The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter

Chapter Twenty-five

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.

“Would you like me to untie the bow?” Holding her skirts up around her waist, she patiently awaited further instructions. Good God, what had he gotten himself into?

“Well, this is damned awkward.” The very thing he had been trying to avoid—an erection was on near full display beneath his trousers.

Her gazed dropped to his rather prominent problem. “I see.”

Exeter snorted softly and shook his head. “This exercise was supposed to be for you.”

She dropped her skirts and stood up. “I shall retire to my room and undress. I will get into bed, pull the covers up to my chin—so there won’t be any visual distraction. You will have another brandy, and then you come to my bedchamber and show me exactly what do with my hands.”

She placed her open palm on his crotch and stroked. “If your hand is over the covers and mine is under—”

He grabbed hold mid-stroke and stopped her. “Let’s give it a go.”

She nearly collided with Mr. Tandi as she backed out the door. The dark-skinned servant held the door as Mia whisked past him. “Will you be needing anything else this evening, sir?”

“I don’t believe so, we are both ready to retire.” On the brink of dismissing his manservant, Exeter hesitated. “If you have a moment, Mr. Tandi? A few questions have popped up . . . about Mia.”

Mr. Tandi closed the door and entered the room softly. Every gesture of this man was measured, gentle, every thought expressed, considerate. Exeter had never once heard Mr. Tandi raise his voice, though he had once taken a broom to an unruly scullery maid.

When Mia was very young, if she was badly behaved, a typical Mr. Tandi punishment consisted of a lengthy stint in the corner of the nursery, or the withholding of hot chocolate at teatime.

“Has Mia shared anything about her calling to medicine?”

“She will be an excellent healer. The Sky Father is pleased.”

“It seems an American medical school has a slot open midyear. I know you’re not keen on the country, but slavery is long past—by some twenty-five years. And the university is in Boston—duly civilized since the Tea Party.”

Tandi clasped his hands behind his back, and many long strands of beads rustled from the movement. “It would be my honor to serve Miss Anatolia.”

“Excellent. I worry about her.

“I have known Miss Anatolia since her birth. I gave the child her first bath, changed her wet nappies. I was there when she spoke her first word, took her first step. The month we were separated, I missed her as if she was my own child.”

“You’re saying . . .” Exeter switched his question mid sentence. “You never told me you were separated.”

“Mia was taken to a hospital in Pretoria. She had contracted a fever. There were many small bites—insects, they said.”

Exeter stared. “You say differently?”

“There is an old Zulu tale, one my people tell. About the evening panther—the black cat who is part human being. A creature with sharp, needle-like teeth, who travels in a dark mist. This being enters a hut during the night and shares his blood with another using a thousand bites.”

Exeter fought to control his temper. “You might have said something earlier . . . Mia obviously survived.”

Tandi’s gaze was far away. “I stole away in the night, with a shaman’s medicine. When I arrived at the hospital, Mrs. Chadwick was frantic. White doctors were of little use in the matter. The medicine I brought with me was potent—she could not hold it down, so we made a tea, and administered the brew over several days. On the fourth day, the child was better—in another week they sent us all home.”

More than curious, Exeter pressed on. “Any arcane tribal wisdom you might share about her current condition?”

“A shaman might know more.” His manservant met his gaze momentarily, as an equal. Tandi put his hands together in prayer. “What is done, is done.”

“And we are far from the horn of Africa.” Exeter frowned. This discussion felt like two men trying to sort through the care of a most cherished young woman, whom they both dearly loved. He found this new Mr. Tandi refreshing—as if the docile, reserved man was finally peeling off a few austere layers.

“Doubtful there would be anything in the library of secrets. Still, it’s a lead of sorts, should we chance to run into a Zulu shaman.” Exeter absently twisted a bottom lip. “Mia’s beginning to fully integrate her cat side. She’s making wonderful progress, but there is also another matter, and I’m dashed unhappy about it.”

“You are unhappy, Om Asa, because you love her as a child.” Tandi’s piercing black eyes hardly blinked.

“Of course I love her.” Exeter returned his stare. “Very much.”

“And yet you would choose to let her go.”

Tandi’s flagrant impertinence was so unexpected, Exeter actually sputtered. He could not quite believe his ears. The amount of cheek from his manservant was unprecedented. “Why would you say such a thing?” Exeter protested.

“Because you do not face the truth in your heart.”