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

He rolled his eyes.

“Do not be a fool,” he hissed.

“I am not being a fool,” she retorted. “It is the truth.”

“Handsome?” he growled, his gaze crackling with fury. “I am an invalid.”

Phillipa gaped at the man who had taken her heart and soul, or, at least, so she had thought.

The reality was completely different from the man upon the page.

How was such a thing possible?

Chapter 3

“How could you do this?” she demanded, the hurt as deep as any blow.

“I beg your pardon?” he growled.

“You abandoned our friendship,” she pronounced without mercy. “I poured my heart out to you, page after page, and you to me, and then nothing for months. And now here you are, avoiding me. The cruelty of that—”

“We had but a moment in passing in which we shared thoughts, but neither of us were truly engaged with the other,” he cut in harshly. “It was a passing fancy.”

“A passing fancy,” she repeated, her heart aching at his words. “I thought you were my friend.”

He was still for a long moment as he stared at her. “You were mistaken,” he said. “I apologize for misleading you.”

“Why are you being like this?” she demanded, refusing to give way easily.

Something crossed his face, a wound, a deep pain, before it vanished behind a hard mask.

“I wrote you a few letters and that is all,” he said, his hands clenching into fists. The only sign he was ill at ease. “We never had an understanding, and we never shall. I think it is best that you leave now. The storm is abating.”

She looked to the windows and scoffed.

Rain was still splashing upon the glass.

“I hate to argue with you,” she said, “but it seems that I must stay. The storm is not abating, and you are an absolute bounder. You’ve been avoiding me. Like a coward.”

“You dare to call me a coward?” he growled.

“I know you are a hero. All the papers say it is so.” She squared her shoulders. “But in this? Yes. You are. You did not have the courage to at least inform me we would no longer write now that you are duke. Did you think so very little of me then?”

He winced. “The very opposite,” he bit out. “I couldn’t risk being near you. The temptation was too great.”

Temptation. What the devil was he on about?

“This is why you're in this cottage? You're afraid of the temptation I cause you? Temptation for what?”

He met her gaze. “I am not afraid of you,” he replied, “but I did not wish to encourage you.”

“Encourage me,” she echoed.

“Yes,” he bit out. “I thought it best that we make a clean break. Things have changed, Philippa. I am not myself. And you’re the sister of a duchess. You are not in need of my assistance any longer, or even my protection. You don't need my advice or my help. You have the Duke of Blacktower for that.”

She swallowed. His summation took her aback.

The Duke of Blacktower could not give her the same sort of friendship that they had for all those months, and if he felt that was all they had, she did not know what to say.

“I'm not a silly schoolgirl,” she said. “What we had was very real.”

He blanched at that. “You are,” he said, “if you felt there was anything between us other than a few letters. I'm glad I could help you when I did, but that is done. I'm the Duke of Grey now and that is all there is to say about it.”

Her stomach twisted. Good god, where was the wonderful man she’d shared her hopes and dreams with? Who had shared his hopes and dreams with her?

Had it all been a lie?

For this cruel man resembled nothing of her Anthony.

He tensed and added, his voice low and rough, “I am also. . . an invalid. There's no escaping that. My wounds are quite extensive, which makes anything between us absurd.”

She frowned. The note in his voice struck her as a deeply held belief. Yet, when she looked at him, she didn’t see an invalid. But he clearly believed he was. “You don't look as if your wounds are quite extensive.”

“Don't I?” he queried, his dark brow arching.

“No,” she said. “You look quite capable and handsome, really. I observed walking was difficult, but you certainly—”

He grimaced. “Ah, I see,” he said. “I look so splendid, do I?”

And with that, he forced himself up. He reached to his shirt. He pulled it out of his breeches and then he whipped it over his head.

She gasped at the sight of his chest.

It was beautiful beyond all reckoning. She'd never seen anything like it in her whole life. The hills and valleys of his carved sinew begged for her to touch them.

Never had such a thought crossed her mind before. The idea of touching a man like that was absurd. Girls like herself did not do such a thing, and yet her very fingers itched to reach out and caress his bronzed, velvet skin.

“What?” she said. “What am I supposed to see other than your perfection?” she challenged.

His mouth pressed into a line, and then, oh so slowly, he turned, balancing on the one leg and using the other to propel himself around.

He teetered before he grabbed onto the settee, and she gasped at the horror of his back. It was a mangled mess of raw scars that had barely healed.

“I'm trying to expose them to the air as much as I can,” he said. “And to do such a thing, you cannot have bandages upon them. Even this shirt pains me. And if I keep the bandages on them or my shirt, the mess will never fully heal. It will just be in a mass of festering illness.”

She couldn't swallow. It was horrifying to look upon because there were welts upon his back that had clearly been open not long ago.

The skin looked more fragile than a newborn’s. It was healed. . .but only