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

the settee which bore brandy and a stack of books that any book lover would envy and a plate of sweets.

Without a glance at her, he flung himself down upon the green settee and very carefully hauled his leg up onto the cushioned stool before him.

His face went white as he did so.

“Would you like assistance?” she asked, tempted to rush forward.

“Touch me,” he gritted, his hands still slowly releasing his leg, “and I should regret allowing you to come in very much indeed.”

“Of course,” she said, clearing her throat. She stood still for several awkward moments, then added, “I wish to give no offense. I only see that you are in pain.”

“I am always in pain,” he cut in, his voice rough. “No need to go into hysterics about it.”

Hysterics? Concern was hysterics?

“I'm sorry for it,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She felt intense sympathy for him, but he did not need to tread upon her as if she was a well-worn tavern floor.

“Are you?” he mocked, his face strained.

“Of course,” she replied easily. “I don't like to see anyone in pain.”

“Life is full of pain, my girl,” he gritted, “and anyone who tells you differently is a fool.”

“The line resonates a universal truth,” she agreed carefully, loathing to have to accept his statement.

Many people did experience pain throughout their life, but she refused to believe it was the only thing.

It was true. Pain would come to everyone.

Of course.

That was the nature of things, but it didn't have to always be the exact experience in every moment. She wondered what he had gone through to make him believe so.

She eyed the crackling hearth, its warmth teasing her.

“May I linger by the fire? I am quite soaked.”

He scowled at her. “I suppose, if you must. I shouldn't wish you to catch your death and never be able to leave here. The house doesn’t need two invalids.”

She smiled tightly at his allowance.

It was an interesting excuse to allow her to warm herself by the fire, the fear of her growing deathly ill and not being allowed to leave his cottage. She’d never thought her presence so entirely unbearable.

“Thank you,” she said tightly as she maneuvered herself over to the crackling fire.

She pulled the ribbon of her cloak, letting it pool to the floor. She bent, picked it up, and draped it over the wood back chair tucked across from his settee, hoping that the fabric would dry just a little bit.

She warmed her hands, rubbing the rain swollen skin before the flames.

Though he clearly disliked her presence, she could still feel his gaze upon her, more intense than the flames.

Yes, they had been icy just a moment before, but now there was something quite strange about his glance. As if he was looking her up and down, assessing her, trying to make sense of her.

“What were you doing out there at this time of the day and in such inclement coming weather?” he demanded. It sounded like an accusation.

“I didn't realize the storm was coming in,” she replied honestly.

He snorted impatiently. “Clearly you're not from here.”

She resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder at him, even as her heart began to pound with an irrational fierceness in her breast. “No, I'm not,” she concurred.

“If you were,” he ground out, his voice still full of accusation, as if she could have prevented the necessity of her invasion of his space, “you would have been able to read the signs. You would not have been caught out in the open.”

Her jaw tightened. “I know that I have given you a great inconvenience—”

“You have,” he agreed. There was a long pause, then a harsh sigh. “If you must know, I'm here to avoid you.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said, turning slowly to him, her heart pounding harder as a suspicion began to form in the back of her mind. “How can you possibly be here to avoid me?”

A muscle on the smooth side of his jaw clenched. “I know who you are.”

“How can you know who I am?” she protested, even as a thought crashed over her and she blinked. “We've never met.”

“You're staying up at the castle, are you not?” he drawled tightly.

“Yes, indeed I am,” she whispered, determined to make him say it. Determined to make him declare his identity. “How would you guess such a thing?”

“Because,” he allowed, his gaze traveling her with something she couldn’t quite recognize. “You are clearly not a local. You do not have the accent of someone from Cornwall. So you must be a guest on the estate. My sister's friend.” He looked away. “She told me you were coming to stay.”

There it was. The suspicion suddenly came to life. For a single moment, she thought she’d do the absurd thing and swoon. Luckily, her own sense of fortitude and her spine stiffened instead.

“Your sister's friend,” she all but bellowed, beginning to shake. Sister? Not his?

The words penetrated her reverie and suddenly she felt a wave of fury crash through her.

“Anthony?” she challenged.

He tensed at the intimacy of the name upon her lips.

“Grey,” he countered.

“Yes,” she mocked now. “Grey, but when I knew you, you were simply Anthony.”

“You never called me that,” he retorted. “Even in letters, you called me Lord Anthony. Such intimacy of names without title didn’t occur between us. We are not so close,” he insisted, almost to himself.

“No,” she agreed coldly, even as her rage grew. “We are not. You made quite certain of that.” But then the truth of his words really did hit her. He wasn’t hiding in a room in his castle but he was hiding. From her.

“Why would you avoid me?” she demanded.

He ground his teeth together.

“Grey?” she prompted, possibly more cruelly than she should.

“Look at me,” he replied, his voice taut and low.

She did as asked.

She looked at him again, taking in the ground that she already had. Taking in his beauty despite his scars.

Those scars. . . They bespoke great pain.

“You are most handsome,”