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)
Italy? Has he been to Italy? ‘And how do you propose I manage that?’
He reaches for his cravat on a scowl. ‘Do not play games, Eliza.’ He turns and strides away. ‘Find a way, but so help me God if I discover you have shimmied down any drainpipes again…’
‘And what would you do, Your Grace?’
He looks back, his eyebrows high, daring me. ‘Try me.’
I huff to myself. Mother is right. He is so very rude. And deadly handsome. And quite irresistible. Goddammit, I am so, so in love with him! ‘No, Eliza,’ I whisper to myself, an awful feeling of suffocation coming over me. Of all the men, trust me to become rather fond of the most unsuitable of the unsuitable. This is a disaster. For my own good, I should end this… this… this… whatever we are to call it.
I take a moment to gather myself before returning to the main promenade, where Mother, thankfully, is still holding Lady Tillsbury’s rapt attention with tall tales. I can only imagine the extent of her embellishment, for I have been absent for quite some time. I find my teeth sinking into my lip, my shoulders rolling, and I peek back over my shoulder and see the Duke crossing the promenade, every one of his strides long and measured. He moves with such grace for a man of his stature, and as I cast my eye across the surrounding people, I see the eyes of women at every turn following his path. Their looks are longing. Their knees undoubtedly weak under their dresses. I expect each and every one is curious beyond acceptable about the rakish Duke. Desire and fear. What a delightfully potent mix. I can attest to that. Except my fear is reserved for something entirely different from every other person that fears Johnny Winters.
He has my heart and I am terrified I will never get it back.
Chapter 10
Supper is, as always, quite a casual affair. Frank is still missing, though no one, seemingly, wants to acknowledge that, and, in addition to my quiet speculation regarding my brother’s whereabouts, I have been desperate to question Father, who appears in full health, might I add, about the Duke’s recent calling. And my mother, actually. Is she oblivious, or has she learned a thing or two from all the other protective, ruthless mamas of the ton who’ll go to alarming lengths to ensure the suitability of prospective callers? It’s tricky to know for sure, but what I must remember is that any mention of the Duke will rouse questions that I do not want to answer and draw attention where it is not wanted, because, heaven help me, I absolutely must see him again. Must. I think I could possibly die if I do not. An exaggeration, I know, but still. I’m rather enamoured.
This evening, I am told, Viscount Millingdale is hosting a more subdued dinner party, with only a select few guests. Much to Mother’s delight, she and Father are among the select few.
‘I should think so,’ Father laughs, helping himself to the potatoes. ‘After all, of the eighty banks in London, I chose his to take care of my fortunes. He also advertises his bank in my newspaper, for a heavily discounted rate, no less, therefore gaining him more business.’
‘You know as well as I do that money does not carry the same weight as a title, and Belmore Square is full of titles.’ Mother reaches for Clara’s hair and removes a loose strand from her forehead, a move that appears to irritate my sister. She scowls and rolls her shoulder, effectively shrugging Mother off. ‘As was demonstrated by Mrs Fallow’s direct cut,’ she goes on, oblivious, or perhaps ignoring, Clara’s testiness. What’s got into her, I wonder? ‘She behaves as if she is in possession of a title herself.’
Father looks at Mother with a fond smile, silently amused by her competitiveness, as he spoons some more potatoes onto his plate. ‘Porter and his wife will be accompanying us this eve.’
Mother grimaces, because she, like me, finds the chief editor of Father’s newspaper as unbearable as I do. ‘I do so hope Marion isn’t sporting a darkened eye that we have to pretend isn’t there again.’
‘It was an accident,’ Father says, his eyebrows lifting in warning. ‘And we have no reason to doubt Porter’s explanation of Marion’s unfortunate accident.’
Mother huffs. I’m with her, though my doubt is, with great difficulty I admit, contained. ‘I shall require the carriage on the morrow.’
‘And where might my fine wife be travelling to?’
‘The girls and I are going out for the day.’
‘We are?’ I question.
‘We are?’ Clara says, speaking up for the first time since we arrived at the table. ‘I don’t want to go out for the day.’
Ignoring her, Mother sips her wine on a smile. ‘A lovely little outing will do us good. Some mother and daughter bonding. Yes. Lovely.’