The Captain's Bluestocking Mistress (5 page)

Xavier took a healthy step back from Miss Downing’s trunk. She was standing in his bedchamber. He should be far, far away. Not staring at her long, shimmering hair or imagining the feel of those voluptuous curves beneath his hands. Her untouched innocence attracted him just as viscerally as her beauty. He looked away. She was not for him.

He shoved his hands behind his back to shield them from her—and from temptation. He didn’t need to glimpse the silken unmentionables she might have packed for a seduction. He didn’t want to picture her alone in his bed, naked, and thinking of him.

Nor could he imagine how he was meant to make it through the long wintry night with his sanity—and her virginity—intact.

He kept his voice authoritative and firm. “My cottage has no guest quarters, so you’ll have to sleep in the master chamber. I, of course, shall take the servants’ quarters.”

Miss Downing’s rosy lips fell open and a flash of renewed hurt dulled her eyes. “You don’t intend to share your bed with me?”

He rubbed his face. “Forgive me for pointing out that I didn’t even intend to share my home with you. If you have developed any illusions about me or my character, please do away with them posthaste. I live alone for a reason. As an innocent, you may not fully understand the ramifications of your proposal, but I am not fit to be a husband and I
shan’t
be your despoiler.”

Her chin rose. “I’m looking for a lover, not a husband. Do you think me too naïve to have foreseen a broken heart in my future? I saw that coming the moment I laid eyes on you.” Her voice broke as she turned away. “I’d just hoped to share a few pleasurable moments first.”

He frowned. She’d come here
expecting
to be cast aside post coitus and still felt it merited the experience? Zeus, was she innocent! Very well. He would have to be strong enough for them both.

To deflect her attention, he gestured at the bedside table. “There’s fresh water in the pitcher, and the bed linens are freshly laundered. There’s more than enough firewood to last the night. If you can think of anything else—”

“I think it’s ridiculous for you not to sleep in your own bed.”

He stared at her. “I can’t very well sleep in my bed if you’re in it, and I will
not
remand you to the servant’s quarters.”

“Why must either of us sleep somewhere else?” She crossed her arms. “Either I am already ruined—in which case, there’s no reason for us not to share the best chamber—or else no one will learn that I was ever here. In which case, there’s no reason for us not to share the best chamber.”

His jaw clenched. “No.”

Her brown eyes blazed. “
‘No?’
Your argument against sound logic is simply
‘No?’
”

Before he could cement her distaste at his autocratic nature by pointing out that it was his bed, his house, and his rules, a ten-pound clawed tornado leaped from above the four-poster canopy and latched itself to Xavier’s head with an ear-splitting shriek.

He grunted and shook his head free of the cat—or tried to—but the creature dug in its claws and held on tight. He was wearing the damn thing like a bonnet. Gritting his teeth, he clapped his hands around its soft belly and thrust it from his head. Warmth trickled down one cheek. Xavier was certain he was also missing a fair chunk of hair, but perhaps it would work to his advantage.

No maiden would be overcome with arousal by a man who looked like he’d lost a battle with a lion.

He held the writhing, hissing creature toward her with stiff arms. “Your cat, madam.”

Eyes filled with horror, she swung a thick basket up from the floor and trapped her pet inside. “I am incredibly sorry. I never meant for him to hurt you. He’s… high-spirited, and unused to strangers or strange places, and I’m afraid he—”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Gaze soft, she lifted a hand toward his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

He jerked away. “I survived three years at war. I won’t be felled by a cat.”

Presuming it wasn’t rabid. From the racket it was making inside that basket, Xavier couldn’t discount the possibility.

“You’re just as ill-tempered as he is.” Miss Downing clutched the howling basket to her chest and scowled. “If you won’t let me tend your wound, will you direct me to my coat? If we’re to avoid accidents of another kind, he needs a brief trip out-of-doors before we settle in for the night.”

Xavier sighed. The last thing he needed was Egui piddling all over the cottage. And with the weather as it was, he certainly couldn’t send Miss Downing out for even a moment. He reached for the basket. “Give it here.”

She shook her head. “He truly distrusts strangers, and if anything were to happen to him, my—”

“Nothing’s going to happen. Stay here where it’s warm. Make yourself comfortable. The cat and I will return in a few moments.”

Despite the emasculating lack of confidence in her expression, she at last relinquished the basket.

He inclined his head and quit the bedchamber.

Rather than go immediately outside, he headed for the servants’ quarters. He might not be able to prevent the cat from attacking, but he’d be damned if he let it run away. Which left what?

The skinny, gray, potbellied devil-cat was unlikely to respect the sort of leash one might use with a dog. Xavier needed to fashion something as unusual as the cat itself. He twisted the cord from a bellpull into a figure eight and wrestled Egui’s front paws into the holes as if it were a waistcoat. He looped the ends of the cord through the metal clasp of a leather belt and tied a solid knot.

There. A cat leash. He leaned back, satisfied. As long as he didn’t let go of his end—and Egui refrained from attack—all would be well.

Xavier bundled the cat back into the basket and slipped on his coat and hat before slipping out into the blustery evening.

The icy wind robbed his lungs of air. Once his body adjusted to the frigid wind, he released Egui from his basket, careful to keep a firm hold on the safe end of the belt.

He couldn’t contain a brief smile. Taking a demon cat for a piss in the snow couldn’t be further from how he’d imagined spending his first night home, but Miss Downing and company were undeniably more entertaining. Even if he got a few new scars out of the escapade.

In fact, Egui might just be the key to saving them all. And not just because no man in his right mind would trust that cat anywhere near his bare arse.

Miss Downing, on the other hand… Xavier needed one hell of a plan to dissuade her from throwing away her virginity. A plan that stopped her from wanting
him
.

The easiest way would be to let her know exactly what sort of blackguard she was offering herself to, but his damnable pride hated the idea of resorting to such measures.

For one, tales of his misdeeds would rob her of a different sort of innocence. No one deserved that. And for two… she
liked
him. No matter how misplaced her faith in him might be, he hated to give it up. He just needed her to think of him as a friend, not a lover.

A friend who took her barmy cat for moonlit walks in the snow.

He turned his back to the wind and shivered. Yes, that was the answer. He would drown her in platonic politeness. Illustrate his relentless
friend
-ishness at every turn.

The best way to keep Miss Downing safe was to keep her at arm’s length.

His fingers curled into fists. By devoting himself to the care and well-being of her cat and all other libido-killing topics, he would mold her impression of him until he squarely fit the role of friend and nothing more.

Xavier tucked the cat back into the basket and hurried into the cottage, away from the bitter cold. Once inside, he leaned against the door until sensation returned to his fingertips.

Lord, it was wretched outside. In the past few hours, the weather had only worsened.

He could build up the fire in the parlor, but firewood was limited. He’d told Miss Downing that there would be plenty to see her through the night, and that was true—but it meant extinguishing all the other fires in order to better ration the wood. If the blinding snowfall kept him from chopping more, he would need to preserve what they still had.

In the morning, he would shovel a path to the road and put Miss Downing on the first passing hack. Once she was on her way, he would take stock of his provisions and decide how to best fortify his cottage. And turn his life around. He shrugged out of his coat and knelt to release Egui from his basket.

At last free of its makeshift leash, the cat shot off down the corridor and out of sight.

Xavier pushed to his feet. He’d let Miss Downing know her pet had returned safely, and then he’d barricade himself in the servants’ quarters until dawn. This wasn’t a mere challenge. This was his chance to prove he was no longer the monster he’d become.

He rolled his shoulders back. Just a handful of hours. Morning would be here before he knew it. He’d endured much worse fates than an unexpected visit by a voluptuous temptress.

He strode down the hall to his bedchamber, intending to knock softly lest Miss Downing be sound asleep.

The door was wide open. She was still there. Still clothed. And damnably seductive.

She sat on the sole stool, running a brush through her long, brown hair. The lustrous curls caught the light, entrancing him as they stretched and coiled about her. His heart quickened.

What would it be like to sink his fingers into that mass of soft, silken curls? To slide his hand behind her head as he brought her lips to his? Or to have a cascade of curls curtain him from both sides as she straddled his hips and leaned down to—

He rapped his fingers against the doorframe hard enough to draw blood. She glanced up, startled, and then smiled shyly. His heart skipped a beat.

Friend friend friend
, he reminded himself, trying desperately to tear his gaze from hers. No looking, no touching, no lovemaking. His houseguest was one hundred percent out-of-bounds. But he kept his feet on the other side of the doorway to be safe.

“No problem with the cat.” He cleared his throat when his voice came out raspier than expected. “Is there anything else you need before I turn in for the night?”

Her cheeks flushed a deep pink. “Would you mind terribly… helping me remove my gown?”

“Would I
what?
” he choked out, suddenly unable to breathe.

“It’s just… Ladies’ gowns are made with the expectation that one’s maid will manage the lacing and unlacing.” She gestured behind her. “I find myself incapable of the contortions necessary to unhook my gown and unbind my stays.”

He swallowed hard and prayed for strength. “How did you plan to get dressed without a lady’s maid?”

Her blush deepened. “I didn’t plan to
be
dressed.”

“Well done. Now I’m expected to play maid.” He stalked forward to unlace her as quickly as possible.

“I did give you another option,” she murmured. “I find the thought of both of us naked to be equally acceptable.”

He groaned. It was going to be a long, hard night.

Literally.

Xavier’s first thought upon waking wasn’t about the willing woman curled betwixt his bed linen… but only because he hadn’t managed to sleep at all, for that very same reason.

Yes, the servants’ quarters were uncomfortable in their strangeness. Without a fire in the hearth, his breath escaped his lungs in visible puffs of frigid air. But that was nothing. During the war, he’d slept in far less noble conditions. Beneath the rain, against the wind, upon the earth itself—he’d been trained to properly rest his body to prepare for enemy action.

He
hadn’t
been prepared for a curvaceous bluestocking with chestnut eyes, lustrous curls, and a devilishly tempting proposal. Turning her down had been the hardest thing he’d done since leaving the army… until she’d asked him to help unlace her stays. His smallclothes tightened at the memory of his trembling fingers lifting that long, soft hair from the nape of her neck.

Did he find her attractive? Lying naked in the snowdrifts wouldn’t cool his ardor. The saving grace was that he wouldn’t have to try it. She’d be gone in a few hours.

He swung his feet onto the floor and rolled the kinks from his shoulders. It was morning. The snow would shortly begin to melt. And if not, well, that’s why God had invented shovels. People had places to be. The mail coach wouldn’t rumble by until noon, but the hack drivers would start rolling past long before. By midday, he’d be back in dreadful solitude.

Then, and only then, would he reenter his bedchamber, lay his head upon warm pillows that still smelled of her perfume, and allow himself to think of what might have been, had the circumstances been different.

But first, he would have to go re-lace the lady. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to dress at all. He splashed cold water on his face and scowled at his reflection. Perhaps throwing himself upon a snowdrift wasn’t such a bad idea.

Why must women’s clothing be so…
interactive?

Xavier could get in and out of full regimentals in a matter of seconds. In fact, he’d let his valet go when he’d joined the army and hadn’t bothered to look for a replacement since his return. He didn’t need a valet. His retinue of five—a cook, a housekeeper, a butler, a footman, and a stableboy—were more than sufficient for an ex-soldier in a country cottage.

If only his servants were here! The cook and the housekeeper could play lady’s maids whilst Xavier and the other three men shoveled snowdrifts all the way back to London if need be.

Of course, if they
were
here, they would constitute five more witnesses to Miss Downing’s utter and complete ruin. As it stood now, there was still a chance, however slim, of getting her packed off and back home with everything important intact and no one ever being the wiser.

He dressed quickly. When he tugged on his first boot, his stockinged toes sank into something damp and spongy. He scowled and jerked his foot free. There could only be one explanation. He turned over his Hessian and curled his lip in disgust as a wet clump of cat hair and cravat threads tumbled out.

Egui
. The world’s smallest, and most efficient, chaperone.

When there was no more personal grooming he could do to procrastinate the inevitable, Xavier made his way down the corridor toward his bedchamber.

Gentle firelight spilled from the open doorway.

She was awake. Of course she was awake. Her cat couldn’t have left the bedchamber without her having first opened the door.

He knocked on the doorjamb without peering inside. “Good morning, Miss Downing. You’re up early. Did you not sleep well?”

“I usually rise with the sun, though ’tis not very fashionable. Come in, come in. You don’t intend to hold a conversation from the other side of a wall, do you?”

He did consider a wall to be the safest of all possible barriers, but he supposed it was the least practical. He rolled back his shoulders and stepped into the open doorway.

His throat dried.

Miss Downing had moved the stool before the fireplace and sat with her back toward him. A cinnamon-colored dress gaped below her nape as she tilted her head to one side and struggled to drag a pearl comb through her long, wavy hair. Each curl glimmered in the firelight, then nestled back against the curve of her breast and the small of her spine.

He had never seen anything more erotic in his life.

“Would you like me to—” He clapped his chest when his voice came out far too husky. After clearing his throat, he tried again. “Shall I lace your stays?”

“Only if you wish to.” Rosy firelight—or perhaps a light blush—colored her exposed neck.

“I
have
to,” he answered, not bothering to hide the strangled desperation in his voice. “For both of us.”

“You don’t have to.” She turned around and looked him square in the eyes. “You
wish
to.”

A surprised laugh burst from his throat. His bluestocking might be exceptionally well read, but she knew very little about men.

“No. What I
wish
to do are acts so unapologetically carnal, the ink would catch fire if I attempted to commit my ideas to paper. But what I’m going to do is lace up your stays, toast some breakfast, and put you on the first coach back to London. You will thank me later.”

“I will
think
of you later.” The tip of her tongue ran along the bottom of her upper lip. “Just as I did last night.”

He clutched the doorjamb and held his position. If he went to her right now, it would not be to lace her stays. They were playing with fire.

She turned back to the hearth and resumed teasing the knots from her curly hair. “I don’t suppose you’ve any skill with a comb? My lady’s maid is the only one who could ever vanquish these tangles, and I fear I’m only making the matter worse.”

His jaw worked. He was profoundly grateful she couldn’t witness the naked desire writ upon his face.

Yes, he wanted to run his fingers through that long, silken hair. To touch it, to comb it, but mostly to have its softness be the sole blanket above their hot, twined bodies.

Which was simultaneously the best and worst idea to have ever crossed his mind. He liked her too much to let her throw away her future on a tryst with someone like him.

“We can’t be lovers, Miss Downing. Now or ever. You think me someone I am not.” As she met his gaze, he infused his tone with cold finality. “Your vision of me is flawed. A romanticized, idealized knight who saves the day and wins his lady’s favor. I am no knight. I do not deserve your favors. I will not be your seducer.”

She lifted a half-bare shoulder. “Right now I think you’re someone who doesn’t know how to unknot curly hair and doesn’t wish to come out and say so.”

“I know how to comb hair.” Against his better judgment, he stormed forward and snatched the pearl comb from her fingers. “Stand up. Not another word until you’re properly laced.”

She rose to her feet as docile as a lamb.

Xavier wasn’t remotely fooled.

With the comb between his teeth, he cinched her stays and buttoned her gown as quickly as possible. When she settled back on the stool, he lifted her hair in one hand and began to gently tease the tangles free, starting from the ends.

The firelight caught each curl as it released, turning the long brown waves into rippling gold.

When a contented little sigh escaped Miss Downing’s throat, the tension in his neck muscles softened. Her eyes were closed, and a half-smile curved her lips. The corners of his mouth quirked in response.

His seductive bluestocking was a far better cat than that devil creature she’d brought in a basket. He could comb her hair for hours, just to listen to her relaxed sighs and watch the blissful expression upon her pretty face.

His fingers froze in place. He could do this for
hours?
Just because she liked it?

“Good enough.” He tossed the comb into her lap and stalked out the door before her big brown eyes and sweet-smelling skin domesticated him any further. She would be gone in the next two hours. He would see to it personally.

He kicked a fur-speckled pile of what looked like his favorite undershirt out of the middle of the corridor and began to pile on his outerwear. Hat, scarf, coat, gloves. He snatched his shovel from around the corner. Forget the breakfast. He was no innkeeper. He was an irascible, soulless,
solitary
ex-soldier, and the lady was going home. Right. Now.

He swung open the front door. A mountain of snow tumbled inside. It was piled almost as high as the tops of his boots—and still falling. He stared in disbelief.

A thick blanket of white snow covered every inch of the horizon. No, not a blanket. Most blankets weren’t ten inches thick and growing. He couldn’t distinguish the road from his garden. Everything was white—and impassible. His blood ran cold.

This was a scourge. This was
disaster
. Bloody hell.