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

Joe had been taken in when he had washed up on shore after the battle.

The French people in the town had protected him because he had been such a character and so young. Instead of turning him over to French authorities, they had given him a home, good food to eat, a position, safety, and an opportunity to learn.

It was far more than the English had ever done for Joe. It was a galling point to read, but that did not stop his relief that Joe had not been suffering greatly these last months but had been cared for.

Apparently, Joe was learning to make omelets and tarts.

Months ago, he had briefly considered coming back, according to Anthony’s man’s words. But, quite sensibly, Joe had not wanted to chance the possibility of being forced back into the service of the Navy. He’d found peace in the south of France. Loading cannon could not have been an appealing proposition.

Nor a return to the brutal treatment aboard ship.

So, unlike many of the other English sailors who had washed up on the French beaches but had not been taken into custody, Joe did not attempt to gain berth on one of the smuggling vessels running the English Channel.

Apparently, the knowledge that Anthony was now the Duke of Grey had quite stunned Joe.

And when offered the opportunity to return to England under Anthony’s guardianship, Joe decided to come back.

For though, the note claimed, he'd begun to be happy in the south of France, he preferred to be with his friend.

Anthony blinked his eyes rapidly, swallowing a thick sensation in his throat.

He was going to see Joe again.

He read on, desperate to know all the details, hardly believing them, and yet glad he had never given up. As his heart had instructed.

The note stated that Joe would be arriving on a ship returning to Cornwall quite soon.

Joe was eager to take up residence with the Duke of Grey. Anthony stared down at the black words, struggling to truly fathom them. And at last, joy and relief filled him, washing over his sorrows and fears, lifting him up and taking away the dark weight which had nearly drowned him in sorrow these last months.

Anthony lifted his gaze and brought his eyes to Phillipa, who was sipping brandy with a blanket tucked about her shoulders.

She was staring at him, positively riveted.

And he realized she’d been watching him since the moment he’d opened the note. He was most impressed that she had not interrupted his reading with questions.

“You'll never guess” he whispered, his voice full of happiness.

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope at his reaction.

He drew in a deep breath and said the words aloud. “Joe is alive.”

“I beg your pardon?” she gasped, leaning forward to eye the note.

“He is alive,” he reiterated firmly. A smile so wide it hurt tilted his lips. “And he is coming here.”

She reached out and enfolded his hand with hers. Her eyes, her beautiful eyes, filled with tears of joy. They slipped down her cheeks and she beamed. Amazement gave way to excitement.

“He is coming home,” she stated.

Oh, his beautiful Phillipa. No one in the world had as beautiful a soul as she. A soul which understood him so well and what he hoped for.

“Yes,” he agreed, holding tightly to her hand, never wanting to let it go. “Joe is coming home. Just as you are. This castle is now your home.”

“Ours. It is ours,” she replied fiercely, full of love.

“Yes,” he breathed, gazing on her with wonder. “Ours.  And here we shall make a family that the rest of the world shall envy.”

“I think we shall be very pleased indeed without having to give the rest of the world much consideration,” she replied.

She hesitated, her brow quirking. “A family, you say? To be clear, just what do you have in mind?”

He arched a brow and laughed. “Yourself, myself, Joe, Clara—”

“And anyone else?” she queried lightly.

“I don't know.” He ventured slowly, pulling her closer as he set the note aside. He cupped her cheek, determined for her to understand how much she meant to him. “Perhaps in the future, perhaps when you have decided to be my duchess.”

“Your duchess?” she queried, that brow still quirked, though her eyes had sparked.

“Yes,” he breathed, tracing his thumb over her lower lip. “Marry me, Phillipa. Marry me and be with me for the rest of my days.”

She cocked her head to the side. Though her lips parted softly and her eyes grew dark blue with desire, she studied him carefully and asked with a touch of lightness that didn’t quite hide her seriousness, “Are you not worried that I shall turn into your nursemaid? That seemed to be a great concern of yours not so very long ago.”

Those words mocked him ever so kindly. Words he had uttered to her. Words that were positively ridiculous. And yet. . .

“Yes,” he replied honestly.

She gasped, pulling back ever so slightly. Not with horror or accusation but genuine surprise. “What? I do not understand.”

“Of course I'm worried that you might turn into my nursemaid. Isn’t everyone afraid that one day they might need a nurse. . .” He grew quiet. Serious. “But I know something now I did not before.”

“What is it?” she asked, tilting her face towards him.

“It does not matter if you become my nurse if I were to one day grow worse, because we are together to support each other. And if I truly believe that I'm to support you, I must also believe you are to support me. This idea, for a man, silly as it may be, is difficult to accept. But we are equals, Phillipa. And I could never be so foolish as to believe I’d rather turn you away than be so lucky as to have your care.”

He stroked a lock of her hair back from her face. “With luck, that will never occur. But if it does, I shall be truly fortunate