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)
‘Eliza!’ Clara yells. ‘Move!’
But I cannot, my legs failing to act under instruction. I am frozen, not by fright at the horse racing towards me, but by the news of who is upon its back. And suddenly the horseman is before me, dust being kicked up, people screaming, and he goes up onto his back legs, neighing. I look up in shock at the enormous beast towering over me, and when his front hooves crash back down to the dirt, the ground shakes.
I blink rapidly, my heart pounds, my eyes falling onto a pair of black leather riding boots. My rapt stare travels up, across the material of his cream breeches and over his thighs. Thick thighs.
Long legs, thick thighs.
I swallow, continuing over a broad torso, across a black wool waistcoat and high cut jacket in matching material. His shirt is white, the whitest I have ever seen, with no puffs or frills. Just a neatly knotted cravat.
And then I’m at his face and all air seems to drain from my poor, laboured lungs. My God, have I ever seen such a handsome man? Will I ever again? I swallow, my eyes burning, refusing to blink and deprive me of even a moment of the beauty before me. His dark blond, messy hair finishes before it can creep onto his cheeks as one would expect. It’s as if he’s rebelling against expectation. A bad boy. His skin is dark, he must have been abroad and spent time basking in the sunshine, his nose is so perfectly straight, his jaw chiselled, his brow heavy, his shoulders wide.
And then our eyes meet and the ground beneath me shifts. Or was that the earth? And my breath? Where has that gone?
Shrewd, muted green eyes stare back at me as the horse pads the ground and its rider watches me intently as I search, with little success, for my equilibrium. I fear it may be lost forever. I am unashamedly staring at this man, an audience of hundreds surrounding me, all silent, all watching. I care not. I have taken in, studied every inch of him, from the toes of his riding boots to the eyes gazing back at me. It is as if I have been placed under a spell.
I break eye contact – I probably should have many seconds ago – and admire his hair again, that is too long to be considered acceptable.
Rebel.
I exhale as my chest pumps dangerously, finding his eyes again. They are narrowed, scrutinising me, but I still see them burn. And in this moment, this monumental moment, because I have been rendered useless by a man for the first time in my life, I suspect the rumours about Johnny Winters’ reputation were true. Are true. He’s not dead? Johnny Winters, Duke of Chester. I am staring at a man who I am sure could send every woman from here to Scotland into a fluster with just one brooding look. ‘Your Grace,’ I whisper absentmindedly, swallowing as his head tilts and a slow smirk forms. A devilish smile. I inhale deeply and let it all stream out on a little whimper.
And then I remember myself and blink, clearing my throat as I fight with no success to steady my wobbly legs and move myself from his path, since he seems unwilling to round my static form. His green gaze seems to become amused, and I hate that he’s detected my stupor, though, admittedly, it cannot be hard to see. So I scowl and cock my head, challenging him to… what? What in the devil’s name am I doing? And I’m frozen once again when his stare takes a leisurely, unapologetic jaunt down the entire length of my body.
I find my chest pulling in, as if I can escape the scrutiny. ‘My lady,’ he says, his voice low, deep and – my God – tingle-inducing. I am not at all comfortable with the odd sensations between my thighs, and I clench them together, further preventing me from getting my useless body out of his way. His smirk is wicked and knowing – of course he knows, the rumours are definitely true – and he kicks his horse into action, starting a far safer leisurely trot past me, his eyes not freeing me from their hold, therefore keeping me from breathing easily. I turn with him, lost in his attention, the world around me still and quiet.
Until I am ambushed from the side, physically knocked out of my stupor.
‘Miss Melrose,’ Frederick gasps, holding me in place. ‘Are you all right?’
I gasp, grappling urgently for air. No, I am stunned, and not because Johnny Winters just undressed me with his eyes in public. In public! I am stunned because Frederick is touching me. Perhaps one hundred crashes of my poor, deprived heart too late, but still. We’re in public. And as if he too has just realised, he drops me like a diseased pauper and moves back, looking around the crowds. I, too, take in our audience. Every lord, lady, duke and duchess, and even their servants, are watching me. Not Frederick and his wandering hands. They are watching me.