The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter by Jillian Stone

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