Jillian Stone - The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter

“I am over the moon, Mia. The world needs more physicians with such passion and dedication, but . . .”

Her eyes flicked upward. “Yes, of course, you are over the moon, but . . .”

She watched him temper a sharp intake of air into a quiet exhale. “Boston is rather far away. I know we could find something closer. I am acquainted with the Dean of the London School of Medicine for Women, an Elizabeth Anderson. I could speak with her.”

Mia was stunned at his sudden turn of heart. He had avoided her at every turn, making two trips to the Outremer and one to Cambridge, for a lecture. He had stayed overnight, chumming about with colleagues and friends, and yet now he wished to keep her close.

Mia angled her bustle as she returned to her seat. The tea tray arrived, along with a decanter of Exeter’s favorite port. A lemon curd tart appeared in front of her. Without much enthusiasm, she added a dollop of clotted cream while Exeter continued. “There is also a new school of medicine for women in Edinburgh—”

“I am beyond fortunate to have received this offer.” Mia cut in. “London has a waiting list, and Edinburgh’s program is still very small. I wired the Dean of Boston University School of Medicine on the off chance they might allow a midyear enrollee. They will hold a slot open until the tenth of January. All I need is the tuition.” Mia scraped a spoon over her tart, nervously.

Exeter appeared to have no appetite for dessert, preferring to sip on his port. “It’s not the money, it’s . . . I’m sure you don’t want another repeat of Oxford.” Exeter was unfairly referencing the start of her women’s studies this past fall. She had been found naked in the forest, wandering and incoherent. The incident had marked the beginning of her change.

“I am well past those days.” She must have appeared stricken because he softened his argument.

“Indeed, you are. You’ve made wonderful progress with your feline counterpart.” Exeter smiled a simple closed-lipped smile, the kind that brought that long dimple to one side of his mouth. She loved that dimple.

He settled back into his chair. “I arrived home early yesterday afternoon. Mr. Tandi placed a finger to his lips and bade me follow him into the garden. Four-legged Mia was catnapping in a tree branch.”

Her favorite shade tree in all the world, the old oak took up nearly the entire garden space, except for a small patch of sunlight that grew roses. The panther loved to snooze on a low-hanging limb, almost every afternoon.

“Did Mr. Tandi happen to mention that while dozing off one day, she slipped off the branch and was quite rudely awakened by hard ground?”

A blush of warmth rose on her cheeks when he barked a laugh. Exeter hardly ever laughed. “I take it she survived the fall.”

“She’s a hardy pussycat.” Mia returned his grin.

His rather charming, wistful gaze turned a bit edgy. A gulp finished his port and he set the glass down. “Shall we retire to my study?”

EXETER OPENED THE DOOR and Mia swept past him in a stunning gown—one of the new evening dresses that had just arrived from Paris. Layers of diaphanous blue silk covered in a swirl of dragonflies. The embroidered silver fairies flitted their way up the bodice of the dress to a décolleté that was stunning. He had watched the curves of her breasts rise and fall throughout most of dinner this evening. Most distracting.

“The dress is lovely on you.”

She smiled. “I think it might be my favorite, thus far. A Madame Mateau, here in London, is doing the few nips and tucks.” She took her usual chair, while he poured them each a brandy. “The rest of the gowns should arrive by week’s end.”

He braced himself against the edge of his secretary and swirled two glasses of Armagnac, one in each hand. “Those pretty ball gowns won’t get much wear in medical school.”

Mia placed her hands in her lap, steepling her fingers. “Medical school in Boston or London?”

She perturbed him more than ever, now that he knew what it was like to lay with her. Her sensuous body, how wonderfully open and responsive she had been with her lovemaking—something he hadn’t foreseen. Now that they were home, just being with her had become a torture. He wanted her morning, noon, and night. Just the way she sat in the wing chair, posture perfect, and yet there was an ease about her, the picture of elegance. His gaze flicked down her neckline to the delicate material that barely covered—nay, even hinted at—those rosy tips.

A surge of arousal raged through him as he considered clearing the top of his desk and tossing up her skirts. He resisted the urge to act like a randy schoolboy and caught himself before he slipped deeper into reverie. “It seems you are set on Boston, no matter what I advise.”

She thrust her chin out. “Why do you want me to stay . . . so much?”

A very good question. If she was such a torture, why not encourage her to go? If only it were that simple. He returned her stare. “Why do you want to leave . . . so much?”

Mia growled a harrumph. “I believe you asked me here for another reason?” She met his gaze with an arched brow and an air of defiance. Good God. She had no idea how gorgeous she was when angered. Her rich brown eyes smoldered like dark embers, and the way she tilted her chin—as regal as a princess. He marveled at how often she left him close to breathless. The days they had spent together in Paris had been— ne plus ultra —the ultimate in romance, danger—and those sensuous, erotic nights. He drew in a breath.

Even before they left Paris for London, he began to pull away. He had acted shamelessly at the Contessa’s soiree, baring her breasts, acting the debauched husband. Mia had borne it all with admirable flair, style, panache, confidence, dash, éclat—all of that and more. She had stunned him with her unabashed sensuality.

He leaned forward and passed her a brandy. “You have heard the term auto-gratification and understand its connotations?”

“It is the term the French use for sexual self-stimulation.” He suspected she was not uncomfortable with the language as much as she was unhappy with what it implied.

“Mia, you need to work on this, especially if you’re going to study in Boston. If you continue on—do your residency there you will spend years away from”—he stopped short of saying me —“you will be years away from home.”

Her soft brown eyes grew wider. “You could come with me. You can do your research anywhere, America or London, what does it matter?”

“I also have commitments to Gaspar—to seeing that things are properly restored in both worlds. As you surmised earlier, there have been difficulties.”

“What kind of difficulties?”

He sighed. “It’s important we not change the subject. For now, I would like you to begin to touch yourself.”

Mia nearly dribbled a sip of brandy. “Here, now?” She caught the drop of liquid with a finger and licked.

A trace of moisture on her bottom lip captured him momentarily. “Raise your skirt.” His gaze eventually met hers.

She lifted layers of silk up long, shapely limbs—she wore pale stockings with delicate blue pinstripes. “Higher.”

She uncovered pretty kneecaps and smooth thighs. He swallowed a gulp of brandy. The matching blue garters, with embroidered cornflowers, forced a quick adjustment to his trousers. “Place a limb over the arm of the chair and open your legs.”

When she complied, there was a peek at her French pantalettes—the very brief ones with a saucy little bow closure at the slit. Exeter scratched the stubble along his jaw. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.