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)
As soon as she is out of what is apparently a trigger range, I sigh, relax and rest my back against the door, scrubbing a hand down my face. ‘Lord, help m … bugger it!’ I’m suddenly free-falling backward, landing on my back with a grunt, and Eliza appears above me, her face a map of curiosity.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks, assessing my flustered state.
What’s wrong? With me? She doesn’t want to know. Besides, my wrongs are not the reason I am here. ‘Nothing is wrong,’ I mutter, wincing at the stab of pain in my elbow. Today started so well – the news of my sister with child the best wake-up, but it has soon deteriorated. Her fault.
I pout up at Eliza, though she will know the truth of why, and her shoulders drop. ‘Come now,’ she breathes, exasperated by me. I completely understand, for I am most exasperated with myself, too. She offers her hands for me to take and hauls me to my feet on a grunt that is, in my humble opinion, a bit over the top; I am not so big I might warrant such oomph. Her husband, on the other hand, is quite a lump of a man – tall, sturdy, and imposing with it. My more athletic frame pales in comparison, but, make no mistake, I would certainly hold my own if we did get to a point of violence. The Duke might bring fat fists and a few extra pounds, but I will bring speed and agility. I frown at my loose thoughts. Why I am thinking such things I do not know – I never plan on so much as looking at Taya again, so the Duke, or his brother Sampson, will have no cause to attempt to murder me.
‘What are you doing here?’ Eliza asks as she walks me to the bed and sits me down on the mattress.
‘I have come to talk some sense into you.’ Ironic, really, isn’t it, that I am to talk some sense into Eliza?
‘You look troubled,’ she says, pouting, doing a fine job of ignoring my answer. ‘Perhaps some tea will help.’ She starts to turn, but, quite harshly, if unintentionally, I seize her wrist to stop her.
‘I do not need tea.’ Some Scotch, though? ‘You are with child,’ I say, making sure she knows I am privy to the situation. Not that it should be a situation, of course, since she is married. ‘This is cause for celebration, Eliza, not melancholy. Whyever do you appear so grim?’
With shoulders that look too heavy for her slight frame, she faces me again. Her pointed expression is evidence of her disposition, and I fear I’m about to cop a swing or a whip of her smart tongue.
‘Please do not hit me,’ I say, pouting like I used to do when I had upset her and was fearful of her temper. ‘One female’s black book is enough to be in.’
‘What?’
Oh bugger. I scratch around for something to say, to divert my sister before she fathoms what has occurred or can press me to confess, but, because of the pressure I expect, and perhaps because of the expectant, knowing look pinned to me in this moment, I find nothing. Not one thing.
‘Frank,’ Eliza says slowly, making me drop my eyes to my knees like a naughty little boy who has been caught red-handed misbehaving. ‘What have you done?’
I laugh on the inside. She does not want to know. I look at the rumpled bedsheets beneath my breeches, hiding my guilty face, and it occurrs to me, too late, perhaps, that I am sitting on my sister’s and her husband’s bed, and I care not to know what has happened beneath the sheets. Not my sister. No, I refuse to believe it, but, stupid idiot that I am, I remind myself why I am here. She’s pregnant.
So, yes, back to the matter at hand.
I get up from the bed and start roaming the room. ‘Do not change the subject, sister. You are with child, and it is a joyous thing.’
‘But of course you would think that,’ she hisses. ‘It means you can take my place and reclaim your name as writer of the finest stories, except this time, I suppose, you might actually write them yourself!’
‘You wound me.’ I place a hand over my heart as if it is aching. ‘I want what is best for you.’ I truly do, even if me being here isn’t completely selfless. ‘Are you telling me you do not want this baby because you want to continue working? What? Forever? Why would you get married, especially to a duke who will be eager to continue his dukedom and produce heirs, if you long to write forevermore?’
‘I love him.’ She dumps herself on the bed. ‘And I do wish to give His Grace children, many, if he so desires, but we agreed that I would enjoy the wonders that writing affords me, and now I can claim my words for myself, I find, quite unexpectedly, or not so, perhaps, that it is quite addictive, Frank! The praise, the awe, the hunger for more.’