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

voice high. “I am not a fool for wanting to be with my friend.”

“We are not friends,” he countered harshly.

“No?” She propped her hands on her hips, throwing all caution and sense to the wind. She’d bared her soul to him. Propriety be damned. “Then what are we?”

“Nothing,” he said flatly.

That single word rang like a death knell between them. Only she refused to believe it. Somehow, he’d convinced himself of a terrible lie. But she wouldn’t be tricked. Even if he had been.

“You're the fool,” she said, “to throw away what we have.”

“Then I am a fool,” he said, shrugging his shoulder. Another wince of pain crossed his face.

She stormed over to him, refusing to go peacefully like a lady ought.

“Anthony,” she challenged. “Please. I have longed for this moment for months. I have longed for it since the first letter that came in the mail to me, and I read your delightful words and your kindness. I cherished your help and your advice when my life was in such turmoil. It is because of you that my sister is married to the Duke of Blacktower now. It is because of you that I have some semblance of peace in my life. Please do not throw that away.”

“How could I be throwing your peace away now by sending you out of my life?” he demanded, his face unyielding. “My life will bring you only misery, Philippa.”

“You do not know that,” she said. “I am not simply your friend through fair weather. I’ve longed to be with you—”

“No,” he cut in. “You long for a dream that does not exist.”

“Prove it to me,” she said boldly, rashly. “Kiss me.”

“What?” he breathed. He stared at her, eyes widening. And yet those icy shards turned to sparks of fire.

“You are mad,” he said. “Why would I kiss you?”

She lifted her chin, determined not to be afraid or step back from what she’d demanded. She wouldn’t go back to the shadows of life her father had tried to force her to. No, she’d live as boldly as she could. “Because I have dreamed of it every night.”

He swallowed. “I don't believe you,” he said.

“It's true,” she countered. “I did not even know what you looked like, your face was a shadow, but I imagined you taking me in your arms, pulling me towards you, and kissing me.”

Longing filled her and she imbued her voice with that desire, those memories. “That I was yours. I imagined that I had found the person who I was meant to be with the rest of my life. You were not just a friend,” she declared. “You were my other half who seemed to understand me better than anyone in this whole world possibly ever could.”

“Phillipa,” he rasped. “Your words are almost as painful as my wounds.”

“Then kiss me,” she repeated. “Prove you are right, and I will go.”

She meant it.

If she could but kiss him and find out that the kiss was nothing, that he did not long for her as she did him? Then she could at least push that fantasy away, and she could perhaps get on with her life. Though she knew that she was going to suffer the wound of their lost understanding for months, if not years, to come.

He might be cruel now and awful to her in an attempt to drive her away, but his letters of support and kindness had sustained her in a difficult period.

It was nigh impossible to let that part of him go, even if he was insistent now that it did not exist.

“Fine,” he said. “I shall kiss you, and that shall be an end of it. You shall go from my life and you shall not bother me more.”

She nodded. “I promise.”

He took a step towards her and his leg wobbled.

She reached out and grabbed his strong forearms.

A look of self-loathing crossed his face at that.

How he seemed to hate himself for his weakness, but it wasn't weakness.

She could tell from his healing wounds that he was doing far more than a man should. If anything, he was probably endangering himself by standing like he was with no assistance.     And yet, he was determined to do it. She could tell he would brook no argument in this. So she wouldn’t try.

Instead, she held onto his arms, holding him up as much as he was holding her.

“Kiss me,” she urged then, hoping beyond hope.

And he did.

Chapter 4

Why wouldn't she go? It was worse torture than his wounds. Dear God, he had avoided Phillipa for months.

He'd done it through sheer will and grit, forcing the urges to write to her, to call upon her, deep into the recesses of his soul. It had been agonizing and necessary.

Sacrifice required pain, he knew. And he was willing to suffer to ensure her happiness. She deserved it.

But then his beloved yet infuriating sister had to go and invite Phillipa down to stay.

He did not know what Clara had hoped for. He was only glad he’d discovered the information before Phillipa had shown up in the castle’s proverbial doorstep.

As soon as he’d discovered her imminent arrival, he'd chosen to take up residence in the cottage on the most remote part of his estate.

And somehow, damn it all, she had still managed to find him.

Were the gods laughing somewhere at him, making his meeting with her inevitable?

It certainly seemed so as she stood here in his cottage, confronting him with so many unforgiving words. And a demand for a kiss.

The anger was pouring off of her, but worse than the anger was the hurt. He had hurt her. He'd known that it might be painful. It certainly had pained him, the separation, the lack of letters, the end of the rapport that they had shared, but the suffering was necessary.

Or so he’d convinced himself.

But he had not counted on what seeing the impact of the suffering on her would do to him.

It tore through him as fiercely as the