The Captain's Bluestocking Mistress (8 page)

Xavier managed to avoid all conversation with Miss Downing until late that afternoon when his stomach growled its displeasure. If he was hungry, she must be hungry. And the snow had yet to cease.

He sighed. They would have to share another meal. Anything else would be impractical. He might as well start cooking.

It was bad enough that his army-honed culinary skills were better suited for a dungeon. Now they’d have to nibble sliced cheese and roasted vegetables while phrases like
stiff and erect
and
she pleasured herself
still hung between them.

He ran a hand over his face. He’d thought that his primary attraction to the unstoppable Miss Downing was the very fact of her untouched innocence. Of her managing to be something good and true and pure in a world of war and deception and hate.

Over and over, she’d proven him wrong. Yes, she was both a virgin and good-natured, as expected. She was also clever, confident, and unapologetically sensual. In other words… the perfect woman. For someone else. He swallowed hard.

If only he could stop
wanting
her so bloody much.

He attacked the cheese with a knife as the vegetables roasted over a fire. Supper wouldn’t be much, but it would be edible.

Three years of hell had taught Xavier never to rely on anyone else’s assistance. Even without his cook present, Xavier’s larder was stocked with enough provisions to keep a non-finicky bachelor fed through springtime. Including a hidden stash of the sweets he’d missed so much while he’d been away.

A young lady like Miss Downing, however, would keep to a higher standard. The back of his neck heated as he realized she might be disappointed in his meager offerings. She must be used to more.
Deserved
more. But until the snow stopped falling, all she got was him.

To her credit, she voiced no complaints. They even made it through most of the meal without a single mention of inappropriate topics. But as his sultry houseguest popped the last of the after-dinner sweetmeats into her mouth, she fixed her gaze on his with a slow smile.

For the first time in his life, he wished he were a candied pear.

She licked her lips and reached for her glass of wine. “Is the library still restricted?”

“Absolutely.” Every single part of him was feeling restricted, just from watching her tongue moisten those plump red lips. He ground his teeth. Perhaps he ought to open the library back up and lock her inside until morning. “Also forbidden are bed play, whiskey, cheroots, gambling, and eighteenth-century erotica.”

“Everything fun, you mean.” She gave him a teasing pout.

He willed his body not to respond.

“If we’re to entertain ourselves without any physical activities,” she continued, “then we’ll have to make do with conversation. Since we’re snowbound at the moment, surely you cannot object to getting to know each other a little better over another glass of wine?”

God’s teeth. “One glass was enough.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “A cup of milk, then. We can even sit on opposite sides of the parlor.”

“Fine.” Milk sounded good. Milk sounded
innocent
. “Go sit. I’ll join you as soon as I clear the table.”

“I can help with the—”

“Go pick your side of the parlor.”

She laughed under her breath, but she rose to her feet with good grace and sashayed away.

He gathered the dishes and deposited them in a bucket of clean water in the kitchen. The current supply of fresh water would barely cover scullery duties and separate baths for him and the lady. The next time he took the cat out for a walk, he’d have to remember to bring in more snow.

Good. He could use a nice long tromp outside in the cold to help him forget about the nice warm woman he’d left inside.

She was seated in one of two wingback chairs when he entered the parlor. Both chairs were positioned at complementary angles such that they somewhat faced the fire, and somewhat faced each other—without either occupant being forced to stare in either direction. Not precisely opposite sides of the parlor, but at least they wouldn’t be sharing the sofa.

“So.” He dropped onto the unoccupied chair and stretched out his feet. “Sagittarius?”

Her mouth fell open. “You cannot possibly follow astrology.”

“I cannot possibly,” he agreed. At least they wouldn’t be discussing the stars. “Have you a better jumping off point for making light conversation under awkward conditions?”

“I do.” The sugary sweetness in her tone raised the hair on the back of his neck. She tapped the tips of her fingers together and smiled. “I thought we might play
Boon or Bare
.”

His muscles tensed. “Boon or
what?”

Her brown eyes laughed at him from beneath their curled lashes. “I presume you’ve never been a twelve-year-old girl?”

He arched his brows at her in silence.

She winked back. “It’s a game of twenty questions, goose. To which you bare your soul, not your derrière, in case that’s what has you all bothered. Should you choose to not answer a question, you owe the asker the boon of their choice.” She relaxed against her chair, her gaze sparkling with challenge. “I cannot credit that a big strong captain would be afraid of a game little girls play when they spend the night with their cousins.”

Famous. He glared at her sourly. He could see where this was going.

If she earned a boon, she was going to ask for another kiss... or she’d head straight for the fireworks. But since the only other activities in his snowbound bachelor home were worse than this silly game, he was out of better options for entertainment.

He rolled the kinks out of his shoulders. Exhausted as he was, he would have to stay
en garde
. He wanted to keep her out of trouble.
She
wanted a glimpse inside his brain. Or his breeches. He shifted his weight as a shiver slid down his back. The easiest way to avoid owing boons would be to just answer her questions.

Somehow, that was more frightening.

“Five,” he bit out. “You get five questions, not twenty.”

“We
get five questions,” she corrected. Victory lit her from within, making her even more beautiful. “Do you wish to start, or shall I?”

Perhaps he should’ve allowed twenty. The longer he could string out idle conversation, the less trouble they’d get into. He waved his fingers with as much careless disdain as he could muster. “Ladies first.”

As she leaned forward, her eyes turned serious. “If we’re both attracted to each other, why do you refuse to act on it?” Her pulse fluttered at her throat. “I’m not looking for forever. Just lovemaking. No one will even know.”

“Because you
should
be looking for forever.” He ran jerky fingers through his hair. So much for idle conversation.
One
question was too many. Well, if she wasn’t going to let the topic drop, the best thing to do was tell the truth. Perhaps that would shake some sense into her. “It’s never ‘just lovemaking.’ When you do choose a man, your relationship should be something you’re both proud of. Seek commitment, not secrecy. Promise me you’ll never settle for someone unwilling to proclaim his love for you from every rooftop in London.”

She frowned. “But I’m not looking for love.”

“Aren’t you?”

Her mouth tightened. “Is that your first question?”

He lifted his brows. “It’s one you should be asking yourself.”

She stabbed a finger in his direction. “You haven’t answered mine. You’ve informed me why I shouldn’t have
my
viewpoint, but what I asked for is yours.”

His muscles tightened. He hated this game already. If it had ever been just a game. He drummed his fingers on his armrests. Now that he’d agreed to play, he intended to keep his word. Even if he’d rather take her cat for long walks in the snow than struggle to put feelings into words.

“Separating what I should do from what you should do isn’t as simple as you seem to think,” he said at last. “You
are
a marriageable young lady. You
are
still a virgin. You
are
good at heart. By taking your innocence, I would rob you of the opportunity to find someone who
is
worthy of you.”

She leaned forward. “But I—”

“You asked what
I
thought.” He took a deep breath and let the words come as they may. This was the time for truth, not eloquence. “Your maidenhead isn’t something you can get back once you’ve lost it. No matter what terms you think you’re offering, accepting those terms would be taking advantage of your innocence. I won’t rob you of your future. I ruined more than enough lives in Belgium. Don’t ask me to be a monster in the sanctuary of my own home.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she made no further interruption.

Not that it mattered. He was done talking. Every word he’d spoken was true. There was nothing left to say.

She lowered her eyes and lifted her fingers in his direction. “Your question, Captain.”

There was only one worth asking. His hands curled into fists. “Your brother is a shite guardian. How the devil did you get here without anyone noticing?”

A flush crept over her cheeks. She didn’t like the question? Good. He hoped she regretted tricking him into this farce. If he had to answer questions, so did she.

Still blushing, she met his gaze. “Grace had mentioned you had a cottage outside of Chelmsford. I figured it couldn’t be that hard to find. Everyone in a ten-mile radius was bound to know the direction of a decorated army captain.”

Splendid. To save her reputation, all they had to do was erase the memories of everyone in a ten-mile radius. Or did they?

“That’s how you found my cottage,” he said when she didn’t continue. “How did you slip away? I cannot believe your brother would give you permission to make this journey, much less unaccompanied.”

She worried her lower lip. “Isaac had an important business meeting to attend to, so I was left alone. So I let my lady’s maid have a holiday. Don’t look so stormy! A woman of four-and-twenty is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

Xavier coughed. “Obviously.”

“Well, that’s how it happened. My brother wasn’t home, so I left and came here. It doesn’t make him a shite guardian. It just means he trusts me.”

“I stand corrected,” he drawled. “His wisdom knows no bounds.”

Her arms crossed. “Unlike you, Isaac trusts me to do what’s right for
me
. My brother wouldn’t be happy to learn I snuck off to meet a man, but he wouldn’t make snippy little comments about it like a missish harpy.”

He’d gone from Captain Crotchety to “missish harpy” in less than an hour, and there was only one explanation: She was absolutely mad.

He took a deep breath and let the subject drop. No matter what he thought of her plan, a great deal of courage had been required to make an unplanned pilgrimage to Chelmsford and risk rejection, humiliation, and ruin. He’d already rejected her. There was no call to add to the hurt.

Especially not when he was trying to be friends.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to be judgmental. I’m just used to being alone.”

She leaned forward eagerly. “Is that why you think love is so important?”

“Who said I—?”

“It’s obvious. And it’s my question.” She batted her eyelashes at his clenched jaw, as if trying to tease him out of a foul humor. “Play the game. Why do you feel love is so important?”

He slowly let out his breath. Did he? It sounded so idealistic, and yet… Perhaps it was true.

“I didn’t think much of love at first. Not until I realized I was no longer worthy of it.” He turned his face toward the fire. “Things have a funny way of gaining importance once they’re out of one’s grasp.” He pinned her with his gaze. “Some say love is a gift. It’s also something you earn. Something you deserve or don’t deserve, at times through no fault or merit of your own. It’s something worth fighting for. Perhaps even dying for. It is often the sole difference between heaven and hell.”

Her smile softened. “You’re a romantic.”

“I’m a cynic. Ravenwood’s the one who has always spouted romantic nonsense about marrying for love, ever since the rest of us were old enough to start thinking of young ladies as prizes to win. It was no surprise that he longed for love. He inherited his dukedom when he was eight years old and the estate fell into strange hands. If the coffers weren’t restored by the time he came of age, the best he could have hoped for was an heiress.”

Her eyes widened. “But he didn’t marry for love. He hasn’t married at all.”

“He doesn’t have to. The dukedom is strong again. He can believe love to be as important as he pleases.” Xavier shrugged and arched a brow. “Why don’t
you
think so?”

She clasped her hands and brought them to her lips in silence.

Not a problem. He was very good at patience. It was his talent, and his curse.

After a moment, she lowered her hands to her lap. “That’s your question?”

“It is.”

“Then I must answer.” But she turned toward the fire and stared at the orange flames leaping behind the grate rather than respond.

He watched in silence. Her discomfort was palpable. Honesty was a very dangerous game indeed.

“I do believe in love,” she said at last, without looking at him. “I find it devastatingly important. I just don’t think it possible for everyone to find it, and certainly not for me.” She lifted her chin. “There’s little sense holding out hope for something that’s not going to happen. I’m no quixotic dreamer. That’s why I’m here. I wanted something more within my grasp.” Her eyes glittered in the firelight. “On our way to the opera, I saw elegant courtesans. Penny whores. Fishwives. They all had lovers. And I thought… Why not me?”

“Miss Downing, you are no fishwife. Your lack of husband has nothing to do with—”

“Why did you become a soldier?” she interrupted.

“What?” A laugh startled out of him at the abrupt change in topic. “Why did you become a bluestocking?”

“It’s not your turn yet,” she snapped.

He blinked and settled back against his chair. They were apparently through discussing love. Or bluestockings. “That’s your question?”