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)
I stand but falter, bending over when I see a quarto paper. On a frown, I reach for the folded sheet and turn it over, and my heart very nearly stops beating when I see a seal with the initials ‘JW’ embossed into the wax.
I inhale and quickly slip the paper between the pages, glancing around nervously. I always found the purpose of seals quite irritating. How was it possible that someone could act so dishonourably and endeavour to discover the contents of a letter entrusted to their care and protection. Now? Now that I have behaved in such a dishonourable way? I shrink. But this letter was meant for me.
I hurry home, enter quietly, creep up the stairs, and go straight to my bedroom. I place the book by the bedside, remove my bonnet and coat dress, for I am sweating like a pig, and light a candle before slipping into my morning dress, taking the paper, and lowering to the rosewood chair in the window. Lord above, my heart, my poor useless heart, is pounding relentlessly, my eyes burning from staring at the seal. Or the initials on the seal.
JW.
I have not the room in my absorbed mind to wonder what is contained in this letter or why he has given it to me. I carefully break the seal and unfold the paper, and as soon as I am confronted by the elaborate scripted handwriting, I exhale. I must concentrate on breathing, for I may lose consciousness soon, and that would be quite unfortunate, if only because the loud thud of my body hitting the floor would alert someone and bring them to my room where they would find me unconscious with this note lying beside me.
But it would appear the Duke is not a man of many words. There is no cross writing. And, of course, no concern of the cost to send by the postal service, since it was given to me in a book by the man himself. So whyever has the Duke been so exceedingly mean with his words? I huff, feeling more indignant than I should.
Just imagine…
‘Just imagine what?’ I mutter, slipping the note between two of the mattresses on my bed. I go to the window and look across the square, my mind working as hard as ever, except I am less frequently dreaming of a world where I must hide, and instead fantasising about a man I should undoubtedly hide from.
Chapter 6
I endure the simplicities of Mama’s and Papa’s dinner party this eve, compliant, polite, and I only speak when I am spoken to. I’m endeavouring, and succeeding, if the lack of attention pointing my way is a sufficient marker, to avoid too much attention, so that when I disappear to my room, my absence may not be missed. I have squirmed my way through dinner, listening to the mindless words of the members of the ton who are seated around our mahogany dining table as they have scoffed their way through all the courses set across the table, although, and I feel somewhat contrite about it, I have held my tongue and not spoken up on matters that do not concern me. Besides, I have other chores on my mind today, chores far more distracting than the claptrap being spilled across this table.
Has the Duke a small mind?
Is it terrible that I must find out?
Or must I, for the rush of pleasure may be lost with the enlightenment that Johnny Winters is merely a man like all others?
Dreadful.
Still, he is rather pleasing on the eye.
Rather?
Oh, Eliza, must you be so coy?
‘Yes, I must,’ I say into my wine glass, suitably satisfied with the volume of alcohol being consumed this evening. My eyes fall to Frederick, whose wine has hardly been sniffed, least of all drunk, and that will not do. I lift my glass and smile when he gazes at me, and he follows my gesture, joining me in a sip. I will be intoxicated if I keep up this pace, and I cannot be. Not when…
My tummy flutters, my heart booms and…
Lord above, what was that?
My back straightens, my thighs squeeze, and tingles attack me between my legs. I swallow, darting my eyes around the table, certain my condition must be written on every inch of my face.
How is that possible with merely a thought?
‘I look forward to promenading with you in the morrow,’ Frederick says. ‘After my ride with my father, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I reply, trying to look thrilled when I feel nothing but dread, tousling with the sensations between my legs. They swiftly fade, and I purse my lips around the rim of my glass as Frederick gazes at me. He is not only somewhat unexciting, but a tingler killer. Frederick really doesn’t have much going for him, which would explain why this is his fifth season. Fifth! Perhaps he would gaze at any woman that he was promised in this way, even if she was ravaged by age or disfigured by disease. I feel somewhat insulted that Papa has seemingly bitten off the hand of the first offer made to him but, of course, I am still wondering why Lymington would settle for anything less than a titled female. I can only surmise that pickings are slim for him and his son after five seasons. Lucky me. And for the very first time since being introduced to Frederick, I wonder what it is exactly that has been brokered for my hand. Father must have known I would spend one second with Frederick and possibly run away screaming my protests. Mother would have undoubtedly raised her concerns, in private, of course. So whatever Lymington offered my father must have been wildly attractive, because Frederick certainly isn’t. And I mean not looks, but personality. Although neither are shining. Simply put, Frederick is quite the opposite of a man I would desire, if I desired a man, which I do not. I desire so much more than that.