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

She gave him a teasing look, and he recalled that just two days before he had insisted that they were not to be so intimate.

It was amazing how quickly things could change when one allowed them to. Did it mean that he was so weak in his resolve? Perhaps it did, but deep in his heart of hearts, deep in his soul, he had always wanted her. He had always felt connected to her, close to her. And now that they were so near? He'd been unable to resist his soul’s yearning.

It was galling, really, that his willpower was so ineffectual. Even so, in that moment, he was glad. He was glad that he had given into this decision of theirs.

Gently, he leaned down and kissed her lips. “And how was your sleep?” he asked.

“My sleep was divine,” she said against his mouth. “How was yours?”

He did not tell her the truth.

He had slept little.

He rarely did sleep a great deal these days. Often, he had to roll from side to side to alleviate the agony that pressure caused on his scarring and the action caused him a great deal of pain.

Still, the act of being with her had somehow made the night more bearable, just knowing that he was not alone, that someone who cared so greatly about him was beside him.

It had given him a succor that he had not known in his entire life. He’d not known such unrestrained care in his life.

“What shall we do today?” she asked.

“First,” he said, “we should start with breakfast. And then I always take my morning constitutional.”

“Will you allow me to join you?” she asked, nibbling her already pink lower lip.

“Of course, you may join me,” he said. “As long as you are comfortable with the fact that we will go at a snail's pace.”

“Oh, I do not mind,” she cheerfully. “As we discussed yesterday, a snail’s pace allows me to hold your hand, and holding your hand gives me the greatest of pleasure.”

“The greatest?” he teased, thinking her face in the throes of passion the night before.

She blushed, her cheeks turning red. “Well, perhaps not the greatest now that I know the range of possible pleasures ahead of me.”

He laughed. “There are a great many possibilities,” he assured.

“And we shall explore them together?” she asked.

“Indeed. If you like,” he said softly, amazed that she had chosen him to be so intimate with.

“I do like,” she emphasized before she frowned. “It is really quite a shame that ladies are kept in such ignorance about the possibilities.”

“I agree,” he breathed, stroking his fingers along her furrowed brow. “Ladies should know a great deal more, but if you must know, gentlemen are largely kept in ignorance too until the day they are suddenly thrust into the sinful world. And then they have no idea how to behave. It’s all trial and error and sometimes a good deal of error.”

She blinked, clearly astonished by his admission. “Why would you call it a sinful world? Why is it called a sinful world at all?” she demanded. “It makes no sense, given how much pleasure it causes.”

He stared down at her, reveling in her earnestness and her clear wish to free young ladies and men from ignorance and unneeded trials. “You are quite right,” he said. “I don't understand it myself, but that is generally how it is thought.”

He hesitated, struggling to explain it. “I suppose it is considered to be sin because it is so much pleasure, and our society generally seems to think that pleasure is not acquainted with goodness.”

“Bah,” she retorted. “A pox on it.”

A deep laugh boomed past his lips. “Indeed.”

“I think we spend too much time attempting to be good in foolish ways,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, then nodding to emphasize her point. “When we should really just enjoy the life that we've been given. It is so terribly short and so terribly fragile,” she added.

That was certainly true. “You are very wise, Philippa,” he replied softly.

She cocked her head to the side, contemplating him. “You didn't always seem to think so.”

“Now, now,” he said, groaning. “You cannot chastise me for foolish comments made.”

“Of course, I can,” she said, quirking a brow at him. “You made them, after all.”

He groaned and pulled the sheet over his head. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “Are we to constantly bicker then?”

“No,” she laughed, tugging the sheet back down. “Though I do find it interesting that our conversations are so very different from those that we had with letters.”

He shoved a hand through his wild hair and thought about her comment. At last, he surmised, “That’s because in letters we must read the entirety of a person’s thoughts or comments. I couldn't interrupt you in the middle of what you were telling me,” he said. “Instead, I took it all in, listening to all your thoughts before I carefully could create my response. Which then you had to read without a chance of interrupting.”

“Hmmm.” She pursed the lips he adored so well. “How true?” Her lips twitched. “Perhaps we should only communicate with letters.”

He laughed. “What an interesting idea. I think it certainly makes it easier to be honest,” he said. “But we probably wouldn't be able to laugh nearly as much. Or revel in the morning after lovemaking.”

“True,” she agreed. “And all this? It is a glorious thing indeed.”

He smiled down at her, his heart aching with his current good fortune. Had he suffered enough that he’d be allowed at least a few moments of sheer joy? “I'm glad you think so. Should we have breakfast then? I can send for it.”

“Yes, I would like that very much. But why don't we go down?”

Suddenly, he frowned. “Oh dear.”

“What?” she asked.

“We have not considered what Clara might say,” he mused. He hadn’t given that the thought he should, given that he was meant to be a responsible and caring older brother.

“Clara knows how much