenchman, I would not have thought twice about it. The English can be ridiculous about such things. Still, I wonder at those who would question your right to pen such scenes. First, it is none of their business. Second, surely everyone can relate the experience of intimate pleasure, whether there is a partner involved or not.”

I choke on my own laugh. “So one might hope, but sadly, I have met many a young woman who goes to her wedding bed expecting nothing pleasurable about it.”

“That is a shame. If one expects nothing pleasurable, one might find nothing pleasurable.”

I open my mouth to reply. I want to pursue this conversation. Desperately want to pursue it. Not only to flirt with Nicolas but to engage in an even rarer opportunity—openly discussing sex.