The Captain's Bluestocking Mistress (10 page)

Jane was disappointed when she woke up alone.

She was delighted, however, when Xavier reappeared in the bedchamber a few moments later with two large buckets of steaming water.

“Is this when we strip naked?” she asked with a salacious smile.

He opened the curtains to his dressing closet to reveal a beautiful bathing tub. “This is when
you
do, saucy wench. I’ll have my chance later. I’ve got more snow melting in the kitchen.”

She pushed back the covers and swung her feet out of bed. “If we’re not bathing each other, why are you in such high spirits?”

He paused on his way toward the door to glance back at her over his shoulder. “The snow has finally stopped.”

A chill wracked through her that had nothing to do with the cold. Their magical interlude was over. And he was
pleased
.

She wrapped her arms around her chest and tried not to show her dejection. “I suppose I’m off, then? After breakfast?”

“More likely after tomorrow’s breakfast. The snowstorm has ended, but the roads are impassable. I doubt we’ll see any traffic today.” He smiled at her. “But take heart. The sooner you return home, the less likely anyone will know that you were ever here.”

Her return smile was brittle. She half expected him to pat her on the head and tell her to wash behind her ears like a good girl. She didn’t
want
to go home. Not yet. He thought the best thing for both of them would be for her to walk away.

She was going to have to change his mind.

When he quit the room, she hurried out of bed and into the bath before it cooled. She sighed with pleasure as she sank into the tub. The luxury of hot water was exactly what she needed.

Now, if only she could get what she
wanted:
Captain Xavier Grey.

She bit her lip. Years ago, her interest in him had been limited to his dark good looks. He was something pretty to look at, but she hadn’t given much more thought than that. No one had. Until that dashing but untitled young man had set off to become an even more dashing war hero. If he’d been a romantic figure before, he became positively irresistible. Every female in London whispered his name.
Have you seen that handsome Captain Grey? Even without regimentals, he’s a sight to behold. If he pierced
me
with those captivating blue eyes, I’d swoon on the spot.

Jane stared down at the water. Like the others, she had been entranced by the romance and excitement of the presence of a real hero. When she’d drawn up her list of men with whom she’d be willing to have a liaison, his had been the only name on it. Her body had never been in any doubt about who to choose.

But during their days snowbound together, something changed.

As she got to know him, she began to want him with her brain just as much as her body. He read books. He cooked her meals. He brushed her hair. He was
nice
. He protected her from the cold and from herself. He let her ask questions he didn’t wish to answer. He saw her for who she truly was... and still liked her. He’d asked her to dance. He wasn’t a hero, but a
person
. With needs and regrets and dreams just as powerful as hers.

She hadn’t let herself believe in love because she was certain men didn’t believe in the emotion, either. She’d been wrong. Xavier cared about forever, not easy conquests. He’d made her realize she should, too. That it was a mistake to agree to anything less. She was no longer certain she even could.

Being his lover—or even his mistress—was no longer feasible. She couldn’t settle for a few nights. Not when she wanted him for much, much longer. Her stomach twisted.

In order to have any chance, she was going to have to prove to him that
he
was lovable. That he deserved forever, too.

Continued attempts at seduction wouldn’t sway him. Arguments wouldn’t help. She was down to her last gambit: She would simply have to be Jane. And show him that being himself was more than enough.

He didn’t have to walk on glass. He was worthy exactly as he was. She
wanted
him exactly as he was.

With a smile, she quit the tub and began to dry her body and her hair. She and Xavier were made for each other. He wished to divorce himself from High Society? She wouldn’t oppose him.

The only reason she attended routs at all was because those circles were the closest she came to having friends. Even if she’d never quite fit, those outings were something to do, somewhere to be.

She’d had no other choice. Until now.

With Xavier, they could make their own society. Free from pressure to conform to what the
beau monde
expected a bluestocking or a soldier to be. They didn’t need the
ton
. They would have their friends, and each other. What else mattered?

If he became her suitor, he would find himself courting a strong-willed young lady who was as sensual as any woman and as daring as any man.

She would simply have to show him how much fun that could be.

Xavier was already perfect for her. He patently wished for her to be happy. His preoccupation with returning her home with her reputation intact was for her benefit, not his.

When was the last time someone had done something exclusively for her benefit? What better proof could there be that this once-lost hero was the one man with whom she should share her life? She just had to prove it to him, too.

Now, before it was too late.

As soon as she was dressed—save for tightening her stays and fastening the row of buttons up her spine—she opened the bedchamber door and peeked out into the hall.

Egui’s basket had changed position. Xavier must have already taken him outside. Perhaps that was when he’d realized the snow had ceased.

Anxiety flooded her at the thought of the melting snow. This was her last chance. She twisted her fingers. How could she shake him out of his closed mindset in just one night?

Xavier stepped around the corner looking windblown and devastatingly handsome. He smiled when he saw her.

She hurried forward to meet him. “Did you just come in from outside?”

“You wouldn’t believe how cold it is out there.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Then again, nothing can compare with the freezing temperatures in Belgium.”

This was it.
Her heart pounded. “I’ll take that bet.”

“What bet?” His forehead creased, then cleared. He shook his head. “You want to wager on which winters were the worst? You’ll lose. I was in the army for three years. You’ve never experienced a Belgian winter. Despite the past few days, it’s always better in Mother England.”

“What do I get if I win?” she insisted.

He turned her around to begin lacing her stays. “How about this. If you win, you get to plan the day’s activities. If I win, there
are
no activities. You stay in the cottage. I shovel.”

Perfect
. “I win.”

“How do you win?” He burst out laughing. “This is a silly wager. On what grounds can anyone win?”

“On the grounds that it’s not colder in Belgium. Mathematically, the historic average March temperatures are one degree warmer in Brussels than in Chelmsford.” She couldn’t hold back a grin. “I’m afraid Mother England has let you down. Essex is not only colder, but demonstrably more likely to be cloudier, foggier, and windier.”

His fingers moved from her stays to her gown. “Demonstrably how?”

“Almanacs,” she answered cheerfully. “You’ve the same ones in your library, if you don’t believe my numbers. And before you say they’re three years old, I kept up with more recent figures via newspapers. The pattern holds.”

“England has certainly changed while I’ve been away.” His voice was droll. “Bluestockings memorize historic climate data on every major city in Europe now?”

“Not every city. I’ve no idea what winters are like in Prague or Rome. I only looked up places I knew you’d fought in or lived in.” She bit her lip. “I wasn’t trying to learn weather patterns. I was trying to get to know
you
.”

He finished buttoning her gown in silence, then turned her to face him. His eyes were unfathomable. “When did you do this?”

“Study Belgium? When you and the others returned from war.” Her cheeks burned. “I learned of your home in Chelmsford more recently. That’s why the slight discrepancy was fresh in my mind.”

His gaze was soft as he brushed the pad of his thumb across her cheekbone and cupped the side of her face. “All right. You win. What are our plans for the day?”

A tendril of sweet-smelling smoke curled up from the cheroot clutched between her teeth as Xavier’s ever-surprising houseguest slapped triple aces onto the table and reached for the pile of betting fish.

Again.

He didn’t know what was worse—that his nightmare of contributing to a proper young lady’s descent into total debauchery was playing out in lurid color, or that he was secretly enjoying the constant upheaval of having Jane in his life. She knew scotch from whiskey, had no trouble counting markers, and almost certainly dealt her cards from the bottom of the deck.

She was absolutely shameless.

He hadn’t had this much fun in years.

More precisely, he hadn’t had
fun
in years. He tossed down his own trio of aces and scooped the chips right out of Jane’s hands. Between war and shutting himself off from society upon his return, he’d quite forgotten how delightful an evening of poor sportsmanship and raucous laughter could be.

He’d never expected to relive that feeling again, much less here, tonight. With her.

Her lush mouth fell open when she saw his cards. “You can’t have three aces!”

“Why not?” He gave her an innocent gaze as he raked in his winnings. “You do.”

She spluttered, then collapsed into laughter. “I thought I was the only one with a spare deck. Two of yours are the ace of spades!”

“Never underestimate a soldier,” he warned her gravely. “We always carry spades.”

She threw a handful of cards at him. “I’ll give you an extra one, right through the heart.”

“You wound me, madam.” He pushed all the cards to the far side of the table and shook a new set from a fresh deck. “Double stakes?”

“Hmm.” She twirled her glass of port. “All or nothing?”

“You’re on.” He began to deal.

Her hair was loose about her shoulders. She’d lost the pins right about the time he’d poured her port. The long, soft chestnut waves fell down her back and caressed every curve. It took all of his strength not to shove his fingers into that beautiful hair and kiss her until he drowned.

She had enchanted him. It was impossible to keep fighting it. Over the past few days, he had slowly realized that although Jane was a wallflower and a bluestocking and a virgin, she wasn’t
just
those things.

Anyone this diverting didn’t have to be a wallflower. She’d already admitted to being a bluestocking by choice. And her presence on his doorstep hadn’t been by accident.

Everything she did, she did because she wished to. If she was here with him, it was because she meant to be.

He felt oddly proud at having been the one to catch her attention. She made him feel like he was the only man who mattered. “I find it hard to believe that you don’t have a dozen beaux at any one time.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Because of the seductive way I light a cigar?”

“That,” he admitted with a rakish grin, “and everything else. You’re smart, you’re beautiful, and you cheat at cards. Why aren’t you married?”

The easy laughter faded from her eyes. She stubbed out her cheroot in its dish. “You mean, why don’t I throw myself on the tender mercies of the Marriage Mart? You’re right. Isaac could find
someone
interested enough in me or my dowry to make the march to the altar. But I refuse to marry someone I don’t want. Why should I?”

“Lots of people do.”

“I won’t. Never again.” She reached for her cards. “Losing my fiancé was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Your
what?”
A white-hot streak of jealousy ripped through him. He forced his tone to modulate. “You were to wed? What happened?”

She picked through her cards without meeting his eyes. “It didn’t work out.”

“How in the world did being betrothed not work out?”

“Many ways.” She rubbed her temple. “Besides, it’s in the past.”

He narrowed his eyes at the evasion. “How far in the past?”

Her gaze slid away. She set down her cards and began sorting her markers. “I was almost seventeen. It would’ve been a small wedding.”

His stomach twisted. “A bride at
sixteen?
How old was he?”

“Five-and-thirty. It didn’t happen. Don’t look so thunderous. Isaac agreed I was too young for suitors and talked our guardian into letting me wait a few years. As soon as Isaac gained his majority, he got a town house and brought me to London to make my curtsey.”

His hands clenched and unclenched. “What happened to your ex-intended?”

She shrugged. “He was someone else’s suitor by then. Besides,
I
never intended to have him. That decision was made for me. My guardian didn’t want wards.”

Fury gnawed at him. A sixteen-year-old girl had no business being wed against her will. “Who is this paragon that wanted a young girl for his bride? And who the devil was your guardian at the time?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She pushed away her stacks of betting fish and shrugged. “That was then. I was young.”

“That’s exactly why it matters!”

“That’s exactly why it doesn’t. Eight years change a person. Besides, he probably doesn’t remember my name.”

“I wish I knew
his
.” Xavier cracked his knuckles.

“Why? He’s irrelevant. I haven’t seen him in years.” Her voice grew softer. “I stayed in the shadows for a long time, and by the time I wanted out, it was too late. I was invisible. No one noticed me, no matter how hard I tried. For years, I blamed everyone else. And then I thought—why
not
go after what I want?” She smiled up at him from beneath her lashes. “What I wanted was you. That’s why I’m here. No matter what happens, I won’t regret it. I got to know the man you really are.”

He stared back at her in consternation. If only her words were true. If only it were
possible
to know what kind of man he really was and not regret it. He shoved his fingers through his hair. He liked her, too. Despite himself. It had been easier to push her away, easier to say no, when all they’d shared was physical attraction.

Of course he desired her. That long, magnificent hair. The curve of her arse. The swell of her breasts. Her plump pout. Those incredible brown eyes. He longed to watch them darken with passion as she locked her legs around his hips and made love to him.

Except then there’d be an
after
. She deserved so much more than any of the afters he could give. He couldn’t marry her. Wouldn’t wish anyone the bad fortune to be leg-shackled to him for eternity. He was not a good man. He’d make a terrible husband.

Which left what? Giving in to her desire to be his lover? She didn’t deserve that either, no matter how much he wanted her. She deserved a man who would never let her walk away.

He picked up his cards and tried to focus. The suits blurred. Concentration was impossible. All he could think about was her.

From the moment she’d walked in his front door, it had just been a matter of time. And willpower. With every saucy little grin, every surprise, every ace up her sleeve, she dug herself a little deeper into his heart. He
cared
about her.

All the more reason to keep her safe, not seduced.

He drained his whiskey. No matter what she thought about the prospects for her future, she would make some other man a wonderful wife. In fact, he couldn’t imagine a better partner.

At first, he’d assumed a woman like Jane Downing would be the last person he’d be able to talk to or relate to. He’d been wrong. Her very bluestockingness meant she was the only non-soldier of his acquaintance that was familiar with the geography of Belgium, who kept up with the war and its soldiers beyond the sightings of officer regimentals in the scandal sheets.

More than that, she knew her history. Not just Napoleon, but any major war, going back for centuries. She could put things into context in ways he’d never even considered.

All this, without having lost her innocence. She might think her books made her world weary, but her lack of personal experience with life’s horrors kept her innocent. She believed in the causes all those people died for. She believed in
him
.

It was almost enough to make him feel like it was possible. Like he could become a good person again, if he tried hard enough and wanted it bad enough.

The first step would be doing the right thing by Miss Downing.

Which meant as much as he liked her, as much as he ached to give in to desire and pull her close, the best thing he could do for them both was to keep his distance. Even if he had to drink himself into a stupor just to keep from touching her.

He gestured toward the table with his glass of whiskey. “Your move, milady.”

Before either of them could play the first card, an ear-piercing screech filled the air. A gray blur flew across the table, sending cards and markers spraying into the air like so much confetti.

“Get him!” Jane leaped up and fled the room.

No problem. He was an ex-soldier.

He set down his whiskey. As he lurched to his feet, his chair tumbled over backward and clattered to the floor. The cat jerked its head toward the sudden noise, which gave Xavier just enough time to launch himself atop and trap Egui in his arms.

The cat thanked him with a full set of claws.

Jane raced back into the room with the wicker basket she used as a cage. “We’ll need some new string. He chewed through the latch.”

“Hard to imagine,” Xavier gritted out whilst attempting to keep the beast immobile. “I hate to say it, but your cat is a menace.”

She knelt before him and opened the basket. “Egui isn’t my cat.”

He paused and tried to focus. “What?”

“Egui.” She positioned the basket like a box trap. “He’s not my cat. If I had a cat, it would be well behaved. And I’d name him something more sensible. Perhaps... Ambrose. Or Mr. Whiskers.”

Xavier shifted to one side. “What kind of name
is
Egui
?”

“A Chinese one. It means ‘hungry ghost.’ That’s why he can’t resist eating linen.” She motioned for him to release the cat. “Gently. My brother will cry if anything happens to his precious fur demon.”

The cat shot out of his hold and straight into the basket. It was certainly as hard to catch as a ghost. And it spared no linens.

Xavier sat up and rubbed his new welts. “I don’t always know when you’re teasing.”

“I’m never teasing.” She tied down the basket lid with a ribbon of cloth that looked suspiciously like the lining of his new waistcoat.

“Do you and your brother speak Chinese?”

She finished tying the knot. “I do not.”

He blinked. “Then how did this cat get that kind of a name?”

“We don’t know. He already had that moniker when he came to us. Isaac is watching him for a friend.”

“A Chinese friend?” he guessed, feeling lost.

“Obviously.” She tested the knot’s hold. “How else would Egui get a Chinese name?”

“How did your brother get a Chinese
friend?
” Who was this family? Xavier felt like he was living in an Italian farce. Any minute now, dancers would burst onstage and put the whole situation to music. He was almost disappointed that they’d missed their cue.

Jane pushed the basket into the furthest corner of the room. “How would I know? I didn’t know Isaac had any friends until Egui showed up and demanded his rightful place as supreme ruler of our household.”

“How long ago was that?”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Nine years.”

His jaw fell open. Nine years. They’d been looking after a devil-possessed feline for nine long years. Just the thought made his skin tingle with dread.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid your brother doesn’t have a Chinese friend. He has a very clever Chinese enemy.”

“You’re bleeding.” She lifted his hands to inspect his shredded sleeves. “Come with me. I have a special salve in my valise.”

Of course she did. She was the keeper of a hungry cat demon.

And yet, it didn’t detract from her charms. If anything, it made her all the more surprising and mysterious. He could spend every moment of the rest of his life with this woman and never have a single boring day.

Or a single boring night. There was no better distraction from the scratches on his arms than the sway of her hips as she walked. All he had now was the familiar ache in his heart at the thought of her leaving.

This would be their last evening together.

As soon as they entered the bedchamber, she stripped him of his coat. His waistcoat. His shirtsleeves.

He’d foregone a cravat this morning because he couldn’t find any non-shredded ones. Now he wished he’d worn ten shirts, just to feel her fingers unbuttoning him, again and again.

Cool air met hot skin. His chest was naked, his arms bare.

She wasn’t looking at him like a field nurse inspecting a soldier for wounds. The catch in her throat and the jump in her pulse indicated she saw him for what he was. A man.

A half-naked one.

She held one of his forearms above the basin of water. He let her. She lifted a sponge from the basin with a trembling hand and daubed it gently along his arm.

He didn’t care about the scrapes. He couldn’t tear his eyes from hers. The dark curve of her eyelashes against the pale white of her cheeks. The way she nibbled her rosy lower lip. The sweet smell of her hair. How he yearned to take her in his arms and show her how much she meant to him.

She reached for his other wrist. “Almost done. Then I’ll get the salve.”

“I don’t need salve.” His voice was husky and raw.

Her lips parted. She gazed up at him, eyes wide. “What do you need?”

“You.”