The Beast's Bluestocking (The Bluestocking War) by Eva Devon (e reading malayalam books .txt) 📗

his mission since he'd returned to England to have Captain Adams permanently removed from the Navy and brought up on serious charges for his poor decisions in the Battle of Trafalgar.

But it was almost impossible to do such a thing with a captain. Captains were gods upon the seas after all, doing as they pleased. The Navy couldn’t afford to have a captain’s authority challenged, lest one face mutiny on a ship halfway around the world or amidst battle.

And, certainly, they wouldn't be interested in holding the man responsible for the death of a small boy considered to be insignificant by society.

So, the only reason he could make any headway against Adams at all was the fact that he was now the Duke of Grey. And he was going to use that power as best he could.

There was only one problem.

Adams was a wily man. He wasn't a fool. He'd perceived that Anthony was coming for him, and he’d begun to work his own machinations to stay free and unpunished.

After all, he had a good many friends in the government and a good number of friends in the higher-ups of the Navy. Many people in the Navy saw no difficulties or problems with the way things were run at present.

Grey did.

And if he could, he was going to reform the whole lot of them. It would take time and it wouldn't be easy, but he was starting with Adams.

Merrill slapped his hat against his leg, then threw it onto the settee before he turned towards the small fire.

“Why are you staying in this cottage, man?” he asked, astounded.

Grey gave a wry smile. He hated to admit it was because of a lady. “The entire reason for it is over now. I should go back up to the castle.”

Merrill looked back at him before his brows drew together. “You're avoiding her, are you not?”

He scowled. “What the devil would make you say so?”

Merrill sighed before pointing out mercilessly, “Well, Lady Philippa is up at the castle, is she not? And you are here. I know that you two exchanged letters often.”

“It is true,” he allowed, trying to keep his tone light. “But perhaps I just needed a little bit of time away from my sister.” He cleared his throat. “She will talk about ribbons.”

Merrill rolled his eyes. “Your sister never talks about ribbons.”

“She does,” Greys countered, though he knew he was on weak ground.

Merrill scoffed. “Maybe once a year, perhaps. Now what the devil is all this about? Are you afraid of a lady? Bloody hell, you faced the pride of the French Navy. You should get yourself back up to the castle. It's more comfortable for you.”

“Why do you think that?” Greys demanded, rankling. “There are far more stairs and those are more complicated for me to navigate.”

“Yes,” Merrill agreed, folding his arms over his chest. “But stairs are good for you to navigate. You must get yourself back up to full strength so we can take on Adams and the rest of them.”

Grey sighed, hating that none of his excuses were coming up to snuff.

It was true.

He did need to get himself back up to full strength, and he was close. But the pain—it was never going to go away.

He knew that.

But the grueling walks he took himself on every day were getting him into the shape that he needed to be in. He’d physically capable again and in a pain. It was a balance he had to embrace.

He thought of Philippa, of her standing in this small cottage, how it had felt so right to be in her presence. He shook his head. He couldn't think of that.

It wasn't a possibility. Not anymore. He'd changed far too much from the man who'd written her letters. He wasn't that hopeful young soul who wished to settle down with her and make a life.

No, he had a mission now, a goal, and he'd become hard. He wouldn't wish that on anyone. Pain made him hard. He snapped. His temper was short.

And Joe's death. . .

The growing cynicism he'd felt for the Navy and the way that men of power could so abuse those beneath them had taken root in his heart, and he had no room for love.

But as if thinking of her could manifest her, there was a light knock upon the door and a voice called, “Excuse me. Hello?”

He flinched.

“No,” Merrill mouthed as his eyes danced. “Say it isn't so. Am I going to get to meet Lady Philippa?”

“I'm keeping the damn door shut,” Grey declared.

There was another pounding on the door.

“There's a horse tethered outside,” she called. “I do believe someone is in there.”

Grey threw Merrill a ball-crushing stare. “This is all your fault,” he said. “I'm going to have to see her because of you.”

Merrill's lips twitched. “Perhaps, but I, for one, am eager meet her.”

If he could have, Grey would have told Merrill to hide underneath the table. And he would have sat in complete silence until Philippa gave up.

But this time Philippa pounded on the door a little bit more forcefully. Quite forcefully, for a lady.

And he found himself realizing that Philippa was not going to give up easily, especially since there was evidence of people inside. He should have known she wouldn’t be put off easily.

Her tenacity had been one of the qualities he’d admired.

What was he going to have to do to make her see sense?

At long last, he pushed away from his desk, walked to the door, and yelled, “Come in then!”

He wasn't going to go open the door.

He didn't want to give her that sort of satisfaction.

He wanted to make it plain that she was not welcome.

He was only allowing her in because he wasn't a complete cad, and because Merrill would never let him see the end of it if he didn't.

The door swung open, its hinges creaking slightly.

And she crossed over the threshold, her slippers padding lightly on the slate beneath her feet.

She gave him a smile, a