The Beast's Bluestocking (The Bluestocking War)

by Eva Devon

  And now that she stood before him, her soft blonde curls coiling about her face, damp and clinging to her neck? Her blue eyes staring back at him with accusation and hope? All he wanted to do was to soothe her with a kiss, but he could not do that. He couldn’t soothe her. It was no longer a possibility.

  He would give her the kiss he promised and then send her out the door, rain or no rain. The storm was safer for her than he.

  So, as she stepped forward, he was so focused on doing what he needed that he nearly collapsed, his right leg shaking. That leg could barely hold him, and she grabbed onto his arms.

  It shook him to his core, the way she held him up, the way she was so unyielding in her support. She stared up at his face unafraid, but that frightened him.

  He should not need her like this. He could not need her like this. A wife was supposed to be supported by her husband, surely?

  No, he would not make her a prison to his future life of pain and need.

  The doctors had made it clear. His wounds would never entirely heal properly, and he would always need help with them. There would be good days. But many bad ones. The pain made him ill tempered. And he couldn’t expose her to that.

  So, he held onto her arms, even though he hated that he needed to. He should have held her in his arms.

  He tilted his head to the side. He gazed upon her face, memorizing every moment, knowing this would be his only opportunity to do so. He was going to have to remember every touch, every bit of her so that in the darkest, most agonizing hours of the night, instead of his horrific dreams, he would be able to recall her in all her glory.

  He tilted his head down and he touched her lips with his. It was shocking, that moment.

  It wasn't like anything he'd ever experienced before.

  The moment his lips touched hers, he felt ablaze, not with the fire of his horrified dreams, but of something so much stronger, something life-giving, something pure, something perfect.

  It traced through him and lifted his heart and soul as nothing had done in months.

  It was terrifying, but he did not stop.

  He kissed her, allowing himself to be overtaken with the passion of it. For he knew he could have no more than this, and so he had to give it his all and savor it with every fiber of his being.

  She tilted her head back, holding onto him tightly but carefully, and she kissed him too. As if she was afraid to let go, as if she was willing to give herself entirely to him.

  That was more terrifying than anything else, but he did not stop. He needed this. He needed this to fill him up, to sustain him for the years of loneliness and solitude to come.

  His mouth took hers passionately, wildly kissing her more deeply, more demandingly.

  She gasped against him.

  He adored the sound of it, loving the fact that he evoked such passion in her, even though he knew it was dangerous. His tongue touched hers and she swooned against him.

  The action caused him to shake upon his legs.

  He swayed and he collapsed to the settee.

  He let out a curse. “Damnation.”

  Emotions he could scarce name crashed through him. But his disappointment was in himself and his own inability to kiss her properly.

  “I told you that I am no good for you,” he gritted. He hated that this would be the memory of their kiss, that he had collapsed under the weight of her, that he could not hold her up as she swooned against him in her pleasure.

  Perhaps it was as it should be. She’d not want him now, seeing his weakness. Seeing that he’d not be able to give her the pleasure or strength a husband should.

  He coiled his hands into fists. “You should go now.”

  She looked to the window. The rain was letting up. “I don't wish to.”

  “You should go,” he repeated, his voice hollow. “I am not the man that you think I am. I never will be, Philippa. Please listen to the words that I tell you. Do not imagine something that is not true. That is the height of female foolishness.”

  She scowled at him. “You seem to know a great deal about female foolishness to make such assertions.”

  “I do not wish you to believe in something that will never come true,” he gritted, even as his heart ached.

  Her gaze darkened and she nodded. “I shall not aspire to any sort of relationship with you, even though that was my dream, but I cannot abandon you so easily.”

  “Why not?” he demanded. “You should. It is my wish.”

  “I will not stay when I am not welcome, but nor will I allow this to stand,” she said firmly, her hands balling into fists. “I am your friend, and friends do not allow friends to wallow in the depths of despair as you are doing, Anthony. You are giving up, and that is not at all the sort of thing that I can allow.”

  And without another word, she whipped around, picked up her cloak from the chair, and waltzed out of his cottage.

  She left like a lightening crack.

  And he stared at the vacant space that she had just occupied.

  She could not allow?

  Who was she not to allow him, a duke, to do anything?

  She had been the impoverished daughter of an earl. Except the fact was that Phillipa was and always had been singular.

  Of all the people in the entire world who had meant anything to him, she was the only one that had truly mattered.

  Which was why he could not bear to ruin her life. She deserved more. She deserved more than to be a nursemaid of an invalid. She deserved a vibrant strong man who could lift her in his arms and make wild love to her.

  But now she was accusing him of giving up.

  He had decidedly not given up.

  He had fought. He had fought tooth and nail to make it this far.

  What it had taken him to get off that ship, to get to his estate, to take up his father's castle, and to walk? It had nearly killed him.

  The last months had been agonizing and thankless.

  The fact that he could walk without a cane was shocking. The doctors had assumed he would be in a chair for the rest of his life. Frankly, there were some days that he wished he'd never made the attempt, but the truth was that sitting in a chair all day long was also agony.

  It was all agony if he was honest, except for just this moment, this moment with Philippa, when she'd castigated him and shouted at him and told him that he was making too many assertions about female foolishness.

  She was not a fool.

  She was far from it.

  She was the most remarkable creature he'd ever known.

  How could he make her go?

  Because he could see it in her eyes that she was becoming more determined to save him. He could not be saved. His soul had leaked out of his body on the last day of the Battle of Trafalgar.

  With Joe’s death.

  With his broken body.

  With those words from Merrill.

  No, there had been no words, actually.

  It had been silence, silence to his question about Joe. That had truly broken him. He did not know why he had been able to bear all the rest—the screams of the men, the death of sailors all around him, the drownings, the tortures of bodies being pulled apart by shot. But Joe, the boy whose job it was to help keep the cannons roaring? That had broken his soul and heart as much as it had broken his body.

  He looked away from the window and to the brandy decanter that was full.

  It was so tempting to try to lose himself in it.

  He had tried many a time in the last months to use brandy to eradicate his memories, his thoughts, his pain. It did not work.

  Brandy was the worst possible enemy, as was laudanum. They both sent him into such extremes of emotion that the pain when in the throes of brandy or laudanum was far worse than feeling the reality.

  The dreams, the thoughts, the horrors of it all seemed more terrifying, bigger, more menacing when he partook. No, brandy and laudanum twisted his thoughts into a never-ending nightmare.

  So, instead he force
d himself to walk to the window.

  It was one staggering step at a time, one agonizing moment after the other, but then he came to stand before the thick windowsill.

  He pushed open the glass pane into the damp air. He looked out and caught sight of her. She was marching over the horizon. God, what a sight she was. She would make a British soldier envious with her stance.

  She looked as if she could take on Napoleon, his entire army, and not shake for a moment.

  And he thought, perhaps, if there were more people like her, there wouldn't be a war at all. It all would have been solved before silly men could come to blows over silly things. She seemed to value life far more than most, and she seemed quite determined to not let him fall into the darkness.

  Only, how did he explain to her that he had not let himself fall? That every moment he was pulling himself up, pulling and pulling and pulling, but he could not seem to get to the top. With each attempt to pull himself up, he slid down a little bit further. Oh, he had not fallen entirely in, but he could not seem to gain purchase.

  Only his pursuit of Captain Adams kept him from plummeting now.

  He swallowed.

  He took in a long breath, savoring the sea air.

  Somehow, he would have to convince her to go. No matter what it took.

  He hated the idea of giving her more pain in her life.

  She didn't deserve it. Her father had been a bastard. She didn't deserve more bastard men in her life. The idea of causing her pain was almost too much to bear.

  Perhaps he could find a way to bring it to her gently, to be her friend and push her away at the same time.

  Good god. What was he even thinking? He was running mad.

  Could he?

  Or was this him simply rationalizing his desire to have her in his life? Could he do it? Could he find a way?

  Perhaps he could? He wanted it. He wanted it far too much.

  He drew in a shuddering breath and nodded. Yes. Perhaps he could find a husband worthy of her and then she would have to leave him be.

  He started shaking and felt sick.

  He cursed at the very thought. The idea of finding a husband for Philippa made him want to gag because deep in his soul, he could not deny that he had never forgotten what he always hoped.

  To make her his, and that desire was still deep within him. Even though he knew he could never have it.

  Chapter 5

  Phillipa marched over the green grass, up to the castle, through the arched entrance, and into the long chamber decked with pale blue furnishings and elaborately carved wood embellishments from a bygone era that her friend Clara preferred to take tea in.

  Distress coursed through her, though she wasn’t angry. Instead, she felt flustered and out of sorts.

  “Clara,” she called. “How could you possibly have lied to me this entire time?”

  Clara looked up from her writing, her brown eyebrows lifting. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have found out the truth,” she said, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to sound accusatory. Clara was far too kind for that. And no doubt, she’d had her reasons.

  Clara winced and placed her quill down upon her writing desk. “How the devil did you do that?”

  She sighed and plunked herself on the delicate blue silk chair beside her friend. “It seems that your brother and I were indeed fated to meet.”

  Phillipa hesitated. “How could you not tell me that he was here? You knew how much I hoped to see him.”

  Clara’s brow furrowed as she straightened in her chair. “I actually tried to arrange it, my dear. But when he found out you were coming. . . He forced me not to tell you he was here. He told me that if I did tell you, he'd send me to a convent in France. And he was so upset at the prospect of your arrival, I feared he might be sincere. I didn’t wish to upset him further. He has suffered quite a lot. He's had most the difficult time these last months. You must understand.”

  Her friend hesitated, her eyes wide with worry before she reached forward and took Phillipa’s hand in hers. “Do you?”

  Phillipa drew in a ragged breath and crossed her arms under her breasts. “I suppose I must. He seemed in a very interesting state, as if he doesn't know what's best for him at all.”

  Clara squeezed her hand as her eyes darkened with sorrow. “I agree. He doesn't know what's best for him, but you also can't reason with him. He’s spent all his time in the last months doing his best to recover, and I didn't wish to give him more agony by forcing a meeting between you. He wouldn't see you.” Clara bit her lower lip. “I'm sorry, my dear. I know how much you wished it.”

  Phillipa looked away from her friend, slipped her hand away, then crossed to the fire. It was crackling away beautifully in the massive hearth framed with a marble mantel. She stood in front of it gazing at the leaping flames, transfixed.

  It was much larger than the fire in Anthony's cottage.

  She savored the heat and frowned as her heart cracked. “He really, truly wished to avoid me so very much?”

  Clara nodded, then picked up her tea. “I'm very sorry. I know how much you cared about him. I think he cares about you too, my dear, but he will not allow himself to be close to anyone anymore. I think the horrors of war have just made such a thing impossible.”

  She looked back at Clara, trying to take it in and failing. She’d never be able to fathom the suffering he’d seen. But she hated that the suffering wasn’t going to end after the battle. He seemed dedicated to it now. “That's terrible,” she whispered.

  “Indeed, it is,” Clara agreed, folding her hands atop her pale pink skirts. “So many gentlemen go off to war and come back as if it's nothing, as if it's simply a profession like a butcher, or a baker, or a tailor, but not my brother. He seems to have taken it very much to heart what he saw. The Navy, well, it undid him. He's not the boy that I knew.”

  “How very awful,” she replied honestly.

  Clara gave another nod, lifted the cup of tea before her, and took a long sip. “He was always such a kind boy.”

  Clara’s face hardened. “He never should have joined the Navy. Our brother made a great mistake in doing that to him. He was oh so strong, but his strength was used to rescue things, not to hurt them. And the Navy is all about killing and dominance, from what I've read. And from what I understand, whatever happened on those ships. . . It has broken him.”

  Phillipa sucked in a breath. She couldn’t accept it. She wouldn’t.

  He had helped her at her most difficult moment. When she and her sisters had nearly been broken.

  She wouldn’t abandon him.

  Somehow, she’d help him. She didn’t have to have him, even though she longed for it. But she would find a way to show him that he was needed in this life and that suffering was not the only road he had to walk upon.

  And she’d do it. No matter the cost. For without him? She and her sisters would still be at the mercy of their brutal father. He’d taught her how to pursue freedom. Now, she’d remind him that he could still have his.

  Scars or no.

  Chapter 6

  “Retired Captain Adams has disappeared.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Grey demanded, gripping the edge of his desk to take pressure of his leg.

  Merrill gave him a terse nod. “It’s true. He was last seen at the King’s Man. He slipped the bill and was last seen on the north road riding alone.”

  Grey ground his teeth together, trying to focus on that rather than the pain pulsing through his head.

  It had been his mission since he'd returned to England to have Captain Adams permanently removed from the Navy and brought up on serious charges for his poor decisions in the Battle of Trafalgar.

  But it was almost impossible to do such a thing with a captain. Captains were gods upon the seas after all, doing as they pleased. The Navy couldn’t afford to have a captain’s authority challenged, lest one face mutiny on a ship halfway around the world or amidst battle.

  And, c
ertainly, they wouldn't be interested in holding the man responsible for the death of a small boy considered to be insignificant by society.

  So, the only reason he could make any headway against Adams at all was the fact that he was now the Duke of Grey. And he was going to use that power as best he could.

  There was only one problem.

  Adams was a wily man. He wasn't a fool. He'd perceived that Anthony was coming for him, and he’d begun to work his own machinations to stay free and unpunished.

  After all, he had a good many friends in the government and a good number of friends in the higher-ups of the Navy. Many people in the Navy saw no difficulties or problems with the way things were run at present.

  Grey did.

  And if he could, he was going to reform the whole lot of them. It would take time and it wouldn't be easy, but he was starting with Adams.

  Merrill slapped his hat against his leg, then threw it onto the settee before he turned towards the small fire.

  “Why are you staying in this cottage, man?” he asked, astounded.

  Grey gave a wry smile. He hated to admit it was because of a lady. “The entire reason for it is over now. I should go back up to the castle.”

  Merrill looked back at him before his brows drew together. “You're avoiding her, are you not?”

  He scowled. “What the devil would make you say so?”

  Merrill sighed before pointing out mercilessly, “Well, Lady Philippa is up at the castle, is she not? And you are here. I know that you two exchanged letters often.”

  “It is true,” he allowed, trying to keep his tone light. “But perhaps I just needed a little bit of time away from my sister.” He cleared his throat. “She will talk about ribbons.”

  Merrill rolled his eyes. “Your sister never talks about ribbons.”

  “She does,” Greys countered, though he knew he was on weak ground.

  Merrill scoffed. “Maybe once a year, perhaps. Now what the devil is all this about? Are you afraid of a lady? Bloody hell, you faced the pride of the French Navy. You should get yourself back up to the castle. It's more comfortable for you.”

  “Why do you think that?” Greys demanded, rankling. “There are far more stairs and those are more complicated for me to navigate.”