The Beast's Bluestocking (The Bluestocking War)

by Eva Devon

  She’d never thought to find such a friend, but she had and truth be told, the entire reason why she'd agreed to come visit her friend, Clara, in Cornwall was in the hopes that she might see Anthony.

  The foolishness of it echoed loudly. For Anthony had made no appearance. And she felt hollow, going from room to room of his castle, desperately hoping that he might suddenly make an appearance.

  Good lord, she was a fool.

  Clara claimed he had returned but he would disappear for days and weeks at a time. After he’d recovered from his wounds.

  His wounds.

  She’d had to read about the fact that he’d been injured and from what Clara said, she’d had no real understanding of how badly he’d been hurt.

  Her heart ached for what he’d been through. It hurt too for the way he had seemingly so easily cut her from his life.

  Clara claimed that Anthony was impossible these days. That war had changed him, that being a duke had changed him.

  And that was why Phillipa had not heard from him in months.

  She supposed she just needed to be glad that he was alive, but it was impossible not to miss the man she’d believed to be her dearest friend.

  All of the changes that had taken place in his life? She’d learned them from newssheets or Clara.

  It felt. . . Well, it made her feel quite low.

  Duke of Grey.

  He was so powerful and important now.

  Perhaps that was it.

  Perhaps now, because he was a duke, he did not wish to have anything to do with her. He knew the extent of her father’s shame and thus her own, and the fact that connection to Blacktower was the only thing that had kept them from the abyss.

  It was painful that. The fact that he might consider her beneath him now.

  She opened her eyes and pretended it was the wind causing her eyes to burn.

  It was also painful and rather exhausting knowing that she had come all this way, hoping to stay with her friend in the vain possibility that she might see him. She'd never seen him before in her life and had no idea what he looked like. There wasn’t even a portrait of him in the castle.

  It was shocking, but it seemed as if the ducal family were only interested in images of the direct heirs and dukes, which Anthony had only just become. And he seemed to have no inclination for portrait sitting, from what Clara had indicated.

  Would she ever know his likeness?

  Their entire relationship had been one of correspondence, but that correspondence had been intimate and unique, and it had filled her up with so much joy and confidence.

  She’d felt as if she’d known him truly and he her. She’d held nothing back.

  As a matter of fact, it had been much of his advice which had led her to make the choices that she had in the last year. It had been with his aid she’d decided to no longer live in the shadow of her father. With Anthony’s affirmations, she’d made a bold choice to live with ambition and think grandly for herself and her sisters.

  But now? His support? That seemed to be done.

  A tear slipped down her cheek and she dashed it away. The dratted salty wind was the very devil, or at least so she convinced herself.

  She'd always had such a plucky attitude about this life. In all her life, she’d never let herself succumb to sorrow. After all, she had much to celebrate, did she not?

  Augusta was a triumph, a duchess! And Felicity? Though heartbroken, at least free now from their father and free from a dangerous marriage. She was independent in Prussia, living her life and growing strong again.

  Or at least, so Philippa had to believe.

  And here she was in Cornwall, away from London, the city she rather despised. For though London was full of history and art, it did not reflect Phillipa's nature.

  Phillipa enjoyed fun and the outdoors and the sea air, none of which London had.

  So, really, what was there to complain of?

  Nothing.

  Except, well, her dratted heart refused to listen to her brain.

  She'd come all this way for nothing.

  She was a romantic idiot. That's what she was. She turned away from the rugged cliff and began striding back towards the great castle that belonged to the Duke of Grey.

  It was an immense affair and she had begun to wonder if perhaps Anthony could be hiding in one of the many towers. It was so large that such a thing was possible. He might of have found some secret rooms to keep himself locked away, and she’d never find him, but why ever would he?

  Why would he need to hide himself away?

  She laughed at herself. Such a thought was lunacy. What need did a duke have of hiding away like a brooding hero in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.

  True, he was in none of the society papers and he’d made no appearance in London. No one had seen him, as far as she could tell, since the Battle of Trafalgar, where he had won high honors.

  Even Clara had only glimpsed him a few times, or so she said. She’d appeared rather pale when she’d confessed it.

  Phillipa scowled into the growing, dark could. She loathed her thoughts returning again and again to him and how he had vanished.

  She could not explain it to anyone, not even her sisters. Clara had an idea, but even she did not know the fullness of their exchanges.

  After all, she’d become close to someone through paper and ink. It barely bore consideration. Perhaps to Anthony, at any rate.

  She kicked a rock on the path. They had written to each other at least every week for months, sometimes daily. And for a short time, she had been certain that they were, well, soul mates.

  How foolish that sounded now.

  Surely, a soul mate would never abandon one so quickly and so easily.

  And she'd begun to truly wonder she’d imagined it all. If it wasn’t ’t for the bundle of letters tied with a blue ribbon that she’d read again and again and again, she might not believe it herself.

  She climbed the steep path up over the moors. The rocky ground beneath pressed into her booted feet. The way wound through lush green wild grass made so by the rain that came in off the sea.

  And just as she crested the hill, that darkening cloud seemed to expand and darken to the shade of a blackish purple. Suddenly it opened up and poured down upon her.

  As the water thundered down on her, she scowled. The sudden storm rather represented her feelings about life.

  She snorted.

  Even the weather was as gloomy as her thoughts.

  Her cloak plastered to her frame, rain lashed down upon her straw bonnet, streaking her face, and she blinked against it. One might have thought of running, but that seemed pointless. The castle was still a good twenty-minute walk away.

  She trudged through the slashing wall of water, and as she turned the corner of the path, she came out between two hills. Just as she came to the other side of the twin mounds, she spotted a dwelling.

  Finally, she felt a spark of optimism.

  The cottage in the distance was perfect to escape such a deluge.

  And so, she motivated herself to race across the slick grass and thick heather.

  Her skirts stuck to her legs and her shoes soaked, she knocked fiercely upon the door.

  She prayed someone might let her in. For even standing under the small awning, the rain was relentless, the wind making the rain seem positively wild.

  She peered at the cottage through her dripping lashes.

  It was a rather large stone affair and beautifully kept, though it was somewhat dour. After a moment, there was no answer and her teeth began to chatter.

  She knocked again, this time banging until the heavy door shook on its iron hinges.

  The rain came down more sprightly. Vengefully, one might even say. This time thunder echoed high above her head and she nearly yelped.

  Hail began to crash around her and she cursed the wild weather. The last thing she wished was to be coshed in the head by a ball of ice.

  What a terrible end that would
be. After having accomplished so very little with her short life.

  There was a voice on the other side of the door, almost as fierce as the thunder. And it seemed to be cursing too.

  “Go away,” it roared.

  “I would,” she roared back, undaunted due to the growing size of the hail, “but it is rather terrible out here. Could you not let me in for a moment?”

  There was a long pause on the other side, and she could just hear the scraping of boots on the other side of the panel as she waited.

  After several more moments and more hits of wind mixed with the pelting of little ice balls upon her flesh, the door wrenched open.

  And she came face to face with a man.

  Not just any man.

  The most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

  Also, perhaps, the most unwelcoming.

  His hair was dark.

  His eyes were a wicked shade of blue. His skin was burnished as if it had been touched by the sun for hours and hours. His white shirt was open at the throat and loose about his big body, a body that looked as if it was quite used to labor, and his breeches hugged his legs. Black boots clung to his calves and feet, but his face did not bear any kindness.

  In fact, he looked furious and tense.

  As a matter of fact, jagged scars marred the left side of his face, the only thing keeping him from pure perfection. Those scars trailed down his neck into his shirt.

  And his eyes. Oh, his eyes. They looked like two chips of ice staring into her.

  “Get in,” he growled tightly. “You may shelter here until the storm is done.”

  He pulled back and staggered into the small hall. Immediately, she noticed that his gait was most odd.

  He all but hobbled.

  He held onto the walls with his big hands braced open and splayed. One foot held all the weight as he barely managed to rest any weight on the other foot.

  And then he turned into a room, each move seeming to make his stance more rigid.

  She followed him into the hall, rather reticent now.

  Would he be truly angry if she followed him into that room? Should she? Was he dangerous?

  He mostly seemed angered to be bothered. He had said nothing else. He certainly hadn’t threatened her. And he looked like she might be able to topple him with a solid shove, despite his massive body.

  He seemed most gruff.

  And even though he seemed unable to hold steady, there was an inner strength to him that couldn’t be ignored. As well as a pain that coated her much as the rain had done.

  “Forgive me,” she called from the hall, winding her hands together before she caught herself. She would not be silly. She dropped her hands to her sides and continued, “I do not mean to intrude upon your solitude, but it grew quite foul out there. I did not wish to chance being slain in such a way. Death by Cornish rain feels rather demoralizing.”

  He grumbled. “It's fine,” he boomed. “You were right to seek refuge from the storm. I just don't care for visitors. I live here so that I can stay away from everyone.”

  “Yes,” she replied before she nibbled contemplatively on her lip. “It seems like a remarkable place for that.”

  She then decided that it was quite all right for her to follow him into the small room. Lingering in the hall felt awkward. It was also terribly cold.

  She drew in a breath, braced herself, and crossed through the open doorway into the chamber.

  The front room was cozy. Everything was close together as if it was meant to be easy for him to get. The long settee was positioned before the fire, which crackled merrily.

  There was a table by the settee which bore brandy and a stack of books that any book lover would envy and a plate of sweets.

  Without a glance at her, he flung himself down upon the green settee and very carefully hauled his leg up onto the cushioned stool before him.

  His face went white as he did so.

  “Would you like assistance?” she asked, tempted to rush forward.

  “Touch me,” he gritted, his hands still slowly releasing his leg, “and I should regret allowing you to come in very much indeed.”

  “Of course,” she said, clearing her throat. She stood still for several awkward moments, then added, “I wish to give no offense. I only see that you are in pain.”

  “I am always in pain,” he cut in, his voice rough. “No need to go into hysterics about it.”

  Hysterics? Concern was hysterics?

  “I'm sorry for it,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She felt intense sympathy for him, but he did not need to tread upon her as if she was a well-worn tavern floor.

  “Are you?” he mocked, his face strained.

  “Of course,” she replied easily. “I don't like to see anyone in pain.”

  “Life is full of pain, my girl,” he gritted, “and anyone who tells you differently is a fool.”

  “The line resonates a universal truth,” she agreed carefully, loathing to have to accept his statement.

  Many people did experience pain throughout their life, but she refused to believe it was the only thing.

  It was true. Pain would come to everyone.

  Of course.

  That was the nature of things, but it didn't have to always be the exact experience in every moment. She wondered what he had gone through to make him believe so.

  She eyed the crackling hearth, its warmth teasing her.

  “May I linger by the fire? I am quite soaked.”

  He scowled at her. “I suppose, if you must. I shouldn't wish you to catch your death and never be able to leave here. The house doesn’t need two invalids.”

  She smiled tightly at his allowance.

  It was an interesting excuse to allow her to warm herself by the fire, the fear of her growing deathly ill and not being allowed to leave his cottage. She’d never thought her presence so entirely unbearable.

  “Thank you,” she said tightly as she maneuvered herself over to the crackling fire.

  She pulled the ribbon of her cloak, letting it pool to the floor. She bent, picked it up, and draped it over the wood back chair tucked across from his settee, hoping that the fabric would dry just a little bit.

  She warmed her hands, rubbing the rain swollen skin before the flames.

  Though he clearly disliked her presence, she could still feel his gaze upon her, more intense than the flames.

  Yes, they had been icy just a moment before, but now there was something quite strange about his glance. As if he was looking her up and down, assessing her, trying to make sense of her.

  “What were you doing out there at this time of the day and in such inclement coming weather?” he demanded. It sounded like an accusation.

  “I didn't realize the storm was coming in,” she replied honestly.

  He snorted impatiently. “Clearly you're not from here.”

  She resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder at him, even as her heart began to pound with an irrational fierceness in her breast. “No, I'm not,” she concurred.

  “If you were,” he ground out, his voice still full of accusation, as if she could have prevented the necessity of her invasion of his space, “you would have been able to read the signs. You would not have been caught out in the open.”

  Her jaw tightened. “I know that I have given you a great inconvenience—”

  “You have,” he agreed. There was a long pause, then a harsh sigh. “If you must know, I'm here to avoid you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, turning slowly to him, her heart pounding harder as a suspicion began to form in the back of her mind. “How can you possibly be here to avoid me?”

  A muscle on the smooth side of his jaw clenched. “I know who you are.”

  “How can you know who I am?” she protested, even as a thought crashed over her and she blinked. “We've never met.”

  “You're staying up at the castle, are you not?” he drawled tightly.

  “Yes, indeed I am,” she whispered, determin
ed to make him say it. Determined to make him declare his identity. “How would you guess such a thing?”

  “Because,” he allowed, his gaze traveling her with something she couldn’t quite recognize. “You are clearly not a local. You do not have the accent of someone from Cornwall. So you must be a guest on the estate. My sister's friend.” He looked away. “She told me you were coming to stay.”

  There it was. The suspicion suddenly came to life. For a single moment, she thought she’d do the absurd thing and swoon. Luckily, her own sense of fortitude and her spine stiffened instead.

  “Your sister's friend,” she all but bellowed, beginning to shake. Sister? Not his?

  The words penetrated her reverie and suddenly she felt a wave of fury crash through her.

  “Anthony?” she challenged.

  He tensed at the intimacy of the name upon her lips.

  “Grey,” he countered.

  “Yes,” she mocked now. “Grey, but when I knew you, you were simply Anthony.”

  “You never called me that,” he retorted. “Even in letters, you called me Lord Anthony. Such intimacy of names without title didn’t occur between us. We are not so close,” he insisted, almost to himself.

  “No,” she agreed coldly, even as her rage grew. “We are not. You made quite certain of that.” But then the truth of his words really did hit her. He wasn’t hiding in a room in his castle but he was hiding. From her.

  “Why would you avoid me?” she demanded.

  He ground his teeth together.

  “Grey?” she prompted, possibly more cruelly than she should.

  “Look at me,” he replied, his voice taut and low.

  She did as asked.

  She looked at him again, taking in the ground that she already had. Taking in his beauty despite his scars.

  Those scars. . . They bespoke great pain.

  “You are most handsome,” she replied.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Do not be a fool,” he hissed.

  “I am not being a fool,” she retorted. “It is the truth.”

  “Handsome?” he growled, his gaze crackling with fury. “I am an invalid.”

  Phillipa gaped at the man who had taken her heart and soul, or, at least, so she had thought.