Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
‘I shall not be needing breakfast this morn,’ I say over my shoulder, swinging the door open and breathing in a new day. The sun is shining, the morning breeze light and fresh.
I cut through the gardens, admiring the blooms as I go, and exit the other side opposite number one Belmore square. I carefully pluck a rose from the bush that edges the gilded gate and wander across the cobbles, open the creaky gate, and present myself at the front door, knocking, and I make it quite a long knock, one that’s determined and firm.
Hercules answers with a frown. ‘Morning,’ I say, slipping past him before I am invited inside. ‘I am here to visit with my sister.’ I follow my feet to where I know the dining room to be and burst through the double doors on a smile.
It falls when I find no one around the beautifully dressed table, not a muffin or china cup out of place. What on earth is going on? I turn to Hercules. ‘Where is my sister?’
‘I believe she is still asleep, Mr Melrose.’
‘But it is past eight. She is always, without fail, unless she is ill, of course, up past eight.’ Oh God, is she ill? I inhale quickly. With child? Oh, pray do tell me she is with child. That would be the answer to my problem, and I could get on with things without upsetting anyone.
Hercules clears his throat, and his eyes drop to the polished wooden floor. ‘I think perhaps His Grace had a very late night.’
‘It was only past midnight,’ I say over a laugh. ‘Has the man no endurance?’
‘Very late to sleep, sir, not to bed.’
I jerk and step back, as though a lightning bolt has hit me. God, no, I cannot bear to think it, but … ‘Eliza was in no fit state to …’ I fade off, not quite believing I am speaking such words, and to the Winters’ butler! ‘Never mind.’
‘Perhaps a coffee while you wait, sir?’
‘No, no, it is fine. I have coffee on my own table ready to drink, and it is not far home now, is it?’
‘I would love some coffee, please, Hercules.’
Another bolt of lightning hits me, that voice the cause. I hardly want to look past the Winters’ butler to where it came from. Hardly. But, God damn it, I cannot stop myself. My scowl is fierce as I divert my eyes to the stairs, where Taya Winters is standing looking all wild and fresh-faced, in a white chemise with the tie loose, revealing the smooth, sun-kissed skin of her decolletage.
Such a pleasing sight. It is such a shame she is most irritating.
And forbidden.
‘I will get some,’ Hercules says, snapping me from my staring episode.
‘Thank you,’ she replies, taking the steps and approaching, her green eyes glued to my blue ones, her walk more of a saunter, her smile so small it is hardly visible. But it’s there. Oh, it is there. ‘Good morning to you, Mr Melrose.’
‘Good morning, my lady,’ I reply, my voice gruff. ‘I trust you slept well.’
‘I did indeed sleep well.’ She stops before me, her chin lifting to keep her eyes on mine. ‘And you?’
‘Very well.’
‘Very good.’
‘Very good,’ I mimic, my eyes moving to her lips.
‘Tell me,’ she says, her lips moving slowly as she plucks the rose from my grasp and takes it to her nose, smelling the bud. ‘How am I to avoid you if you show up in my house on a morning?’
I blink and frown, stepping back. ‘I …’ My throat closes as my eyes absorb the skin around her neck. ‘I …’ Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? ‘I’m here to visit with my sister.’
Taya moves past me, and her arm brushes the sleeve of my jacket. ‘She and my brother are sound asleep after what I can only conclude was a rather exhausting night consummating their vows.’
I baulk at her in horror as she takes a chair at the end of the table. ‘Please do spare me the details.’
‘As you wish,’ she says, resting the rose down and helping herself to a muffin, tearing off a piece and slipping it past her lips. Damn my eyes, they watch as she slowly chews.
‘I do wish,’ I murmur, transfixed. I swear it, she is some kind of witch, casting spells upon me, making me think inappropriate thoughts and say inappropriate words. She is off limits, Frank.
‘Wish for what?’
‘For …’ I shake my head. ‘Nothing.’
On a nonchalant shrug, she pulls some paper from nowhere and picks up a pencil from the table, and I watch, fascinated, as her head tilts from one side to the other, her lips pouting, as she considers the paper, just like she did in the carriage from the church. What is on the paper? I take a step forward, stretching my neck, desperate to catch a glimpse of what is holding her attention, making her ponder so carefully.