Bewitched by the Bluestocking

by Eaton, Jillian

  And how he knew, he knew, he couldn’t allow himself to become tangled up with a feisty red-haired American. Because the ripe, tangy passion Joanna invoked within him was the same he’d felt with Lavinia.

  And everyone this side of the Thames knew how that had ended.

  He had been stupid enough to fall in love once and it had nearly ruined him. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. He wasn’t even going to allow himself to be tempted to make the same mistake again. Which meant, as deliciously enticing as trading sexual favors for investigative work appeared on the surface, he needed to decline Joanna’s offer.

  “Miss Thorncroft, while I appreciate—greatly—your proposition, I’m afraid I must turn it down.”

  She frowned at him and tucked a damp tendril of hair behind her ear. Her dress, a simple green gown with black buttons down the middle and a matching sash at the waist, was nearly dry with the exception of her breasts. Full and voluptuous, Joanna’s bosom must have caught the rain as she walked, and Kincaid’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when he noted the hard peaks of her nipples straining against the light cotton fabric.

  “But I haven’t even told you what it is yet,” she said.

  “What?” Tearing his gaze away from her bodice—no small feat—Kincaid forced himself to focus solely on Joanna’s countenance. That hardly helped matters, as every inch of her face was just as stunningly beautiful as the rest of her.

  Thick, arching brows a few shades darker than all that wild, red hair. Pale ivory skin saved from coldness by a charming spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. A full mouth that was slightly top heavy, and an elegant jawline leading to that delightfully stubborn chin.

  “My offer. I haven’t told you what it is yet,” she repeated.

  Kincaid gripped either side of his desk and bore down with such strength he wouldn’t have been surprised to see the wood crack in half. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Thorncroft. I’ve a vivid enough imagination.”

  Her freckles bunched as her nose wrinkled. “What are you imagining?”

  Was the woman trying to kill him?

  “Miss Thorncroft.” Taking a deep breath, he chose his words with the utmost care. “Please do not misunderstand. I would very much enjoy engaging in an—an intimate relationship. However, given the—”

  “What are you talking about?” she interrupted.

  His brows drew together. “What are you talking about?”

  “Secretarial work.” She looked oddly at him. “Obviously.”

  “Secretarial work,” he repeated in a strangled voice.

  “Yes.” Joanna scratched James under his whiskery chin, then took a pointed glance around the room. “It is clear you would benefit from some organization. Your office is, if I may be so blunt, an absolute disaster. As it happens, my organizational skills are second to none. In addition, given my lackluster welcome, I believe you would benefit greatly from a secretary.”

  “Do you?” Kincaid didn’t know whether he felt relieved…or disappointed.

  “Indeed. Someone to greet your potential clients as they come in. Take their coats, serve them tea, make sure they are comfortable.” She leaned forward, further exposing her breasts to his carnal stare, and Kincaid liked to believe it was a mark of his good character that he didn’t whimper. “Surely we can work something out. My services in exchange for yours.”

  Once again dragging his gaze from Joanna’s curvaceous frame, he grimaced fiercely at a painting hanging crookedly on the wall. It had been a gift from a wealthy dowager countess after he’d discovered who had been siphoning money off of her estate. A greedy nephew, as it happened, with no regard for his elderly aunt’s welfare. The countess had been so pleased with Kincaid’s detective work, she’d doubled his fee and given him an oversized canvas depicting her three beloved cocker spaniels as a reward. He’d tried hanging the painting in his bedroom, but James and Jane wouldn’t hear of it, and thus the artwork had been relegated to the office.

  The frame was in need of a good dusting, he noted. As did everything else.

  Joanna was right. The room was a disaster. But then, he was an investigator, not a bloody maid, and he had neither the time nor the inclination to keep things neat and tidy. That being said, he was the first to admit his office could surely benefit from a bit more…orderliness. And a secretary to take notes, keep his files straight, and greet clients with the warmth and tactfulness he admittedly lacked, certainly wouldn’t hurt anything either. In fact, it might even get him some of the meeker clients his gruff demeanor tended to frighten away.

  Yes, now that he thought about, he didn’t know why he hadn’t hired someone sooner.

  But he’d be damned if that someone was going to be Miss Joanna Thorncroft.

  “No,” he said flatly as he picked up a pile of papers and shuffled them into place.

  “No?” Joanna said in the incredulous tone of someone unacquainted with the word. “I don’t understand.”

  “Have you ever been a secretary before?”

  “Not exactly, but—”

  “Have you ever worked for a detective?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Are you acquainted with British law?”

  “How does that—”

  “I am sorry, but you do not have the proper qualifications.” He met her gaze, registered the angry indignation swirling in the depths of those vivid blue eyes, and glanced promptly away. “As you can see, I am a very busy man. If you would, please put down my cat and see yourself out.”

  She stomped her foot. “I will not!”

  “All right, you can keep the cat,” he said graciously.

  “I don’t want the cat. No offense intended,” she said when James lifted his head and gave a grumpy meow. “What I want—and need—is a private investigator. You’ve come highly recommended, Kincaid. I should think you would view that as a compliment. And while I realize exchanging my services for yours is a tad…unconventional, shall we say, I truly believe such a bargain will be immensely beneficial to us both.” She smiled hopefully. “Why don’t we shake on it and see how things go? Surely you can commit to a trial period of a week. A fitting compromise, don’t you agree?”

  Kincaid didn’t like what that smile did to him.

  Or maybe he liked it too much.

  Either way, the answer was still…

  “No, Miss Thorncroft. I don’t agree.”

  Her smile disappeared. Her eyes narrowed. Her chin lifted. “Is this because I am a woman? Is that why you don’t believe I meet your lofty qualifications? Perhaps I’ve never been employed as a secretary before, but I can assure you I am as intelligent and well-read as any man. I’m also more than capable of handling any tasks you put before me.”

  Kincaid didn’t doubt that Joanna could topple mountains if she put her mind to it. For such a little slip of a thing, her courage and persistence was formidable. But he’d drawn his line, and he wouldn’t cross it. No matter how sweet the enticement was on the other side.

  He had been down this road to hell before. He had the scars to prove it.

  And he had no desire to travel it again.

  “Miss Thorncroft, my inability to take you on as a secretary—or a client—has nothing to do with your intelligence, or your work ethic.” Having shuffled and straightened every piece of paper on his desk, he laid his hands flat and pushed his weight into them. “This is a personal decision.”

  “Personal?” Her head tilted in confusion. “But you don’t know me well enough to dislike me yet. It usually takes a few days. Or so I’ve been told.” She bit her lip and gave a small, apologetic shrug. “It seems I can be rather…obstinate.”

  “Really?” Kincaid said dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  A huff of breath whistled between her lips. “Kincaid, I must implore you to reconsider. My sister and I have traveled a very long way—”

  “You’ve a sister?” he interrupted.

  Wonderful.

  As
if one gorgeous, stubborn American running amok in London wasn’t bad enough, there was a pair of them. And no, he wasn’t going to allow himself to imagine them naked. Together. Doing things.

  Naughty things.

  No, he wasn’t going to imagine that at all.

  Absolutely not.

  “Yes,” Joanna replied. “Well, two sisters actually, but—”

  Bloody hell.

  “—Claire stayed at home.”

  Thank God for small favors.

  “Miss Thorncroft.” Gritting his teeth, he latched on to his self-control with all the desperate strength of a drowning sailor clinging onto the side of a sinking ship. “I do not know how many different ways I can say the same thing. I cannot, under any circumstances, hire you on. It’s completely out of the question.”

  “I…I see.” Giving James a final scratch behind the ears, Joanna gently set him aside and stood up. Walking towards Kincaid, she extended her hand across the desk. “Very well, Kincaid. I respect your decision, in as much as I disagree with it. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Relief flowed through Kincaid as he took her small, delicate hand in his considerably larger one. He began to shake it. And then he saw her stubborn chin wobble.

  Such a tiny movement, really.

  Hardly perceptible.

  Easy to ignore.

  Except he couldn’t ignore it. Nor could he ignore the sudden clench in his gut. His fingers tightened around hers, unconsciously drawing her closer.

  “Miss Thorncroft…”

  “Yes?” she whispered.

  Kincaid closed his eyes.

  Don’t do it.

  Don’t do it.

  Don’t do it.

  “A week-long trial, did you say?” With great reluctance, he opened his eyes.

  “Yes!” Her entire countenance lit up, as bright as the sun. “Just seven days. If I haven’t found what I’m looking for, or either of us decides our arrangement is no longer sustainable, then I’ll get another detective and you’ll never have to see me again. I swear.”

  Never see her again?

  Kincaid’s stomach tightened again. Although this time, it was for an entirely different reason. Quickly releasing Joanna’s hand, he sat back in his chair and motioned for her to do the same.

  He knew he was going to hate himself for this later.

  He knew he was making a terrible mistake.

  But he also knew it was the right thing to do.

  Picking up a pen, he reopened his journal. “Why don’t we begin by you telling me what it is you’re doing here, and what, precisely, you’re searching for?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Resuming her seat, Joanna beckoned James into her lap. With a happy meow the traitorous feline accepted the invitation and began to purr as she stroked his tail. “You see, it all began with a ring…”

  Chapter Two

  Somerville, Massachusetts

  Three Months Ago

  “Miss Joanna Thorncroft.” Taking a deep breath, Charles Gaines dropped down to one knee in the middle of the park and pulled a small, velvet box from the inside pocket of his gray frock coat. “Will you do me the great honor of being my wife?”

  He flipped the box open with his thumb to reveal a very large, very shiny diamond ring. Or perhaps it only appeared so large because the box was so small.

  Joanna squinted.

  No, she decided.

  It was definitely large. Ostentatious, even. Then again, Charles was wearing silk trousers.

  Pink ones, at that.

  Or maybe they were peach.

  She’d been trying to avoid looking at them.

  “Charles,” she began.

  “Yes?” he said eagerly.

  “No.”

  His smile slipped a notch. “No?”

  “No,” she confirmed with a sigh. “Please get up. I wouldn’t want you to ruin your pants.”

  “Quite right.” He leapt to his feet as if the ground had suddenly caught fire and used a handkerchief to delicately brush a few loose pieces of grass off his knee. “Mother would have my head if these became stained. They’re from—”

  “Paris, yes. You told me last week. They’re…unique,” Joanna said generously.

  Charles brightened. “Do you think so?”

  “I do.”

  “But you’re still refusing my proposal?”

  “I am.”

  “But…” A troubled frown replaced his smile. “I was certain you’d say yes.”

  Joanna wondered if he knew that was what every suitor had said before him. Except for Mr. Browning, who had turned bright red from the tips of his ears to the tip of his nose and run away without saying a single word.

  Of all her proposals, his was her favorite.

  “I’m sorry, Charles. I truly am. It’s a beautiful ring, and I am certain it will make a special woman very happy someday. But that woman is not going to be me.”

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  Joanna pursed her lips. Why did men think so little of a woman’s mind that they believed a few words could change it? Or that women always owed an explanation for their decision? When a man said no, he was never questioned. And he never had to explain himself.

  It was horribly unfair.

  More than that, it was annoying.

  And Joanna Thorncroft did not have patience for things that annoyed her. Especially when they were wearing pink/peach trousers.

  “Charles—”

  “I would be a good husband to you.” Drawing back his shoulders, Charles made himself as tall as he possibly could, but even by stretching into every inch of his five foot, seven inch frame, the top of his head still barely reached Joanna’s nose. “I have a good job.”

  “Your father has a good job,” she corrected mildly.

  “I will be receiving an excellent inheritance.”

  “From your father.”

  “I have a large house with ample cropland.”

  “Charles, you still live with your parents!”

  “And?” he asked, his brows knitting together.

  “And…and I do not love you. I’m sorry,” she said. “I realize that must be difficult to hear.”

  But Charles didn’t look hurt. He looked confused. “What does love have to do with anything?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Charles, why do you want to marry me?”

  “Because—because I do.” Snapping the ring box closed, he shoved it back into his pocket and glanced away from her as the corners of his mouth pinched in a boyish pout. “Mother told me you would do this.”

  “What exactly have I done?”

  “You broke my heart.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake.

  “Charles,” Joanna said firmly, placing her hands on his shoulders so he was forced to meet her gaze, “I did not break your heart, you are not in love with me, and you do not want to marry me. You fancy me because I’m something you cannot have, but what you’ve failed to realize is that you don’t really want me. You don’t even know me.”

  “I do,” he protested. “I know all about you.”

  A light summer breeze tickled the satin ribbons underneath Joanna’s chin. With a grimace, she untied them, then whisked off her bonnet and tucked it under her arm.

  “Do you know I despise hats?” she asked. “Cannot stand them. They itch, and they obscure my vision, and I wish I didn’t have to wear one every time I stepped outside.”

  Charles frowned. “But that wouldn’t be proper.

  “I also despise being proper. There are too many rules to follow.” Her bonnet fluttered to the ground as she flung her hands out to the side. “Women can do this, but not that. We are supposed to be intelligent, but only concerning topics such as fashion, and household management, and what wine pairs best with what dish. We are supposed to be pretty, but not in a manner that would cause distraction. We are supposed to be perfect, but not so perfect that the men of our acquaintance feel undermined or c
hallenged.” She dragged in a mouthful of air and Charles, who had remained silent during her impassioned speech, took a large step in retreat.

  “You’re right, Miss Thorncroft.” He tugged at the collar of his jacket. “I—I do not believe we will suit.”

  Joanna watched with some bemusement as Charles pivoted and walked briskly way…in the opposite direction of his carriage. He’d realize his error soon enough. Just like he had realized they weren’t a good fit for marriage.

  Thank goodness.

  Picking up her bonnet, she gave it a quick shake before carelessly plopping it back on her head and striking out towards home. She knew Charles was what every young, unwedded girl from Somerville to Salem would consider a fine catch. He was pleasing to the eye, had all his teeth, and was as rich as a king. Or rather, his father was. How unfortunate, then, that Charles wasn’t looking for a wife.

  No, what Charles—and all of Joanna’s previous suitors—desired was a pretty vase they could put up on a shelf. Something to admire from afar, and occasionally take down to show off to friends before they returned it to the top of the bookcase.

  Well, she was no vase.

  And she had absolutely no intention of spending the rest of her life accruing dust on some shelf. Even if the shelf was in a lovely mansion and her family could have desperately used the money such an affluent match would bring.

  Something her sister, Evelyn (Evie to family and close friends), brought up as soon as Joanna walked through the door of their small, creaky house on the outskirts of the village square.

  “He proposed, didn’t he?” Evie said after she’d taken one glance at Joanna’s face. “And you said no. Again.” Her mouth curling, Evie crossed her arms and scowled at Joanna from across the foyer. Which also doubled as a parlor. And a music room. And, when they had a guest, a bedroom as well.

  Not so very long ago, Joanna and her sisters had lived in a grand brick manor in the center of town. There had been plenty of bedrooms to spare, as well as parlors with fifteen foot ceilings, and drawing rooms with beautiful, white wainscoting, and a sun-filled studio for Claire, the youngest, to do her art. Their home had been so large that their father, a physician of much acclaim, was able to see his patients in the formal study and their grandmother, who had helped raise the girls since their mother died when Claire was only a baby, had her very own wing.