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

I care about you,” Phillipa replied easily. “She shall say nothing at all about the subject matter.”

“I do not know about that,” he warned. “I never thought I would expose my sister to—”

“To what?” Phillipa demanded, her eyes narrowing. “To love?”

“Fair point,” he said. “But I shouldn't necessarily wish Clara to run after a gentleman in a similar fashion.”

“Careful now,” she said, her eyes narrowing even more. “You're on very dangerous ground with what you are asserting.”

“That is not at all what I mean,” he exclaimed, realizing he was about to give insult. “I am a trustworthy individual. I cannot trust that Clara would pick someone so—”

“Dramatic?” she cut in, eyeing him up and down, not with anger but with a clear point to cut through his hypocrisy. “So changeable?”

“I am not changeable,” he ground out, even as he realized he was in respect to Phillipa. Though not in the way Phillipa likely thought. The way he felt about her? It had never changed. It never would. It was what he was going to do about it that changed.

“You are,” she said evenly. “But we shall not talk about that further, for I see it upsets you greatly.”

She winked at him. “Clara is a sensible person. She'll see that we are making the best decision for ourselves. Besides, society's full of scandal. Your sister is aware of it.”

“Are we a scandal then?” he teased, leaning in and kissing the curve of her neck.

She smiled up at him. “Oh, indeed I think we are. But the very best kind, for we are a scandal that hurts no one. We have chosen each other and that is a very good thing indeed.”

He gazed down at her, amazed anew.

Chosen each other, he thought.

It was an interesting statement, and it was accurate.

Out of the entire world of individuals and strange circumstances, they had been thrust together and they had indeed chosen each other.

So many people might have stood in the way of their closeness at one point. They had seemed like a terrible mismatch when he had been just an officer with little wealth and she the younger daughter of an earl with no fortune to bring to a marriage.

Granted, he'd been the brother of a duke, but there'd been no assurance that he would have any particular position to offer her. No. By society’s ideals, they’d both needed to marry someone with money.

As a second son, he had not inherited a great fortune,

His brother had, and Anthony would have had to live on his pay or the kindness of his eldest brother.

But now, fate had changed things, and he could take care of her. Perhaps, even if they couldn’t stay together, he could assure her financial freedom forever, if she would allow him.

He shook the thought away. It was a dangerous one.

“Come,” he said. “To breakfast.”

And with that, he began the painful process of hoisting himself out of bed.

Long hours laying down always left him horribly stiff, and he winced at the movement.

Phillipa on the other hand? She bounded out of bed, joyfully, easily, as if it was so simple.

Once upon a time it had been simple for him too.

In fact, he had been full of life, able to leap and run and take on any physical challenge. Now, walking to the table from the bed would be a feat.

Still, he slowly managed to swing himself up into a seated position, prop his legs over the side of the bed, and plant his feet down on the wood floor. He paused as the cold surface met his bare skin. It sent a spike of unpleasantness up his bones.

He did not like that at all. It was always a shock. He looked forward to the long days of summer ahead when he wouldn’t have this first moment when getting up.

And finally, he pushed his hands down into the mattress and launched himself forward.

She gasped at the sight of his leg.

He froze as that sound filled the room and wrapped around him like a condemnation. He swallowed, unable to speak for several seconds. He knew how he looked. But it was always difficult hearing people’s first reaction to his transformation. “It’s really quite ghastly, isn't it?” he drawled, trying not to sound too affected.

“Yes,” she confirmed softly but without judgement or disgust. Her voice was a gentle caress. “I didn't quite get a good view of it last night, not truly. Now, in the full light of day, I—”

“You see that I am a beast,” he observed, trying to maintain a droll sense of humor. And failing.

“Cease that,” she instructed rather forcefully. “You're not a beast at all. You're a man. Your body has just been. . . tortured a bit.”

“Tortured,” he said flatly before he sighed. He knew she was doing her best. There really was no proper response. And she was reacting far better than he could have hoped for. But it was hard to forget how he’d once looked. “That's a nice way of putting it. I was nearly torn apart by a cannon.”

She contemplated the linen sheet as if she was considering covering her nakedness, like a protective armor under the pain of the moment. “I can only imagine how harrowing that was.”

“I shall not entertain you with stories of it,” he said, his jaw tightening. He did not wish to be sent back into that moment. Not here. Not with her. “I don't wish you to have sleepless nights.”

“Do you often have sleepless nights?” she asked gently, her gaze soft with sympathy.

He nodded succinctly and hobbled to the leather chair beside the fire, each step slow and precarious. He picked up his dressing gown and pulled it over his shoulders, trying to warm his body, for the warmer he was, the easier it was to make progress.

“Come, Philippa,” he urged, tying the belt with a jerk. “I don't wish to speak of that with you. I only wish to think of pleasant things with you.”

“Pleasant,” she repeated, her face strained