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)
‘Are you feeling all right, Your Grace?’ I ask, making him blink and jerk.
He shifts in his seat. Frowns. Sets the book aside. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, standing. ‘I… um… excuse me.’ He leaves rather quickly, the door slams behind him and I am alone. Just me and the crackling fire.
And the piece of paper.
I stand and pick up the piece, that is scrawled with words penned by a quill and a fine hand. ‘She walks in Beauty,’ I whisper, reading the poem, smiling sadly as I do. ‘George Gordon Byron,’ I say when I’ve reached the end. What a talent.
I hear whispers coming from beyond the door, whispers, that, make no mistake, are angry. ‘You are mad, Your Grace,’ someone hisses. Hercules. ‘You must halt this madness at once.’
‘I know I must!’ the Duke barks. ‘And yet I cannot.’
I blink rapidly and recoil, and the door swings open. The Duke appears, seeming somewhat edgy, his eyes burning with an air of determination I am not sure I should like.
‘Stop what?’ I ask, and he tilts his head, his face a picture of incredulity. I suppose it is rather a stupid question, and His Grace knows me not to be stupid. I realise attraction when it slams me in the face, even if I am not versed in the dance of flirtation. Young ladies of the ton may be persistently protected from the realities of marriage and what it brings, of how heirs are made, but I have not forever been a young lady of the ton and the Duke is privy to that small matter. I am not really an innocent. Innocent, but… not.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, finding it quite easy to apologise. ‘You know you must, and yet you cannot.’
He nods mildly, his eyes falling to the paper in my hand.
‘My apologies,’ I say quickly. ‘I did not mean to pry.’
He frowns. ‘You should never apologise for being curious, Eliza.’
‘Is that what you are?’ I question, all of my inhibitions apparently lost in this moment. ‘Curious?’
‘Very.’
‘Why? I am but a young unladylike lady with too much to say.’
‘And yet I love what I am hearing.’
I swallow. The Duke too has lost his inhibitions and I know not what to say to that. He likes me talking? ‘It’s a beautiful poem,’ I blurt, setting the paper on the table again.
‘It is.’
I knew not of the meaning, or perhaps I simply did not understand. I think maybe now I do.
I bite my lip as my mind recalls some of the words, and the Duke swallows hard. ‘I should like to dance with you,’ he declares.
‘Pardon me?’
‘The waltz, perhaps?’
‘I do not have permission to dance the waltz.’
He comes towards me with purpose, and I back up, alarmed. ‘Is it a crime?’ he asks.
‘No, do not be silly. It’s merely inappropriate, for a debutante especially, to dance such an intimate dance.’
‘Suddenly she should like to abide by the rules which she strives to break.’ He steps closer.
‘I do not strive to break rules.’ I am becoming increasingly breathless. The truth of it is, I know not how to dance, much as I have not the faintest idea how to be close to this man while maintaining my breathing. A man one should most certainly not be close to. And to waltz with him? Oddly, I do not want him to think I am incapable. ‘I strive to change the rules because the rules are ridiculous.’
‘Then you should like to dance the waltz with me, am I right?’ Another step closer, and I am forced to tilt my head back to keep the Duke in my sights.
‘You are familiar with the dance?’ I ask.
‘I spent much time in Paris, so, yes, I am familiar with the dance.’
I must not inquire as to how many women he has shared such closeness with. Perhaps I am an idiot. It is not the dancing I should be concerned about. ‘I am here for conversation,’ I say, taking a sensible step away from the Duke and lowering to my chair.
‘Would you prefer me to gain your mother’s approval?’
I laugh lightly. ‘I do not need my mother’s approval. I simply do not want to dance with you.’
‘Or be so close,’ he muses, lowering to his chair opposite me. ‘How is the wine?’
‘Delicious.’
‘And the company?’
‘Confusing.’
‘How so?’
‘Because I can’t fathom whether he wants to make me scream with pleasure or frustration.’ I cock him a wry smile, once again finding my composure now he is out of reach.
The Duke laughs under his breath and takes his drink. ‘You are frustrated?’
‘Only, of course, because you confuse me.’
‘Better to be confused than scared, I’d say.’
It is true, I suppose. I stand and meander to the bookcase, wandering the foot, reading the titles on every spine. I’m sure Mr Fuddy would be envious of such a collection. I feel his eyes following me, and it is both thrilling and worrying. ‘Where have you been this past year?’