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

with sorrow for him. “I understand,” she said. “But sometimes out of pain comes the greatest conversation, the most deep—”

“No,” he cut in, determined not to open that particular door. “I do not wish to discuss it.”

She nodded. “Then we shall not.”

She left the sheet untouched and strode towards him, apparently unashamed and unbothered by her nakedness.

He adored that about her. He loved it. She felt so free with him. It was a condition that he wished more people could experience. He pulled her gently towards him, careful not to totter, and he leaned down and looked into her eyes.

“So we shall have breakfast with Clara and act as if nothing shocking has occurred,” he teased, determined to leave the darkness behind. At least for now.

“Oh, but something shocking has occurred,” she corrected, her eyes alight as she pressed against his silk dressing gown.

“And what is that?” he asked, uncertain.

“We've chosen each other without marriage. That is shocking,” she declared as if it was the most delicious thing in the world. Then she grew more serious. “And Clara will be shocked, but that doesn't mean that we should hide it from her. After all, she’s not silly.”

“Fair point,” he agreed with a sigh.

Society was so interested in exteriors. But not his Phillipa. She cared far more about that which was beneath the surface. It was both glorious and awful. For it meant she loved without artifice. It also meant it was almost impossible to hide one’s true pain from her.

“And Merrill, of course,” she piped abruptly. She bit her lower lip, then asked, “Shall we hide it from Merrill?”

He groaned.

Good God, he hadn't even thought of Merrill.

Merrill might murder him for what he'd done.

After all, Merrill was a gentleman through and through, and he would not easily accept his ruining of Lady Philippa. What the devil was he going to say to his friend? Perhaps his friend would murder him as quickly as Captain Adams no doubt wished to do.

It was a harrowing thought.

Somehow, he’d make him understand. Even when he, himself, did not.

Chapter 12

Clara drank her tea happily and quietly as she snuck smug glances at her brother and friend.

Phillipa ate her toast, relieved her friend wasn’t making any difficult discourse. She’d been certain she wouldn’t, after all.

And as it was? Phillipa was absolutely overwhelmed by the events of last evening. It had been an experience to which she had no reference point—the joy of it, the pleasure of it, the physical experience?

There was nothing like it that she could describe or relate it to.

And. . .there had been one point that had stunned and empowered her.

She had not been a passive participant. Oh no. In fact, her strength had made the whole affair possible, and she loved that she had taken so much into her control. That he had urged it and liked it.

It had made her feel powerful and strong.

Society always seemed to insinuate the lady was the vine clinging to the oak. That she was passive, waiting for the man’s strength. As if lovemaking was something that happened to a young lady not with.

That was not what had transpired.

Though he was more experienced, their coming together had felt more like two equals, at last meeting and entwining into one.

As they sat together in the breakfast room with Clara, all being rather quiet as they spread their butter and jam upon their toast, ate rashers of bacon, drank dark tea, sugared and laced with milk, she thought that she had found a rather perfect existence.

Of course, it was impossible to know how long it would last.

But that, in itself, couldn’t matter. She couldn’t let it.

She had to savor this moment. For this? This was thrilling. This was what she had longed for, for months. Perhaps not exactly, but it would do. At least now she was going to get to be close to him for a period of time.

No, she wouldn't think too far into the future. That was a foolish thing to do. After all, one never knew what could happen ahead. The last year had taught her that.

In one single day, everything could change.

Look what had happened to Grey's own older brother.

He had died most unexpectedly, which had completely changed Anthony's life. And her own.

Just as Anthony was about to speak, Merrill charged into the breakfast room, paper in his hand.

“Anthony,” Merrill declared. “I have news.”

But then Merrill stopped, and he looked from Anthony to Clara to Phillipa, and then Anthony again and then to Phillipa.

It would have been funny except she did not know if Merrill would be able to deduce what had transpired during the night. And if he could, how would he react?

Merrill looked bemused as if something was not quite right. Anthony gave Phillipa a conspiratorial look, but it was clear and strong, and it definitely suggested that she was, well, his.

It was a look of sheer longing and intimacy, and it was so blatant that she wondered that Anthony had been able to be a soldier at all, for his face was completely transparent.

Had his emotions always been so obviously seen?

Because at this particular moment, there would be no keeping from Merrill what was between them. She smiled back at Anthony. She could not stop herself. And Merrill let out a groan of disgust.

“My God,” he bit out. And then he straightened his shoulders. “I suppose I am to offer my felicitations upon your upcoming nuptials.”

Anthony said nothing, nor did she.

“Grey,” Merrill prompted. “Your nuptials. They're going to be soon, are they not?”

Anthony still said nothing.

Merrill let out a low growl. “The nuptials shall occur, of course, lest we have to fear a different sort of affair in the church in the future, one with a mewling infant and the splashing of water.”

She threw a sharp gaze to Merrill who, whether he meant to or not, was stealing all her joy.

“Sir,” she said. “Please do sit down and join us for breakfast.”

“I shall not,” he countered, his shoulders squaring