The Beast's Bluestocking (The Bluestocking War), Eva Devon [e textbook reader .TXT] 📗

glimpse of the stars through the polished glass pane. Cornwall’s nights were crystal clear, allowing for excellent stargazing.

She was tempted to run outside and to turn her face upwards, drinking in the light from those magical pin pricks.

Her flight of fancy was not helpful. Melancholy. A sudden, deep dose of it. It was the only explanation for her wild thoughts.

She folded her arms under her breasts, digging her nails into her arms.

Why had she done such a silly thing?

A picnic basket! How had she thought that might help?

She'd wanted to prove to him that she cared despite his difficulties. It hadn't been because she wanted something in return, but he'd cast her out so abruptly and, well, made her feel like a silly little girl.

She was not a silly little girl.

She had combated more difficulties than most young ladies her age. And she had not led a charmed life. Something that he knew full well.

She had miscalculated though. A bit of fresh air and medicine was not going to aid him. She was beginning to doubt she could.

And she knew she was walking a fine line. After all, she was not about to allow him to treat her like a whipping post in her attempts to help him.

She was not someone to beg for scraps of affection or attention. She'd done that almost her entire life from her father. And then finally learned that she would never get it.       She would not make the same mistake twice.

Even though he had evoked such strong feelings in her these many months, she would not punish herself by attempting to reclaim them. If he truly felt nothing for her, they couldn’t be.

And, from the way he had looked at her today, he did not. It did not matter what had occurred before between them.

Almost certainly, she was going to have go. She couldn't possibly stay when she was so entirely unwanted by her host. She'd have to tell Clara that she could no longer be her guest. She'd go and stay with Augusta.

It was the only thing she could do under such circumstances.

Though she loathed to part with her friend, and abandon all hopes of Anthony, she would not stay where she was not welcome. This was the duke's house. Not Clara's.

She turned away from the dark night outside the windows and eyed the glowing fire. She longed to feel some warmth other than its blaze. But the truth was, she’d felt cold for quite some time. She'd been an optimist for everyone, trying to find the best possible routes and ways to happiness. She'd gone to great lengths to secure Augusta's. She'd known that Augusta would be happy with her Blackstone, but now she was unsure what to do for herself.

She swallowed. Why had it had to go so wrong?

The idea that Grey would choose someone for her to marry?! It was preposterous. She should've thrust her fist in his face right there on the spot. What was he thinking? Were all men idiots to some degree?

Did they see women purely as pawns to move about a chess board? To wish to maneuver her so without her consideration or consultation? That did not seem like the Anthony she knew.

No, she was the one who maneuvered. She winced.

She supposed she could not accuse Anthony when she herself had taken her sister’s fate into her hands without consulting them.

A voice cleared from the doorway.

She whipped towards it.

Her heart all but leapt into her throat at the sight of him.

“I thought you didn't wish to see me,” she said, her voice far too breathy for her own liking.

He stood in the doorway, beautiful in the barely lit chamber.

Why did he have to be so beautiful touched only be fire and moonlight?

She knew she wouldn't have cared if he’d been plain as could be. Their hearts had spoken through letters, not through looks, but it made things more interesting, given the fact that she felt an immediate attraction to him simply by being in his presence. Under the moonlight, his skin appeared a strange ghostly pale, though she knew it had been burnished by the sun.

His dark hair played at his cheekbones and he took a faltering step forward. It was all she could do not to sway towards him. To brush his dark hair back from his chiseled cheek. Oh how her body longed for his. It had nothing to do with reason, that longing.

And so she forced her feet to stay put.

He took another faltering step and another, each one clearly painful.

And she could tell from the way his jaw clenched that it was indeed difficult, each movement made through sheer willpower.

Yet he continued on, his hands clenched into fists.

How much did that pain influence his behavior? His words? She guessed a great deal. It was tempting to justify his dismissive cruelty due to the pain that he felt.

But she would not do such a thing. She did not need to bear his harshness because he had suffered. She wanted to feel sympathy for him, and she wanted to help him. But nor would she force herself to endure his anger placidly. She would not be the brunt which took his force.

“You don’t wish to see me,” she gritted.

“It is a big house,” he said softly. “I thought I would take a pause here in the library.”

She looked to the hundreds of books lining the wall, unable to deny their sanctuary to him.

“It is my favorite room,” she replied.

“It is everyone's favorite room, if they have any sense,” he replied.

She almost laughed at that, but not quite.

“Well, at least we share that then. An idea of what good sense is.” She sighed.

“I'm not so certain. You're here, after all.” He crossed to one of the bookshelves and let his hand trail over the many colored spines. “Why ever did you come?”

She narrowed her gaze. “You asked me that before.”

“I'm asking again,” he said.

She threw up her hands. “Because I refuse to