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)
‘That I know.’
‘I can only imagine he’s having a momentary lapse in sanity. I would ask you kindly to withhold this information, for I fear it would upset my mother greatly to learn of his indiscretions.’
Sampson nods mildly, appearing to think very carefully. ‘You have my word.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, somewhat surprised.
‘You, like me, Melrose, wish to protect the females in your life.’
‘Indeed, I do,’ I reply quietly, wondering if there is a backward threat woven in there somewhere. Undoubtedly. My mind is suddenly awash with memories. My nose bombarded by the scent of honeysuckle. My skin heats. Just thinking about her! My God, I’m in trouble. I blink, swallow, and look away, worried Sampson may see all of my sins in my eyes.
‘Perhaps one day you might compensate me for my discretion,’ he goes on.
‘What did you have in mind?’ I ask, as Figaro starts treading on the spot, sensing, I expect, my growing anxiousness.
‘Nothing yet, but perchance there may be something in the future that may require your prudence.’
I nod, kicking my horse on. ‘Have a good day, my lord.’ I clip-clop on, greeting everyone I pass as they throw compliments my way, feeding my ego but also reminding me that I am all out of words where the infamous highwaywoman is concerned. And Papa? What am I to do with that?
‘Oh no,’ I whisper, another problem finding me. Taya is up ahead, and when I feel my lungs shrink, for she certainly leaves me breathless, I know I should turn Figaro round and leave the royal park.
Except I do not.
Because I am an idiot.
I pull Figaro to a stop and narrow my eyes at myself, fighting back the memory of our brief kiss. She is sitting by a tree, a piece of paper on her lap, a graphite pencil in her hand. She’s drawing again. What this time? Damn my curiosity! The neckline of her dress is low – too low if you ask me, I am surprised her brothers permitted her to leave the house – and her hair unconventionally loose, as always, the sun making the strands glisten brightly as the light breeze whips it around her face. She reaches up and catches a tendril, pushing it off her cheek. My God. My eyes drift down to her pink lips as she nibbles at a corner, contemplating what she has drawn. ‘If you wore a bonnet, or even secured your hair, you would not have the problem of hair whipping your face and getting in your way.’
She stills for a moment, then glances up. ‘I like my hair whipping my face. It’s wild. Free.’
I like her wild, free hair whipping her face too. I throw my leg over and jump down from my horse, and I pay no mind to it, either. ‘You are alone?’ I ask, looking around.
‘You know me, Mr Melrose,’ she says, getting to her feet.
‘Do I?’ I tilt my head, curious of the odd feeling in my stomach. Nerves? Yes, it must be. I’m nervous.
‘If you’re lucky.’
I laugh under my breath at her blatant cheekiness as I tie my horse to the tree. If I’m lucky. I think our kiss means we know each other rather well already. ‘Why did you cry?’ It is out before I can stop it, my desire to know overwhelming, making my mouth pour out words I perhaps shouldn’t.
Her face falters, albeit briefly, before she quickly corrects it. ‘I did not––’
‘I saw you, my lady. On the steps, your face in your hands.’ I inhale as she stares at me, and I make a point not to break the contact. I know I am on dangerous ground, and yet I am unable to control these urges where Taya Winters is concerned. All other women, yes, but Taya?
‘I was crying because I felt deep regret for what happened, and I was quite worried of the repercussions.’
I swallow and nod. ‘You need not be worried,’ I say, finally breaking the eye contact before it breaks me. ‘I give you my word, and my word is my honour, no one will ever know, because I too am full of regret.’ I am mentally darkening my own daylights over and over for being such an idiot. Regret? That kiss was like nothing I have experienced before, or ever likely will again. How could I regret it? ‘Good day to you, my lady.’ I untie Figaro and walk on.
‘Wait,’ she calls, making me stop and turn. She’s coming at me, not quite running, but definitely faster than a walk, and I lean back on my heels, wary. ‘I have something I must share.’
‘What is that?’ Kiss me again! Draw for me again! Talk to me, tell me you love my story!
‘Mr Casper,’ she says. ‘He was ambushed just this morning on Hampstead Heath.’