The Captain's Bluestocking Mistress Read Online Free PDF

think...” she said through chattering teeth.
    He dragged her into the parlor and placed her in the chair closest to the fire. “I’m going to start a pot of tea, and once you’ve drunk every drop of it, I expect a full accounting of what brings you to my doorstep with a trunk and a—”
    The basket shrieked and hurled itself against the closest wall.
    “—and a cat .” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Do. Not. Move.”
    Her huge brown eyes blinked up at him. “Why are you starting the tea? Haven’t you a cook or a butler or—”
    “I’m afraid uninvited guests don’t always have the luxury of arriving when the staff isn’t away on holiday.”
    Her expression brightened, but she made no further move to stop him from fetching tea. Confounding woman. He stalked to the kitchen.
    Hellfire. Three years at war had taught him more than he ever wished to know about being self-sufficient. But the last thing he was equipped to handle was a bluestocking spinster with long chestnut curls, sparkling brown eyes, and a rabid cat. A creature that, from the sound of it, had finally managed to escape its basket and streak down the hall toward Xavier’s library.
    Bluestocking , he reminded himself. Of course her ball of fur felt more at home in a library. Besides, the cat was not the problem. His problem was the innocent, unmarried, unaccompanied maiden seated in the parlor of an infamous, immoral, cynical ex-soldier.
    Wonderful. He had sworn to never again cause harm to another human, yet he’d destroyed Miss Downing’s reputation merely by allowing her through his door.
    Then again, perhaps the situation was not so dire. There were no witnesses to her utter lack of judgment. If he could pack her off to—wherever she’d come from—before his servants arrived, they might both be able to pretend this misadventure had never happened.
    In fact, that was likely the reason her eyes had lit up when she’d learned there were no servants. The poor thing was finally concerned about the state of her reputation.
    A shrill whistle filled the air as the water reached a boil. He turned to pick up the small towel he used for handling hot objects and stilled.
    The towel was now ribbons. And flecked with short gray hairs.
    He frowned. He could’ve sworn the cat had taken off for the library. He’d heard its claws clicking across the wooden floor. Was he to believe that had been a feint? That the cat had purposefully made excess noise to throw him off the trail, and then returned on silent paws while Xavier’s back was turned in order to shred a perfectly good tea towel? Ridiculous.
    Yet the yellow square of cloth was now rubbish.
    “I believe the water’s boiling,” Miss Downing called from the parlor. “The whistle means—”
    “I know what the whistle means.” He glanced around. Where the devil were the rest of the towels? He yanked off his ascot and used it to lift the shrieking kettle from the stove. He placed it on a tray with milk, honey, and two tea settings, and carried it into the parlor.
    She blinked at him in confusion. “Did you lose your cravat in the kitchen?”
    He set down the tray on the tea table between the two chairs. “You know who gets to ask questions? I get to ask questions. Drink your tea.”
    “I just—”
    “Drink.” Fingers trembling, he poured each of them a serving of tea. He didn’t wish to ask questions. But here she was. What was he supposed to do? He lifted his cup to his lips as he considered his next steps.
    Her nose wrinkled. “You drink yours without milk or honey?”
    He slanted her a dark look.
    “Right.” She lowered her lashes and reached for the milk. “You ask the questions.”
    Not anymore. Old dread crept over his skin. He wasn’t certain he could question anyone ever again. He was done with interrogations, with extracting answers from unwilling captives.
    While Miss Downing had descended upon him of her own free will, the snow and moonless night would keep them both