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)
‘What, like murder?’ I ask on a laugh. ‘And why would anyone think you murdered your family?’ It is a risky question, but we are still to establish the root of the rumours, and my inquisitive brain is apparently unprepared to let the matter of his family’s death go. My mind once again goes to the letter I found and read, and I eye him, wondering, again, if he knows it was me who returned it. Of course he does. What I would like to know is who sent it. And why the whispers of the ton forced him to return.
Anger appears to rise in him again, and it makes me swallow down any further questions I have and the circumstances surrounding their deaths.
‘Did you attend Eton?’ I ask instead.
‘Yes.’
‘And Cambridge?’
‘Oxford.’
I nod, naturally envious.
‘Do not be jealous,’ he says, and I am startled that he has read my mind. ‘I did not fare well at Eton.’
‘How so?’
‘How should one put it?’ he says quietly, pouting.
‘Plainly.’
‘The schoolmaster was not all too fond of me. Or the housemaster, for that matter, and, as a consequence, I was often put in the bill.’
‘The flogging list,’ I say. ‘So you were idle in lessons? Rude? Obnoxious? Disobedient?’
He tilts his head, looking thoughtful.
‘Well,’ I say, sounding matter-of-fact. ‘If I were to be fortunate enough to attend Eton, Cambridge or Oxford, I indeed would not waste that time being indolent.’
‘I am certain of that, Eliza,’ he says quietly and thoughtfully, and a long silence falls upon us. It is not a silence I find to be arduous, but rather one that is peaceful. It’s a pity I cannot say the same for the constant occasions where we catch one another’s eye. In those moments, I feel an unfathomably strong urge to kiss him. It’s a terribly unfortunate situation and, not for the first time, I tear my gaze from his and admire the endless books on every wall.
‘May I choose one for you to read?’ he asks.
I shoot him a surprised look, but I’m smiling too. ‘I am yet to read the last one you gave me.’
‘You do not need to read it, Eliza, because you have already read it.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because you dream to travel and write, and any aspiring traveller has read Gulliver’s Travels.’
‘Fair point. So it was used simply to conceal the note?’
He nods and sets his drink on the table before pushing his hands into the arms of his chair and rising. His move puts emphasis on a broad chest that needs no emphasis. Truly, this man is so handsome, it’s disarming, and though I initially thought him to be an arrogant idiot, there is something rather charming about the disgraced Duke and, dare I say it, sweet. I watch his tall body roam his study, up and down at the foot of the bookcase, his long fingers dragging lightly across the spines of the books. Oh, to be one of those books.
Eliza!
‘I think this one,’ he says, slowly pulling a red leather-bound book from the shelf and dusting it off.
‘What is it?’ I ask, too curious.
Opening it up, he wanders casually back to his chair and lowers as he pulls a piece of paper out and smiles at it. Of course, my enquiring mind is getting wholly out of control. ‘What are you reading?’ I ask as he scans the paper.
‘A poem.’ He places it on the table. ‘A dear friend wrote it. I knew not of the meaning, or perhaps I simply did not understand.’ The Duke regards me. ‘I think maybe now I do.’
I tilt my head. ‘Would you like to read it aloud. I would be delighted to hear it.’
‘I think not.’
‘What is it about?’
‘A woman.’
‘Oh?’
‘A woman he met but briefly at a party here in London. He was deeply affected by the woman and was compelled to pen the poem.’ Going back to the book, he flicks through a few pages. ‘I think this will be a more suitable choice of reading material for my lady, who is not such a lady.’ He smirks at the words, and I, once again, find my jaw somewhat lax.
‘And what is this supposed more suitable choice?’ I ask, craning my head, not to see the book upon his lap, but the piece of paper on the table beside him.
‘Law and Order Volume III,’ he says rather flippantly. ‘Let us discuss the legal system in our fine land, since I have learned you are rather passionate about justice and protecting the innocent.’
A burst of laughter erupts unstoppably. ‘Well, Your Grace, I can, with the utmost confidence, I might add, advise you that there is absolutely no order in England, and the law, as it stands, is antiquated.’ I sit forward, keen to be heard. ‘How is it deemed a criminal offence to steal an apple, and yet a man can beat his wife black-and-blue and go unpunished? It’s inexplicable. I cannot fathom a world where material things come above one’s life. A world in which a man can be hanged for stealing a loaf to feed his family because his employer pays him too little. A world in which a child – an eight-year-old child! – is sentenced to death for pilfering a pair of shoes because his feet are infected and sore from wandering the dank streets of London barefoot.’ I fall back in my chair and take a breath. ‘There is no order and there is definitely no law that I can respect. In addition to my many gripes and woes on the state of England’s legal system, of which I’m certain you will soon tire of hearing, is the matter of newspapers, newspapers like my father’s – freely printing whatever they so desire.’ I huff, and the Duke’s eyebrows slowly lift. ‘That in itself is a crime – that they should be free to embellish stories, manipulate public opinion, or even manufacture stories completely, all to line the pockets of the rich or at least favour them. Any journalist can pen words and have half of London believing them. It is downright unfair. I cannot abide such absurdities.’ I sit back, disconcerted by my outburst, and watch with increasing nervousness as the Duke slowly closes the book, looking at me with quite stunned eyes, seeming to be in a trance.