Exeter pivoted toward her slowly. “And your reply?”

Chapter Five

THE SLICE OF CHERRY TART DID NOTHING to soothe the tempest in Mia’s roiling stomach. She gathered her napkin and set it beside the slice of barely touched dessert. If she was not mistaken, Exeter appeared to be rushing dinner along.

For a time, conversation had been lively at the table, what with talk of tomorrow’s travel itinerary—trains, the channel crossing, and a hotel suite in Calais. Even Exeter’s packing instructions caused a stir of excitement. He had advised Mr. Tandi to have several empty trunks shipped separately for the new clothing items they would return with. “At this point it is hard to estimate the length of our stay—though I suspect we will be there long enough for you to have at least one fitting, Mia.”

Somewhere between the turtle soup and rib roast, she had caught him staring at her across the dining table . . . with angry eyes. In her youth, she knew what that coal-black stare meant. A strongly worded lecture or worse—a paddling. Oddly enough, a vivid recollection of one of his paddlings caused a flush of heat to rise from her chest to her cheeks. Good Lord, the thought was—titillating.

As shocking and disturbing as the changes taking place inside her were, something else had shifted these past few months. Her feelings for Doctor Exeter had transmogrified, as well. She no longer thought of him as her guardian—far, far from it.

Exeter was the first to stand. “Brandy in my study.” He nodded briefly to the ladies at table, yet his gaze lingered on her. “You may join us, as well, Mia.”

The pounding of her heart doubled the pace of her footsteps as she was escorted down the polished parquet floors leading to the doctor’s study.

What was this all about? Exeter had stayed behind to talk to, or have relations with, his mistress. She had a sneaking suspicion it was the former. One, because that was the way Exeter was, controlling to a fault. It was his forte, as well as his favorite pastime, to nose about in her business. If it was possible to huff or harrumph quietly in one’s thoughts, Mia harrumphed. Secondly, she imagined a man who had just had a boff with his mistress would convey a relaxed frame of mind, and Exeter was decidedly unsettled this evening.

Inside the dark, womb-like comfort of his study, she took a seat and watched him pour brandy into three snifters. “Would you like me to warm yours, Mia?”

Puzzled, she raised both brows. “I’m not sure—yes, I suppose so.”

Holding the snifter above a candle flame, he turned the glass. As he warmed the brandy, he related a story that was shocking, yet not entirely without hope. Glancing up from the glass, he studied her. “Sorry to put it so clinically, but there you have it.”

Mia quietly repeated what she thought she had heard. “You’re saying I could gain control over the shifts by using my own arousal, paroxysm, and release. And as I learn to control these physical urges . . . I will also be able to shift at will.” She swallowed.

Exeter handed her a warm brandy. “Drink me.”

Mia looked up into eyes that had warmed slightly. He quoted Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Brandy fumes tickled her nose as she sipped. The warm Armagnac slipped down her throat. “Mmm . . .”

She was tempted to answer in Alice-speak, something memorized from childhood. But was he baiting her? Exeter often accused her of being immature, but in actuality, it was he who was uncomfortable with the notion of her maturity. She slid a sultry smile his way. “As long as it’s not poison, wot?”

Emboldened by several sips of brandy, Mia turned to Jersey. “And what more can you tell us of this—bookshop proprietor, Mr. Eden Phillpott?”

Jersey puffed slowly on his cigar. “Valentine and I were escorted into a small room in the back of the shop. He sat in a large chair with his legs crossed—part human with the head of a lion.”

Mia stared. “Like the Egyptian goddess, Hathor, or . . . male equivalent?”

Jersey cracked a lopsided grin. “He wore a tweed shooting jacket with elbow patches and smoked French cigarettes, lighting one from the butt of the other.”

Mia leaned forward. “You mentioned his teachings—knowledge that must be imparted to my body. How might this be accomplished?” She looked from one man to the other. “I take it that someone—must instruct me, personally?”

Exeter set his brandy down. “How are you feeling this evening?” Gently, he took hold of her arm, placing his thumb on her wrist. Hooking a finger into his waistcoat pocket, he slipped out his watch. Mia waited for him to finish taking her pulse. He asked the same set of questions every evening.

“Somewhat agitated, I suppose.” She exhaled, a bit loudly. “There is this—I don’t know how describe it. It feels like tension. And sensations of hot and cold—as if something is building inside me.”

“Your pulse is up, slightly, from last night.” Exeter released her wrist. “No headache?”

She shook her head no, then yes. “There is a dull pressure in the back of the skull. Nothing painful, as yet.”

Exeter settled into the wing chair opposite. “Mia, there is a doctor on Harley Street. In fact there are several physicians who treat women’s hysteria with a massage therapy. I thought we might consider—”

Mia cut in. “But, what if something went badly wrong—a shift in the middle of treatment?”

He sighed. “That is one of the complications.”

Mia’s cheeks flamed with heat. “This is all so humiliating.” She slid her gaze from Jersey to Exeter. “Why couldn’t you do this therapy?”

When Exeter hesitated, Jersey snuffed out his cigar. “Someone has to relieve her, Jason. If you won’t do it, I will.”

Exeter’s frown darkened into something truly menacing. “You will do no such thing.” The two men stared each other down.

Finally, Jersey broke the deadlock. “Mr. Phillpott kindly provided us with instructions—a version of this very technique has changed things dramatically for me. I believe it will work for you, as well, Mia.”

“And yet, we actually know very little about this therapy,” Exeter’s argument was more of a warning.

Jersey stood and stretched. “I’m off to play a cutthroat game of backgammon with Valentine.” On his way out of the study, he tossed a conspiratorial wink at her just to irritate Exeter. “Ask him for Valentine’s notes.”

Mia smiled. Everything about this brave and stoic Nightshade had always seemed a bit dark and tormented. But lately he was less morose—as if a great burden had been lifted. “Good night, Jersey.”

“It’s good to feel human again.” Jersey shut the door softly.

Exeter poured them each another brandy and settled into a wing chair. He studied her with steely eyes. Not his usual evaluation, this was more like the way he studied a chess piece when his king was threatened, and there were few moves left on the board.

Mia finally released a sigh. “You’ve been staring at me all night with those angry eyes, like I was in for a good paddling.”

No answer from him, not a peep, just the ticking of the wall clock.

He sipped his brandy and continued to stare over the rim of his glass. Finally, he lowered the snifter. “Oh, I’m not going to paddle you, Mia. I’m going to make you climax.”

She gulped hard and his eyes dropped to her throat. He raked a strand of hair behind his ears, and something wild and thrilling stirred in her belly. All she had thought about these last few months was this man—so calm and reserved—so completely and perfectly handsome. He was her protector. Her teacher. Her knight in somewhat tarnished armor.

He was . . . her Exeter. And he was everything she had ever wanted in a man.

She had dreamed about doing things with him—wicked fantasies that were about to come true . . . only in the oddest way possible. She would experience intimacy with him, even though he did not love her passionately.

That he cared for her deeply was a certainty—just not in the way a man loved a woman. These physical intimacies were being foisted upon him. Mia sighed. If she took into account his most recent behavior, there were signs he might be reevaluating their relationship—like last night. Exeter had kissed the inside of her wrist, and then quickly apologized. “From here on out, I will have to keep a close watch on myself.” And there had been a flicker of desire in his eyes—she was sure of it.

“I take it you are talking about a kind of release.” She raised a determined chin and met his gaze. “I will reach some kind of apex of pleasure, after which the involuntary urge to shift will diminish.”

With a flick of his eyes Exeter read the mantel clock. He reached inside his dinner jacket and handed over a piece of folded notepaper. “Here, take this.”

“Valentine’s notes?

He nodded. “Read them in your room.”

Mia rose from her chair. “When shall I expect you?”

“I am going to finish this brandy. Make an appearance in the parlor, and retire early.” He looked up at her. “Will that give you enough time?”

“Good Lord, Exeter.” Mia rolled her eyes. “Could we please get this small matter over with? Don’t leave me pacing.”

He swirled a slosh of amber around his glass. “This is not a small matter, and you will see me—when I get there.”

She shut the study door louder than necessary. Not a slam, but something good and testy.


Exeter closed his eyes and lay his head back against the tufted upholstery of his wing chair. He pictured Mia reading Valentine’s notes and immediately fell to massaging his temples. At least the notes would prepare her, but it made his task no less precarious.