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

believe that what we shared could be over so abruptly, but you have made it clear that it can, so I shall not press it.” She ground her teeth. “But I suppose I needed to see you to know for sure.”

“And now that you've seen me?” he inquired, slipping a leather-bound volume from the shelf.

“You've made yourself clear.” She shrugged. “I no longer need guess, based upon your silence.”

He peered at the volume, then opened it slowly in a very performative display of disinterest. “So you are content to move on and feel nothing here?”

“Are you being obtuse?” she said. “Are you now trying to get me to say that I long for you? And will only go because you have cast me out? I have more self-respect than that, Your Grace.”

He scowled, snapping the book shut. “That is not at all what I meant. I don't know what I meant to do.” He closed his eyes, then shook his head. “Forgive me. I am being a brute. A beast, if you will.”

“I agree,” she said, pursing her lips. She smoothed her hands down the front of her gown, not certain what to say next. She ventured, “You were not like this in your letters.”

“No,” he agreed. “I was not like this in my letters. I was nothing like this when I wrote to you, but it is who I am now, Philippa. And we cannot escape the fact that I growl, and I bark, and I want nothing to do with the future that I think you and I thought we might have.”

She gasped. “Then you thought it too?”

He winced, looking away.

“You did,” she exclaimed.

“I did,” he admitted, pained. “But I want nothing to do with that future now. This is not a place for you.”

She narrowed her gaze, incensed that he had seen their future together and abandoned it. “Do you wish me to go out in the dead of night and race away from here and cross the moor with just the moon to guide me?”

“No,” he rushed. “Do not be foolish.”

“You make it very clear that you think I'm a fool,” she cut in. “Again and again, you make it so. You did not think so before.”

“I don't think you're a fool, Philippa.” He said tightly, his chest expanding against his shirt in a long breath. “I just. . .cannot bear to have you near me.”

“Am I that painful?” she asked, her heart twisting. “That awful? So disappointing to you?”

He swallowed, placed the book back, and then took another step forward.

“Please don’t say such things,” he all but begged.

“Then what is it?” she demanded, hating how confused and off foot that she felt with him now.

“It is because you are more than what I could have hoped for.”

“More?” she queried softly. What on earth was he on about?

“Indeed, more,” he said. “You are beautiful. Your voice does things to me. You're interesting. You are kind. You're everything that your letters proclaim you to be and more, and I cannot have you. And so I must make you go.”

She took a step towards him now. “I don't understand. Why can't you—”

“Because,” he said holding up his hands. “I am all but a monster now.”

“You are not,” she contradicted, her voice rich with passion. “Look at you. You are almost well.”

“I will never be well, Philippa,” he ground out. “The doctors have made that quite plain. At any moment, my wounds could open. They could fester. I will become a mess of wounds and oozing flesh. And you will be horrified by my presence. I have been patched together like an errant quilt. I told you before. I will not have you as my nursemaid, and I will not have you barely tolerating my appearance as I grow older, as my wounds refuse to heal. You deserve far more than a beast.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then said quietly but firmly, “You are very selfish.”

“I beg your pardon?” he said, gaping at her.

“To make this decision for me,” she explained without mercy. For the mercy he thought he was showing her? It was the exact opposite. She let out a rueful laugh, devoid of humor. “You have, you see. You have done what men always do. You have decided. You have not consulted me. You are no better than my father.”

“Take that back,” he gritted.

“Why?” she demanded.

“Take it back,” he insisted again, taking another faltering step forward. His face was a mask of pain and anger.

“I shall not,” she countered, not yielding. He needed to hear it. “You are just like him. You are controlling. You are doing all in your power to make certain that I have no say in this matter at all.”

He crossed to her then, his steps shockingly fast. He took her in his arms, his hands clenching her shoulders.

She was not afraid. It was not violence that she saw in his eyes. It was fear.

“I am not,” he insisted, his voice growing ragged. “I fight every day to combat men who do such things.”

“Then why are you doing this now?” she whispered. “If you are not like that. Why are you driving me away without asking me what I want, rather than just doing what you think is best for me?”

He stilled, blinking as her words crashed upon him. Understanding softened his brow.

“Then what is it that you want?” he urged. “Tell me.”

She licked her lips, determined not to throw this chance away.

“I wish to stay,” she declared evenly. “I wish to be with you. I wish us to continue our friendship and see where that goes. I have never in my whole life felt so to close anyone or told someone so many secrets as I have told to you in so short a time. And now you tell me it was nothing, that I must go. That the person that I loved is dead. I refuse to believe that. I want to stay.”

“Loved?” he echoed.

“Yes,” she said fiercely.