Free The Captain's Bluestocking Mistress by Erica Ridley

she said in exasperation. “You and Lord Carlisle and Major Blackpool were intermittently present at the same events and soirées I myself attended. The earl had not yet lost his father. The major had not yet lost his leg and his brother. And you had not yet lost your reason. The fact that you’re feeling well enough to argue with me today proves that no matter how the war changed you, you kept changing . You’re not the empty shell of a man Carlisle dragged through London like an oversize doll. You’re you again.”
    He glared at her in silence.
    She lowered her voice. “War is terrible. I recognize that. But now it’s over. What happens next is up to you.”
    He pushed to his feet and piled the dishes and silverware into a stack. “It’s not that simple, and we’re done talking about it.”
    She gathered the cups and the teapot and followed him into the kitchen. “Of course it’s not simple. Did you know Major Blackpool was one of only two people who ever bothered to stand up to dance with me at a ball? That moment will literally never happen again. He no longer attends balls. He’s missing a leg. From what I understand, he can barely walk and shall never dance again. But his life isn’t over .”
    Captain Grey submerged the plates into a bucket of water and pushed it out of her reach. “Who was the other man you danced with?”
    “My brother. Why won’t you let me wash the dishes?”
    “Scullery work is hard on the skin, and you have pretty hands.” He began to scrub the first plate. “Blackpool is a hero. I am not. You’d do well to remember that. It would be the height of foolishness to trust a man who doesn’t trust himself.”
    She shook her head. “Fighting for innocents and defending your country is inherently heroic. I believe in you. Closing yourself off won’t change that. No matter what you do, your heroism will always—”
    He grabbed her face with wet hands and closed his mouth over hers with bruising force. No doubt he expected her to swoon, or slap him, or some other such nonsense.
    She gripped his arms and held on tight.
    His lips were wide and firm against hers. The rough hands cradling her face dripped with water, but all she felt was warm. Desired. He wasn’t simply kissing her. He was holding her in place as if he never wanted to let her go. Hope soared within her. She pressed herself even closer and let her eyes flutter closed.
    Even through his clothes, the muscles of his arms were tight and firm beneath her ungloved hands. What would it be like to feel them wrapped around her? Would he hold her close with the same desperate passion that had begun this kiss? Or would his embrace be tender, as his lips were now, brushing against hers with gentle insistence?
    As he suckled her lower lip, her mouth parted—not in surprise, but in eagerness. Just because it was her first kiss didn’t mean she was ignorant of what pleasures it might bring. She rose on her toes to meet him.
    She had researched the matter extensively and was delighted to discover that he had been right about book knowledge failing to communicate the complete picture. No mere words on parchment could remotely convey the heat and immediacy and… dizziness of having his mouth mold to hers. The heady sensation of need and shared desire.
    Being kissed was more than she’d ever imagined. Being kissed by him was more than she’d ever dreamed.
    Her fingers trembled—her entire body trembled—and she clutched his neck with abandon. She could no longer stand. She couldn’t feel her legs, her knees, anything except her mouth on his and their bodies cleaving together. The rest of the world melted away. It was as if she’d been waiting for this moment, this man, all of her life.
    She licked at his lower lip and thrilled when a raw groan escaped his throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, pushing her bosom against his chest with every staccato beat. All she could think was that she never wanted their kiss to end. This