Bewitched by the Bluestocking

by Eaton, Jillian

  But damned if the shock—and the resulting electrocution—wouldn’t be worth it.

  He meant what he’d said. He hadn’t intended to kiss Joanna. In fact, it was the last thing he had wanted to do. But then she had kissed him. And once he tasted her lips…once he tasted her lips, he knew he’d never find anything else on earth so sweet no matter if he scoured the four corners.

  Holding her in his arms had been like holding the sun. The sheer brightness of her passion had blinded him. Her lack of inhibitions had stunned him. The mewling noise she’d made when she came against his hand had undone him.

  It was a wonder he’d stopped when he did.

  It was a miracle he hadn’t started where he’d left off when she suggested they have an affair.

  A bloody affair.

  The woman was out of her mind. And he was just as equally crazed, because for a fleeting moment…he’d actually considered it.

  “Sleep,” he muttered to himself as he returned the last book to the shelf. When was the last time his head had spent more than a few hours on his pillow? Not since the day a bold, brazen, red-haired hellion had darkened his door. He needed to sleep, and then he needed to eat, and then he needed to pretend this afternoon had never happened.

  He only prayed Joanna would do the same.

  Because if she tested his restraint…

  James released a loud meow.

  Kincaid looked at the cat. If he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn his pet was smirking at him. “I can still throw you out, you damned bag of fleas,” he threatened. “You think you’re tough now. You wouldn’t last a damned minute on the streets. A rat would eat you for dinner.”

  After a cool staring match, the cat lifted his hind leg and began to lick himself.

  It was, to Kincaid’s memory, the clearest “fuck you” he’d ever received.

  “Sod off.” Kicking off his boots, he headed upstairs.

  Chapter Eleven

  “What do you do when a man ignores you?” Joanna asked Evie. She sat on the edge of the sill in their shared room, a warm evening breeze tickling the curls at the nape of her neck. A heavy rain had fallen for most of the day. It had finally subsided after supper and she’d taken the opportunity to pry open a window. The wood had creaked in protest as if it hadn’t been moved in a long while but, eventually, it had given way.

  With enough effort, Joanna found most things usually did.

  “I don’t understand the question,” Evie replied without bothering to look up from the game of solitaire she was playing by candlelight in the middle of the bed.

  Joanna pursed her lips.

  Three days had passed since the thing she’d been ordered to forget had occurred in Kincaid’s office. Three days of him barely talking to her, hardly looking at her, and definitely not kissing her.

  It was as if their moment of passion—make that moments of passion—had never happened. And she knew that had been his intention. To pretend he’d never stroked her to orgasm atop his desk. But she’d had no way of knowing he would actually go through with it.

  Gone was the man who licked her in places that still brought a blush to her cheeks whenever she thought of them. To her immense frustration, he was as cold and standoffish as he’d been the morning they’d first met.

  Oh, he was unfailingly polite. Annoyingly dignified, even. But aside from a few questions about her mother, Kincaid refused to interact, leaving her to organize his shelves and sort his paperwork while he worked silently behind the desk he’d ravished her upon.

  She was at her wit’s end trying to make him notice her. Multiple times, she’d caught him staring, his hot gaze skittering across her skin like the lick of a flame. But as soon as she looked up, he scowled and looked away, a pulsing vein in his temple the only indication he wasn’t as immune to her presence as he’d like her to believe.

  “Men are complicated,” she muttered, sliding off the sill to pace across the room. Her shadow painted a silhouette of a woman in a flowing nightdress, hair hanging in a thick braid down the middle of her back, narrow shoulders rigid with annoyance.

  “Men are simple,” said Evie, still studying her cards. “You’ve just never met one who didn’t fall in love at first sight.”

  Joanna’s mouth opened.

  Closed.

  “That’s not true,” she argued, but even to her own ears her protest lacked conviction.

  “It is.” Evie tapped a card against her chin. “For reasons that honestly escape me, you’ve been pursued since you turned sixteen. How many engagements have you turned down?”

  “I…” Joanna trailed off as a guilty flush crept into her cheeks. It was shameful to admit, but she didn’t have an answer. How could she not know how many wedding proposals she’d received? Maybe because they’d never seemed very meaningful.

  A few carriage rides, a walk through the field, and then suddenly her suitor dropped down on bended knee and professed his undying love. Except they didn’t love her. Not really. And not a single one had ever made her feel even a whisper of what Kincaid had.

  “Six?” she guessed, nibbling her thumbnail.

  “Eight, if you include Charles Gaines.”

  “It hasn’t been that many.”

  “Eight,” her sister repeated. “Eight perfectly acceptable suitors have asked you to marry them, and you refused every single one. Now, for the first time, you’re taken with someone—I’ll refrain from saying I told you so, but, well, I did tell you so—and he is not interested.”

  Joanna tucked her hands behind her back. “I don’t know if I’d say he’s not interested.”

  “Oh?” Evie queried. “Did something happen?”

  Ordinarily, Joanna shared everything with her siblings, and they with her. But she hadn’t shared her kiss with Kincaid. She didn’t know why, exactly. Only that it seemed…private. A secret to be kept between the two of them. Which made her feel guilty, because the only reason she was in England to begin with was because a secret had been kept from her. But she simply wasn’t ready to tell Evie the truth. Especially since she was still figuring out what the truth meant for herself.

  “Not…exactly. I told you what he said to me the night we went searching for you at the pleasure gardens.”

  “That he wouldn’t have to ask permission when he wanted to kiss you.” A sly smile stole across Evie’s lips. “Yes, I remember. The scoundrel.”

  Kincaid was, indeed, a scoundrel.

  At least, part of him was.

  A part Joanna had been desperately missing these past three days.

  “I thought…after that….he might…” Her shoulder lifted in a shrug. “You know.”

  “Admit he cannot live another second of his life without you?” Evie suggested.

  Joanna rolled her eyes. “Not exactly.”

  “It’s called rejection.” Finally ending her game of solitaire, Evie swung her legs over the edge of the bed and regarded her sister with an air of sympathy. “I’ve never experienced it myself, naturally. But I imagine it isn’t very pleasant.”

  Rejection?

  Was that what this heavy knot of emotion was in the pit of Joanna’s throat? It tasted bittersweet, like the dandelion tea her grandmother forced her to drink whenever she was starting to come down with a cold.

  “No,” she said quietly. “It isn’t very pleasant.”

  “Do you want to marry Kincaid?”

  “What? No,” said Joanna emphatically even as her flush deepened. Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she willed the warmth to subside. Marry Thomas Kincaid? She didn’t want to marry him. The idea had never even crossed her mind. All right, maybe once. Or twice. Three times at the most. But she had never considered it seriously.

  “Do not be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “I just…”

  “Want his tongue to hit the floor when he looks at you?”

  “Maybe not the floor. But a chair would suffice.” As her blush faded, she dropped her arms with a sigh. “At this rate, I’d even settl
e for a bookshelf.”

  “Thorncroft women do not settle,” Evie declared. “If Kincaid is too foolish to see how wonderful you are then surely that is his problem, not yours. Chin up, sweeting. Soon, we’ll find Mother’s ring and be on our way back to Boston. Then this will all be nothing but a distant memory.” Her nose wrinkled. “The number of eligible dukes in London has been greatly exaggerated. I’ve yet to meet a single one under the age of sixty.”

  “Have you tried looking in trees?” Joanna said innocently.

  “Don’t make me throw another pillow at you.”

  With another sigh, Joanna flung herself onto the bed with the sort of dramatic flair usually employed by Evie. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  Carrying a candle to the mirror above the dressing table, Evie held the light up and inspected her reflection with a critical eye. “It rains far too much here. Does my skin appear sallow to you?”

  “Evie!” Glaring, Joanna sat up on her elbows. “This is important.”

  “So is my complexion. All right, all right,” Evie said when Joanna inhaled sharply. She set the candle aside and met her sister’s gaze. “You want this detective’s attention, and he isn’t giving it to you. Is that the crux of the matter?”

  “Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t sound very important.”

  “Matters of the heart always take precedence over practical feelings.” Evie paused. “Did I make that up, or read it in a book? Regardless, do you even have a plan for what you are going to do with Kincaid’s attention once you have it? You said you had no intention of marrying him.”

  “I don’t know if I have no intention.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “Anything is possible, I suppose.”

  “But you wouldn’t seriously consider it,” Evie said with a tittering laugh.

  Joanna sat up. “Why not?”

  “Because he isn’t even titled.”

  “Neither is Charles Gaines.”

  “Yes, but titles don’t matter in America.”

  “I am not going to be in England forever.”

  “You will if you marry an Englishman.”

  “What about an affair, then?” Joanna asked.

  Evie stared at her. “Now I know you’re jesting.”

  As a flicker of excitement stirred within her breast, Joanna stood up and began to pace the room. “What if I wasn’t? Kincaid may not be acknowledging it at the moment, but there is an undeniable spark of attraction between us.” To put it mildly. “Affairs are very common in this day and age.” As the idea took root, her excitement grew. “We would be discreet.”

  “Absolutely not!” Evie cried.

  Joanna stopped in front of the window. “Why?”

  “Should I list the reasons? Fine.” Extending her arm, Evie began tick off her fingers one by one. “You will ruin your reputation.”

  “Only if we’re caught.”

  “You’ll ruin yourself for marriage!”

  “That is an antiquated notion based on the idea that virginity holds some sort of monetary value,” Joanna said dismissively. “I should think a husband would prefer his wife to have a little experience.”

  Evie threw up her hands. “There’s no reasoning with you.”

  “Because you do not have a valid counterargument.”

  “You need to learn to curb your impulsivity.” A black curl slid across Evie’s temple as she shook her head in exasperation. “It always leads to nothing but trouble.”

  Joanna leaned against the sill and set her jaw. “I’m not impulsive.”

  “Not impulsive?” said Evie incredulously. “You were the one who wanted to sell Mother’s ring instead of marrying someone who was perfectly practical in every way. Then you dragged us halfway across the world on a moment’s notice! You’re constantly throwing yourself into situations without thinking of the consequences, and Kincaid is no different. How could you possibly even think of having an affair? Let alone an affair with a complete stranger!”

  “Kincaid isn’t a stranger.” Joanna may not have known his secrets. But she did know the taste of his mouth. The feel of his hand skimming across her bare flesh. The weight of his body pressing against hers. “And Charles may have been suitable, but he wasn’t suitable for me.”

  “And a detective is?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “But I think I’d like to find out.”

  *

  The Pickled Pig was dark, dingy, and reeked of cheap ale and piss. In short, it was the perfect meeting place for a man who didn’t want to be noticed. Which the Duke of Hanover most decidedly did not.

  Sterling entered the pub with his hat pulled low over his brow and a stern frown bracketing the edges of his mouth. Waving off a whore’s lewd attempt at solicitation, he quickly located who he was meeting at a table in the corner blanketed by shadows.

  “Bloody hell,” he complained as he took off his coat and sank down into a wooden chair that was stained with beer and God only knew what else. “It stinks in here.”

  Kincaid looked up from the potato stew he’d been mindlessly shoveling into his mouth. “You said you needed somewhere discreet.”

  “The Ivy Bridge in Hyde Park is discreet. Cremorne Gardens after dark is discreet.” Sterling watched dubiously as a barmaid carrying ale to a nearby table paused, tilted the pitcher to her lips, and took a long drink. “This is unsanitary.”

  Kincaid’s lips stretched in the ghost of a smile. “Spoken like a true aristocrat.”

  “Regarding the pleasure gardens, you haven’t been there lately by any chance, have you?”

  “Why do you ask?” he said guardedly.

  “It seems the Duke of Telford had an unfortunate run-in with an American chit and her protector. Ended up with a broken nose. Messy affair.” Sterling cocked a brow. “Not that I blame whoever set Telford back on his heels. Bloke’s a right twat. In fact, if I knew who it was, I’d buy him a drink. Your cup’s looking a little empty there, Kincaid.”

  “I have no idea who punched Telford, if that’s what you are asking.” Lifting his tankard of ale, Kincaid finished it off then nudged it to the edge of the table. “But I’ll take another.”

  “You sly bastard,” Sterling grinned. “Things must be going well with your American if you’re taking her to Cremorne.”

  Kincaid tensed. “She isn’t my American.”

  “Whatever you have to tell yourself.” Sterling gave an amiable shrug. Then his expression turned horrified. “Good God. That barmaid just dropped an entire pork leg on the floor and put it back on the plate.”

  “You wanted to meet somewhere you wouldn’t be recognized,” Kincaid reminded his friend.

  “What I want is to not get typhoid.” His gray eyes hardened. “And to clear my name. Have you any leads on who might have killed Eloise?”

  When Sterling had first revealed he stood accused of murdering his mistress, Kincaid had been understandably shocked. Despite his tragic past—or perhaps because of it—Sterling could no more harm a woman than he could a fly.

  Let alone bludgeon her to death in her own bedchamber.

  But if the growing rumors in the ton were to be believed, that was precisely what he had done. Then he’d dismembered the body and dumped it in the Thames. Or buried it on the grounds of his estate in Sussex. Or left it out in the woods to be devoured by wild animals. The exact details varied depending on who was telling the story. But while no one could reach a general consensus on how Eloise’s body had mysteriously disappeared, they all agreed on a single fact: the Duke of Hanover was a murderer.

  And now it was Kincaid’s job to prove he wasn’t.

  Since the House of Lords wasn’t yet in session, no official charges had been brought, and that gave them some time. Had Sterling stood accused of anything besides murder, parliamentary privilege would have exonerated him. Unfortunately, it did not apply in this case. If Kincaid couldn’t track down the real murderer, it was only a matter of weeks before Sterling would be arrested
and put on trial before a jury of his peers.

  “No, I haven’t found anything yet. But that doesn’t mean I won’t,” he said when Sterling muttered a curse and slumped back in his chair. “It’s been less than a week.”

  A week that felt like a bloody year.

  Ever since Miss Joanna Thorncroft had marched into his office and demanded Kincaid take her case, the hours had started to blur together. It wasn’t long before he didn’t know yesterday from tomorrow or the past from the present.

  Her arrival had dredged up all sorts of things—emotions, feelings, memories—long believed forgotten. Things he didn’t want to remember. Things he’d locked in a box before tossing the box into the deepest, darkest pit of his mind where it had remained…until Joanna showed up holding a key.

  Joanna, with her eyes the color of the sky right before the last autumn leaf fell. Joanna, with her sharp wit and mischievous smile. Joanna, with her soft lips and skin that smelled of sunshine and violets.

  Kincaid stirred his stew. Chunks of meat were beginning to congeal on the surface. He wasn’t necessarily hungry, but he could not remember the last time he’d eaten. And while it was tempting, a man couldn’t survive on passionate kisses alone. Particularly when he had banned himself from said kisses.

  Being in the same room as Joanna these past three days had been pure, unadulterated torture. He was like a starving orphan with his face pressed to the window of a sweets shop. He could see the chocolate. He could almost taste it. But he couldn’t have it. He couldn’t have her. Even though all he wanted to do was drag her head back until those cornflower blue eyes saw him, only him, and then he wanted to kiss her again until the stars in the sky burned to ash.

  “You seem distracted, old chap,” Sterling commented.

  Kincaid dropped his spoon and lifted his gaze. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’ve asked you the same question three times and you haven’t responded.” The duke leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “If you do not believe there is a way to prove my innocence, best tell me now. I’d rather hear it from you than the damned magistrate.”