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

knew in her very heart of hearts and to the depth of her bones that Anthony loved her. Present tense.

The way he looked at her, the way he had tried to protect her, all his foolish nonsense? He did. He loved her. She didn’t need to hear him say the words to know it, though she hoped one day he would utter them.

In his absolutely misguided masculine manner, he was trying to protect her from the very thing she wanted. That they wanted. That they deserved.

It was most absurd, but there it was. She hoped that time would allow him to reconsider, but she could not force his strange thinking.

And in her experience, humans could have very strange thinking, indeed. They could convince themselves of the most absurd ideas and do the exact opposite of what was good for them.

Stubbornness did not help.

In fact, it only aided in one going down the wrong path and insisting upon staying on it, even when there were many, many signs that one was on the wrong path.

If she was honest, she was at a bit of a loss as to what to do next.

She knew if she pressed, it would make things worse.

No doubt, the more she insisted that Anthony give up his pursuit of misery and choose her, the more he would choose misery.

It was the most infuriating thing about the nature of humankind. The only thing she could really do was to love him and step back. And if he had to go? She now had to allow him to do so and come to the conclusion of his ridiculous decisions, himself. But what if he never did?

A sharp ache built inside her, and she had to take a slow breath to keep it from fully forming and causing her heart to beat at an unpleasant pace.

What if he spent the rest of his life pursuing justice, chasing Captain Adams? And in so doing, would he cut her out of his life? Would he cut that part of himself off that welcomed her?

Love.

What would she do with her own love if he cast his aside now?

Where would it go?

Would she carry it around for the rest of her days, wishing that she had someone to bestow it upon, but knowing she could not, since she’d given her love to Anthony and he had given it back?

Truly, she did not know what to do at present. Why did not life have some better-established guide as to what to do in such situations?

Her own heart was aching at the thought of that boy, Joe, and the pain Anthony had gone through to try to save him and then. . . to lose him.

It was heartbreaking.

Anthony had suffered more than she realized, and she knew that he’d suffered a great deal. It didn’t seem fair, the amount of suffering men had to go through in war, for they were not just fighting for their country or for their family.

They were fighting for each other.

And so, often, their friends in arms were lost.

She did not know how one could come back from that. She supposed that many never did. And certainly not easily.

The young man she’d first met in those pages that had traveled over oceans no longer existed, but that didn’t matter.

She loved Anthony. She loved everything about him because, each day, he had grown and increased in his nobleness and his desire to help people.

He had not grown less. The young man that she knew? He had merely been a stepping stone to the man he was today.

Phillipa took another sip of wine and wondered if she might have another glass before lunch.

That seemed like another scandalous thing to do, but she was throwing herself into scandal, and it did feel like a day that might warrant it.

It wasn’t common for her to have wine before lunch, and neither was it for Clara. They were young ladies, after all, and young ladies were not supposed to imbibe so early, but it was proving to be quite a day.

The entire last two or three days had been remarkably strange and full of events ranging from heartache to wonder to horror. . . And this morning had been particularly rich in its wide range of revelations.

She contemplated the ruby color of her wine.

Should she simply wait for Anthony or Merrill to return?

She hated that so much of a young lady’s life was waiting. Sitting or pacing, waiting in some room for some gentleman to take some action somewhere.

It was one of the reasons why she had come to Cornwall. She’d wanted to take action and forgo the passivity relegated to her sex.

Before she’d come to Cornawll? She’d simply no longer been able to bear more sitting about, waiting some more. . . For Anthony to do something.

So, much to her pride, she’d put events into motion. . . with the help of Clara.

Her desire to no longer be a victim of waiting was also why she’d helped her sister Augusta marry the Duke of Blacktower.

Action.

It was so frustrating to be denied it almost entirely based upon sex. Truly, it wasn’t fair that men dictated the arena of action. After all, more often than not, they were terrible at it! They did make such poor and often dangerous decisions!

Really, perhaps such a wonderful tool shouldn’t be left in the hands of men, but instead, given to ladies who would no doubt do much better things with the choice of action.

She took another sip of her wine.

Clara groaned then laughed dryly. “I cannot describe your face just now. I think we should have another glass, don’t you? My goodness, what a harrowing day.”

Clara stood, her pale-pink skirt spilling about her as she went to the decanter, picked it up, and easily filled up her glass again before bringing it over and filled up Phillipa’s.

“We are being an absolute scandal,” Clara said as she waggled her brows.

“That is just what I was thinking,” Phillipa said with as much