beast? Magician or scientist?
The trip to Dover started out pleasant enough. Somewhere past Chatham Station, the skies opened up, but the rainstorm proved mild and the young ladies excellent company. As they traversed the lush greenery of Kent, Exeter tried to relax. He was edgy, more so than usual, and he was quite sure his discomfiture was caused by the lovely young miss beside him. With each lurch or sway of the car, her shoulder brushed against him. And with each rub, the faint scent of carnation soap wafted in the air. Mia had simply become a torture to him. In fact, if he continued to have such lascivious thoughts about her he was going to be irritable the entire trip, and that would not do.
He felt a nudge as the minxy, adorable young lady pressed close. “Have you given any consideration to our sleeping arrangements this evening?” Mia whispered.
Somewhat taken aback at her choice of topics, he checked the young woman across the aisle. America had made a pillow of her travel duster and had drifted off for a nap. He leaned close to his ward and changed the subject. “America is no doubt expecting her usual inclusion in this operation, but I must protect her from herself. Phaeton would never forgive me if she or the child were injured—what am I saying? I couldn’t forgive myself. If I deny her participation, she’s likely to balk or, worse, strike out on her own.”
Mia arched a brow. “So . . . you want me to stay close, shadow her without making her feel as though she’s being mollycoddled.”
Exeter nodded. “There will be times I will ask you both to stay behind. Other times, I will want you and her to take up the rear guard. If America sees you cooperating she is more likely . . .” He shrugged, and let his words drift off.
“I see.” Mia flashed a wary smile. “If I docilely go along with your plans, she might be less inclined to make trouble.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.” Exeter frowned. “Exactly.”
Mia pressed her Cupid’s bow to her bottom lip to suppress a smile. Unfathomably, he seemed to amuse her again. “I suppose I could be hornswoggled into this scheme, Exeter.”
“Hornswoggled?” Now, he was amused. “By any chance, is that in the Oxford English Dictionary?”
“To cheat or trick; bamboozle,” she answered his jibe. “I see through your cleverness, Exeter. You wish to keep us both out of harm’s way and you mean to do so by enlisting me as a coconspirator.”
Her pout caused a further grin. “You’ve found me out, Mia. Now, if you will please just agree to my stratagem—?”
“Oh, very well,” Mia sighed. “But you now owe me a singular and prodigious favor.”
“Done.”
She raised her chin. “You never answered my question about sleeping arrangements.”
“We have a three-hour respite in Calais. I have reserved a suite at Le Meurice where we can all refresh ourselves during the layover.”
Mia stared at him. “And what about the night train to Paris?”
He quietly exhaled a deep breath. “Two sleeping compartments. You and I have one to ourselves. America can ride with Valentine and Jersey.”
She moistened her bottom lip, and he noted the red scrape. The one he made when he had momentarily lost control. “So—you intend on giving me another—what would you call it, a lesson, I suppose?”
In the light of day, this had all suddenly become awkward again. Exeter rocked his head. “We could call them training sessions.”
“There is no mention in Valentine’s notes with regards to the duration of these”—she cleared her throat —“lessons.”
Exeter peered over at her. “You’re a quick study, Mia. I suspect it won’t take long for you to learn to control your body to manipulate the shifts.”
Mia lowered her voice. “Odd, don’t you think, that the two are tied so closely together?”
Exeter inhaled a breath, squinting absently into the unknown for answers. “Sexual gratification and transformation? Odd, perhaps, but understandable, and certainly no less shocking then say . . . a proper young English woman asking after the address of a male prostitute.” He raised a brow. “Who gave you the name Etienne Artois?”
He nearly chuckled when her jaw dropped open—only he didn’t. The very thought of Mia asking after a male prostitute stirred up a hornet’s nest of anger in his chest.
She clapped her mouth shut. “Mrs. Parker told you.”
“And well she did, though I have no particular worry over it, since you shall never be without escort in Paris.” He flicked his gaze upward before narrowing it on her. “Why, Mia?”
Her eyes darted a bit, avoiding his scrutiny. “Silly of me I suppose, especially now that you have become my . . . instructor.”
“That was the reason? To become experienced?” Exeter was flummoxed. “A young lady’s innocence is to be preserved at all costs.”
“Why?” She flicked her eyes upward. “I can’t think of a single reason to preserve such an antiquated idea of purity.”
Exeter marshaled his reasoning. “What about the question of pregnancy—legitimacy?”
“Blather and poppycock. Affairs go on between married ladies and gentlemen of the ton with such frequency—frankly I haven’t a clue how they manage to sort through who sired what to whom.”
Sharp as a whip and capable of pointing out the maelstrom of social hypocrisy that was the peerage of Britain. Mia might have joined the Oxford Union debating society, if women were accepted as members. He veered off subject, slightly. “Who on earth gave you his name?”
Mia turned to him. “How long have you and Mrs. Parker been lovers?”
Exeter stared at her. “This may come as a shock, but there are aspects of my life that are none of your business.”
Mia tugged off both gloves and opened the hamper beside her. She lifted out a tray of dried fruit and sampled. “Apricot?” she offered.
“No, thank you.” Exeter watched as she selected a candied fruit. “Was it Phoebe Armistead?” Almost from the start, he had discouraged the friendship. Both Phoebe and her married sister, Lisbeth, Countess of Bath, had reputations. This past summer the wicked little countess had lured him out onto the veranda and made advances. He hadn’t mentioned it to Mia—but he had quietly steered her away from the Armistead sisters.
“How is it you seem to have no compunctions nosing about in my personal business, while I must refrain from inquiring about yours?” She sniffed. “It isn’t fair.”
For the last two days, ever since Jersey and Valentine had returned from the Outremer with Phillpott’s disturbing instructions for shift control, he had felt as though he was on the losing end of a sticky wicket—or was he schussing down a slippery slope? Whichever, it really didn’t matter.
His sigh was long and loud. “Even though nothing in life is ever fair . . . and it’s none of your business, I shall deign to answer you. Esmeralda and I have been acquainted for something over a year, now.”
Mia nibbled on a dried cherry. “How did you come to meet each other? You aren’t the type of gentleman who frequents brothels.”
Exeter relaxed some. If he could assuage her curiosity by answering a question or two . . . what could it hurt? “We both attended a private lecture by Sir Richard Francis Burton.”
“On the Kama Sutra or The Perfumed Garden?” Mia blurted out the words and then halted, abruptly. Before he could raise a brow, a swath of pink blushed her cheeks, followed by a grin. “It took me all morning to find them in the library of secrets.”
He may have been wrong about “what can it hurt?” Exeter proceeded with caution. “Burton addressed the Kama Sutra. Contrary to popular perception, the Kama Sutra is not just a sex manual, it is a guide to virtuous and graceful living that discusses the nature of love and family, as well as the pleasure-oriented aspects of our lives.”
Mia put the sweetmeats away and closed the hamper. She appeared to carefully consider his words. “And . . . have you two explored all the
Unbelievably, he found himself grinning at her—and in a lusty flirtatious way. What else could a grin mean after such a question? Rather alarming, but he couldn’t help it. Mia had always known how to elicit a smile,
