Free A Bluestocking Christmas by Monica Burns Page A

might be determined to make him pay for his insults yesterday, but she was doing so in a way he found exceedingly entertaining.  
    Other than his sister, Simon couldn’t remember any woman ever being able to go toe to toe with him when it came to literary repartee. With an eagerness that alarmed a small part of him, he pulled the envelope out of the flowers then tossed the blooms aside. The card freed of its holder he flipped it over to read her script. Ivy’s words made him expel a harsh breath. He really had put the goose fat in the fire with her.
    “Goddamnit, Wycombe,” he rasped quietly. “You’re losing your touch.”  
    He grimaced. Ivy Beecham was proving to be unlike any other woman he’d ever met. It was still hard to believe she wanted nothing to do with him, but her handwriting was strong and crisp on the card he held. Simon glanced at the window where he’d seen Ivy earlier, half expecting her to be standing at the window with a self-satisfied smile on her lovely features.  
    When he didn’t see her, Simon experienced a disappointment he found irritating. It said he was too invested in this challenge he’d undertaken. He studied the card again trying to construct a new strategy to gain him entrance into Ivy’s house and ultimately Ivy herself. His gaze swept across the words only to halt abruptly at a small phrase.
    “While your pleas are somewhat amusing,” he murmured. “Why do I think you’ve enjoyed our battle of wits, Miss Beecham?”
    With an upward glance at the façade of Ivy’s house, a smile curved his lips. Where Ivy Beecham was concerned, he would need to adjust his efforts to win his way into her affections. Words were how he would win her and coax her into his bed. He stiffened. She was a spinster, and a virgin at that.  
    It was a problem he’d not considered. Was he so eager to prove his point to Anthony that he could so easily compromise her? He frowned. He would have to cross that bridge when he came to it. For the moment, he needed to storm the castle to test those waters. Simon walked away from Ivy’s house to make his way back to the florist. He would enjoy the challenge of seducing her with words.  
    Simon had never seduced a woman in this manner before, and he found it a refreshing idea. His sister, Abigail, was the only woman he knew who could match him in his knowledge of the classics. It was unusual to find an intelligent woman as opposed to one with a vacuous mind. Ivy Beecham was proving to be a delightful combination of beauty and intellect.  
    In the back of his head, a voice whispered a warning. Ivy Beecham was a dangerous combination. It would be easy to fall into her web. Simon laughed at the thought. Experience had taught him better. He was the one who posed the greatest threat in any relationship he indulged in with Ivy.  
    Amused, Simon walked into the floral shop around the corner from Ivy’s house. The question now was what to offer Ivy next? Humility wasn’t his strong suit, but he was willing to concede his behavior yesterday called for it. He’d been a brute, and his apology needed to be sincere if he was to win his way into Ivy’s salon. With a grimace of chagrin, he selected a single white rose.  
    The color was the fashionable way to admit one to apologize, and it would also serve as a white flag. Something told him the silent message would please Ivy, and that it would gain him access to her faster than anything else. At the counter, he paused for a long moment, pondering what to write on his card. Of all the quotes he’d written so far, this one needed to be exceedingly humble, yet amusing as well. Simon searched his mind looking for just the right quote.
    Suddenly, he laughed out loud then laughed again at the shopkeeper’s surprised expression. Ignoring the poor woman’s startled look, Simon quickly wrote out Catherine Fanshawe’s words, taking a small amount of poetic license with the quote.
    Wycombe…’T was whisper’d in