Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Oh…
I am dawdling again.
‘Miss Melrose?’ he drawls, his head tilting in unwanted curiosity.
‘You know my name.’
‘Indeed, I do.’
‘How?’
‘His Grace.’
‘And how does he know?’
‘His Grace wishes to see you.’ Translated: shut up and hurry up!
‘He does,’ I say to myself as I swallow and walk up the path to the door. ‘And why do you suppose that is?’ I step over the threshold as I lower the hood of my cape, and I am truly taken aback by the Duke’s home. The entrance hall is certainly five times larger than any other houses on the square. The staircase grander and sweeping, the ceiling higher, the gold chandelier more extraordinary. I count thirty candles on the impressive piece, all lit, basking the expansive space in more light than I am used to at this hour. I expected it to be impressive within the walls of the disreputable house that stands proud on the edge of Belmore Square, but this is palatial.
‘You tell me, Miss Melrose,’ he murmurs, walking on. ‘This way, please.’
He is not happy, and, quite obviously, has a high desire for me to know. He should be assured, I am rather unhappy with myself, so we have one thing in common. What on earth am I thinking? The tingles have gone, as too has the anticipation, and in their place is a wariness I’m confused by.
‘And what should I call you?’ Each step I take is measured, the sound of my heeled boots clipping the beautifully polished wooden floor echoing off the rich crimson walls. We pass through a set of arched wooden doors with glass panels, and three more doors appear.
‘Hercules,’ he says, so seriously, I wonder if he is actually joking.
Regardless, I laugh anyway, but soon shut up when he glares at me. ‘My apologies,’ I murmur. ‘I did not mean to––’
‘Fear not, Miss Melrose,’ the giant of a man reassures me. ‘This way.’ I cannot help feeling wary of the look of foreboding impressed upon his crabby face as he motions me to walk on. I expect, like the Duke, and perhaps even me, he is wondering why in heavens name I am here. Perchance the future holds that answer, for I am apparently quite oblivious – or uncaring – of the danger I am placing myself in.
Hercules points to a door, and I approach, taking the polished gold knob and turning. It creeps open, and I am faced with walls and walls of…
‘Books,’ I murmur, immediately mesmerised by the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that are positively bursting at the seams. A desk sits before the heavily draped window, and two reading chairs sit before a roaring fire.
His study.
It is a man’s domain.
‘His Grace won’t keep you waiting too long, Miss Melrose.’ The door closes, and I am alone. Alone with thousands of books. Goodness, there must be more titles here than Mr Fuddy holds. I approach the nearest bookcase and start to recite the titles on the spines, my delight growing, for they are all travel books, or law books, or books bursting at the seams with world knowledge. I’m awed as I wander to the crackling fire and lower to the soft green seat, looking up when the door opens.
Lord above.
I shoot up on a sharp inhale. The impact of his looks never lessens. In fact, I am as struck by him now as I was in the royal park on our first encounter, when he all but trampled over me with his horse.
I must have woken him, for he is barely dressed, and his hair looks unacceptably but charmingly messy. His white muslin shirt is lacking the tie that will fasten it, leaving his chest half exposed, and his drawers fall just below his knees, leaving his calves bare. His state of undress is downright inappropriate, and I know not where to look. My eyes fall to the front flap of his drawers. Perhaps not there, Eliza.
I’m feeling rather hot, my cheeks burning. ‘Your Grace,’ I breathe, bowing my head, looking down at the floor. Why ever would he present himself to me half bare? It is confirmed beyond all doubt. The Duke is a heedless, unapologetic rake.
I peek up. The corner of his lip lifts, and I am baffled by it.
‘My lady,’ he replies, closing the door. He does not seem at all concerned by his lack of modesty, because, make no mistake, he is a well-formed man. And his voice? It is rough like his face, which is blanketed in facial hair. Deep like the green of his eyes.
‘I am no lady,’ I blurt, quickly looking away from him. I am unfamiliar with the rush of blood whooshing in my ears, making my hearing muffled and my thoughts rather fuddled. My mind has always been my own. Control has always been something never to surrender. Now? Now I am questioning everything.