Frowning, Xavier replaced the poker and strode to the entryway. Aside from Lord Carlisle and a few local Chelmsford residents, nobody knew Xavier had resumed residence in his little cottage. Who on Earth would be knocking at his door? Better yet, why? He swung open the door.
He nearly choked in surprise. “Miss Downing? What the devil are you doing here? Has something happened?”
Her eyes rounded. “You remember me?”
“I’m not senile. We were introduced years ago, and we sat beside each other last night.” He scanned her for possible injuries. “Are you all right? Was there a carriage accident?”
She shook her head. “Nothing like that. I… was in the neighborhood. Not far at all. So I thought I’d pay a visit.”
“On foot?” He shook his head to clear it of disbelief.
The daft woman stood upon his stoop with a battered trunk and a shrieking picnic basket. From the snaking rectangular trail in her wake, she’d lugged her trunk behind her from somewhere down the road. By herself. In a snowstorm. With a hissing basket.
He snatched the possessed basket from her hand and hauled her inside the house. It was frightful outside. He swung the trunk inside the entryway and slammed the door tight against the cold and wind. Already snowflakes covered the floor. The warmth of the fire was just a memory.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced himself not to shake some sense into her. “You cannot possibly have believed this to be appropriate conditions for a stroll down country roads. Are you mad?”
“Just... a bit chilled, I think...” she said through chattering teeth.
He dragged her into the parlor and placed her in the chair closest to the fire. “I’m going to start a pot of tea, and once you’ve drunk every drop of it, I expect a full accounting of what brings you to my doorstep with a trunk and a—”
The basket shrieked and hurled itself against the closest wall.
“—and a cat.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Do. Not. Move.”
Her huge brown eyes blinked up at him. “Why are you starting the tea? Haven’t you a cook or a butler or—”
“I’m afraid uninvited guests don’t always have the luxury of arriving when the staff isn’t away on holiday.”
Her expression brightened, but she made no further move to stop him from fetching tea. Confounding woman. He stalked to the kitchen.
Hellfire. Three years at war had taught him more than he ever wished to know about being self-sufficient. But the last thing he was equipped to handle was a bluestocking spinster with long chestnut curls, sparkling brown eyes, and a rabid cat. A creature that, from the sound of it, had finally managed to escape its basket and streak down the hall toward Xavier’s library.
Bluestocking, he reminded himself. Of course her ball of fur felt more at home in a library. Besides, the cat was not the problem. His problem was the innocent, unmarried, unaccompanied maiden seated in the parlor of an infamous, immoral, cynical ex-soldier.
Wonderful. He had sworn to never again cause harm to another human, yet he’d destroyed Miss Downing’s reputation merely by allowing her through his door.
Then again, perhaps the situation was not so dire. There were no witnesses to her utter lack of judgment. If he could pack her off to—wherever she’d come from—before his servants arrived, they might both be able to pretend this misadventure had never happened.
In fact, that was likely the reason her eyes had lit up when she’d learned there were no servants. The poor thing was finally concerned about the state of her reputation.
A shrill whistle filled the air as the water reached a boil. He turned to pick up the small towel he used for handling hot objects and stilled.
The towel was now ribbons. And flecked with short gray hairs.
He frowned. He could’ve sworn the cat had taken off for the library. He’d heard its claws clicking across the wooden floor. Was he to believe that had been a feint? That the cat had purposefully made excess noise to throw him off the trail, and then returned on silent paws while Xavier’s back was turned in order to shred a perfectly good tea towel? Ridiculous.
Yet the yellow square of cloth was now rubbish.
“I believe the water’s boiling,” Miss Downing called from the parlor. “The whistle means—”
“I know what the whistle means.” He glanced around. Where the devil were the rest of the towels? He yanked off his ascot and used it to lift the shrieking kettle from the stove. He placed it on a tray with milk, honey, and two tea settings, and carried it into the parlor.
She blinked at him in confusion. “Did you lose your cravat in the kitchen?”
He set down the tray on the tea table between the two chairs. “You know who gets to ask questions? I get to ask questions. Drink your tea.”
“I just—”
“Drink.” Fingers trembling, he poured each of them a serving of tea. He didn’t wish to ask questions. But here she was. What was he supposed to do? He lifted his cup to his lips as he considered his next steps.
Her nose wrinkled. “You drink yours without milk or honey?”
He slanted her a dark look.
“Right.” She lowered her lashes and reached for the milk. “You ask the questions.”
Not anymore. Old dread crept over his skin. He wasn’t certain he could question anyone ever again. He was done with interrogations, with extracting answers from unwilling captives.
While Miss Downing had descended upon him of her own free will, the snow and moonless night would keep them both prisoner until dawn. He would not treat her like one.
“So,” he said instead. “You have a cat. Does it have a name?”
“Egui,” she mumbled against her teacup.
Egui? He frowned. Odd name for a cat, but who was he to judge? He wasn’t stable enough for a pet.
“Does Egui always enjoy ripping cloth to shreds?”
She lowered her teacup in horror. “He ate your cravat?”
“No, of course n—” Or had he? Xavier gritted his teeth. He’d placed his wadded-up cravat on the counter next to the shredded towel when he’d brought the tea tray into the parlor. What were the odds it was still where he’d left it? “One moment.”
He rose on stiff legs and marched into the kitchen. His jaw clenched when he caught sight of his cravat. Wonderful.
Egui, two points. Xavier, none. His cravat now resembled a linen octopus. With a discarded hairball instead of eyes.
He returned to the parlor and dropped heavily back into his chair. “Yes. Egui ate my cravat.”
She winced. “He eats... everything. He’s a very peckish cat. His other favorite pastime is hide-and-seek. I recommend locking your bedchamber if you intend to sleep.”
“Delightful,” he murmured. “And to think they claim dogs are a man’s best friend.”
She took a dainty sip of tea. “He’s more like... family. I’m afraid I’m stuck with him.”
And now Xavier was too, because his unplanned houseguest thought of the beast as family. Ravenous, demented family.
This couldn’t continue for long. He needed a plan.
He also had a thousand questions, but no wish to interrogate her. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to. A young lady like Miss Downing was unlikely to have ulterior motives. Although he was hard-pressed to come up with a rational explanation for her presence, and under such unlikely circumstances.
“I couldn’t help but notice you brought luggage,” he said presently. “But no chaperone. Or carriage.”
She flashed a nervous smile over the rim of her teacup. “It’s the funniest thing. You’re right that I have no chaperone, but I did rent a hack. The driver refused to take the horses any further than the Dog & Whistle due to the ice and snow. For the same reason, the innkeeper was completely without rooms to let. My driver accepted a pallet in the mews, which of course wouldn’t do for a young lady. So I walked here. But don’t worry. It was less than a quarter mile.”
Something was funny, all right. Xavier tapped his f
ingers together. “I’m so glad there’s a reasonable, not-remotely-questionable explanation for dragging a cat and a trunk through a snowstorm to a bachelor’s private cottage. Your brother will love to hear this.”
She jumped. “You know Isaac?”
He stared at her. “Why do you think me incapable of remembering people?”
She cleared her throat. “I would prefer you didn’t mention this visit to him, that’s all.”
“I would prefer not mentioning it to anyone. Come morning, the snow will melt enough to return you to the Dog & Whistle and commission a driver willing to take you right back home to London.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “I can stay the night? Here?”
He held up his palms. “Did you expect me to offer the mews?”
She beamed at him. “I knew you wouldn’t. You’re too steadfast and honorable.”
“I’m too what? I’m nothing of the sort!”
“Of course you are. You’re a soldier and a hero. Anyone would be safe in your company.”
“You’ve no idea what being a good soldier means. I’m a bringer of death and destruction. And the worst person of my acquaintance. You shouldn’t be anywhere near me.”
She shook her head. “That was during the war, whilst defending innocent civilians from Napoleon’s tyranny. The very definition of heroic.”
He raked a hand through his hair. If only he were the kind of man she painted him to be. “The point is, you shouldn’t be here. You’re a well-bred young lady with a fine reputation, and if we are quite lucky, you might be able to keep it that way.”
She held his gaze. “Part of that is true.”
He almost laughed. Miss Downing was the very embodiment of innocence and purity. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Are you claiming you’re not a chaste young lady in possession of a pristine reputation?”
“Of course I am. But I don’t wish to be.” She set down her teacup and bit her lip. “Might I be your mistress?”
Chapter 5
Xavier leapt from his chair in horror. “Absolutely not!”
Miss Downing’s rosy lower lip trembled. “Is it because I’m plump?”
“Is it—” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Your body is not the problem. Your virginity is the problem.”
She nodded. “Precisely!”
He gripped the side of his chair. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
Her gaze was direct. “I spent the four-hour carriage ride obsessing over every angle, in fact, and I’m convinced the advantages far outweigh any drawbacks.” She fumbled for her reticule. “In fact, I made a chart—”
“No charts.” Xavier waved away the folded scrap of parchment. His world was slipping off its axis. He was definitely going to need to sit back down.
But not too close to Miss Downing. He dragged his chair a few inches farther away before sinking into it. “Do enlighten me.”
She leaned forward to pat the edge of his armrest. “At ease, Captain Grey. I’m proposing a temporary union for carnal purposes, not a visit to the altar.”
“I’m ever so relieved,” he drawled. Their predicament had only got worse. “Pray continue.”
“Simply put, I would like to experience passion. Preferably with you.” Her cheeks flushed, but she kept his gaze. “And since you’re not in Town for the Season, I imagine there are fewer opportunities for dalliances, and—” Her breath caught. “You haven’t got a mistress already, have you?”
“I find myself between lovers at the moment.” Or from now on. He certainly wasn’t going to begin with her.
She sagged against the back of her chair. “Thank heavens. I don’t see how I could have survived the humiliation, had you already possessed a mistress.”
“Mm.” He nodded. “We are fortunate indeed to have avoided all awkwardness.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you employing sarcasm with me?”
His fingers tightened on his breeches. “What else am I to employ? I certainly shan’t employ my member. Of course you cannot be my mistress! I hardly make it a practice to debauch virgins, and what’s more—”
“But that’s what makes it perfect.” She leaned forward earnestly. “I could have attempted to talk any number of rakes or roués into an alliance, but I don’t wish to lie with someone who has already lain with twenty others. Nor would I like my first experience to be with someone whose face or touch repulses me. I simply wish to be wanted, by someone I also want, and enjoy a night or two of mutual pleasure.”
He stared at her over his steepled fingers and tried to think how best to proceed. Without ruining them both. He found everything about her—from her soft curves to her bookishness to her startling frankness—undeniably attractive, but that didn’t stop this proposal from being the worst idea he’d heard in years.
Miss Downing plainly failed to comprehend the irrevocability of what she was offering. What she was suggesting he become party to. She was an innocent in every sense. Her peers would not overlook such a transgression. She’d spent her life surrounded by books, not people. She might think that made her worldly, but it did not. The real world was a harsh place—an unfortunate reality she had yet to face, and with luck would never have to.
Presuming she didn’t follow through on this plan. Or proposition other men when she failed to seduce Xavier. His muscles tightened.
While she might think she had devised the perfect, mutually pleasurable, secret arrangement, she did not know him well enough to know whether he had slept with every whore on the Continent or whether he could be trusted to keep her debauched state a secret. She hadn’t even asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Nothing was ever as simple as it sounded, especially when trying to predict other people. The bon ton, for example. The things people said did not necessarily correlate with the things they felt. And the behavior one witnessed in another person did not necessarily represent what they did when no one else was around.
The fact that she was willing to put her reputation in the palm of his hands based on nothing more substantial than consecutive seats at an opera proved her naïvety—and the need to keep her innocence intact.
If she was hell-bent on ruin, he would simply have to talk her out of it.
“Miss Downing,” he began, keeping his voice as calm and rational as possible. “You are currently an innocent. Despite your or my personal feelings on the matter, young ladies such as yourself must remain virgins if they wish to continue being welcome members of Polite Society.”
Her chin thrust forward. “I never claimed I wished to be part of Polite Society. If I am now, ’tis only on the fringes. Wallflowers are more popular than me. Apart from my brother, the only individuals who can even recall my name are the three who joined us at the theatre last night.” She waved a hand. “Who, precisely, am I saving my maidenhead for?”
He blinked. “Your future husband?”
“What future husband?” Her eyes flicked skyward. “I’m not a particularly sought-after commodity on the Marriage Mart. I’m plump. I lack an impressive dowry. I’m well above the age most men find appealing. If I wish to experience passion, the only way of achieving that goal is by going after it myself.”
If she was plump, it was in all the right areas. However, admitting his attraction to her would only convince her that this plan was the correct path. She was looking in the wrong place. He was not the man for her.
“The right person won’t care about your age or your dowry, and you’re just as pretty as your peers. If you throw away your maidenhead—on me or any bloke—you will never find a husband.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “I refuse to help you ruin your future.”
Her fists clenched briefly. “Whatever assets I might bring to a marriage, my innocence is the least valuable. Try to be logical. The groom takes his bride’s maidenhead in the first seconds, and then it’s gone. So why bother at all? Besides, how would he even know, if I never tell him?”
He arched a brow. “You would lie?”
> “I will never be in that situation in the first place.” She pressed her lips into a white slash. “Most of the beau monde select their spouses because the union is advantageous to their pocketbook or social status. I’m not only at peace with mine—as a bluestocking and a spinster, I enjoy more freedoms than most—I would not give them up for a husband I didn’t love.” Her lips curved. “Fortuitously, I wouldn’t have to relinquish either for a mere lover.”
“Just your maidenhead.”
“By definition,” she pointed out dryly. “Is lovemaking not the point of taking a lover?”
Of course. But it didn’t signify.
The risk of jeopardizing her chances of attracting a future husband might not give her pause, but her idealistic views didn’t matter. He drummed his fingers. He would not be a willing party to her complete ruin. She should be on the arm of some venerable duke or earl, not offering her charms to a cynical ex-soldier. She was smart and beautiful. He didn’t deserve her esteem and he certainly didn’t deserve her virginity.
His chest tightened as he thought of all the ways it could go wrong. She was innocent. He was a monster. Any relationship with him could not end well. He had seen the darkest parts of the world. He had been the darkest part of the world. The shadows were where he belonged. Not with her.
Not even for one night.
“I’m not against marriage,” she said, her eyes wide and vulnerable. “Or husbands. I simply don’t have the option. And after all this time, I’ve come to appreciate what I do have. A brother who loves me. Enough books and pin money to keep me clothed and entertained. The freedom to do as I please. If I marry, my time, money, and freedoms will depend wholly on the whim of my husband. I don’t think that’s a very good trade.” She held up a hand when he started to interrupt. “I could be wrong, I admit. That’s why I’m here.”
His eyebrows shot up. He was meant to be an experiment?
She clasped her hands together and leaned forward. “How do I know if the marriage bed is worth relinquishing the freedoms of spinsterhood? I cannot make an informed decision until I’ve experienced it for myself. If I dislike it, I’ll simply never do it again. With marriage, I wouldn’t have that luxury.”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 22