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)
His tall, well-formed body turns to keep those narrowed eyes directed at me. He has a nerve to be treating me with such contempt, as it was he, after all, who pretty much threw me out into the cold and darkness, and, to add insult to injury, let Lady Dare, the outrageous adventuress, into his home. And what did they do? I flinch at the thought. I bet it did not involve conversation.
I do not show it, but I drink in air ravenously when we make it onto the street, wondering how I survived such a pressure pot in the store. ‘Wake up, Mama,’ I breathe, looking back into the shop. The Duke remains in place watching me, and it is all I can do not to curl my lip before I walk onwards. I’m suddenly parched. So much so, I am tempted to drag Mother into an ale house and down a tanker of beer to quench my thirst. To be fair, she looks like she needs a drink too.
‘Well,’ Mother says, finally blessing me with life. ‘What a rude man he truly is!’
I frown. ‘He didn’t even speak a word.’
‘He did not need to.’ She snatches her new hat and leaves, waving for the attention of Lady Tillsbury, surely to share the latest gossip, with a few added embellishments, of course. I sigh. I can see what is coming and, despite not holding the Duke in high regard at this very moment, and possibly – surely – never again, I must say, I greatly dislike the thought of the recent scene in the milliner’s being embellished to paint the Duke in an even darker light. His world, it seems, is dark enough already without the help of the friendly folk of Belmore Square and beyond.
This misplaced sense of responsibility is irritating. What do I care if the Duke’s reputation is tarnished beyond its current state of dishonour? After all, he, without too much encouragement, let it be said, thought little of tarnishing mine.
I rush after Mother. ‘Oh!’ I yelp when I am seized from behind, and before I can blink or even scream my distress, I am against a wall with the body of a man holding me in place. ‘What are you doing?’ I gasp, my chest pumping wildly. ‘This is not appropriate. How dare you manhandle me so!’
‘I didn’t care much for your look of utter contempt, Eliza.’
The nerve of this man. ‘Then you should not have treated me with such,’ I hiss back, outraged.
‘Where in God’s name have you been this past week? I have been worried out of my mind!’
My eyes go round. He has been concerned for my well-being? It should not please me. ‘Where I have been is not a concern of yours.’
‘Apparently not, and yet, quite perturbingly, I have been concerned.’ The anger in him is tangible. The fire between our touching bodies is blazing hot. My heart is booming dangerously. ‘I thought perhaps…’ His words drift off, as do his eyes to the heavens.
‘You thought what?’ But he need not answer, as realisation arrives. ‘You thought our encounters had been discovered.’
‘I did indeed,’ he breathes, his head, his beautiful blond head, shaking in despair, despite surely knowing by this point he was mistaken. ‘I called upon your home and––’
‘What?’ I shriek, alarmed, and his lips straighten into an unimpressed line.
‘I believe you heard me very well, Eliza. I called upon your home.’
Goodness, Dalton must have known not what to do when faced with such a visitor. And my father? He must have been full of horror. No suitable men have called upon me since I have arrived in London for my first season. Not that they needed to, since Father had kindly taken care of business in that regard. But, and it is only just occurring to me now, the news of my courtship with Frederick Lymington did not, as one would expect, and as so often happens, have hordes of gentlemen deeming me worthy of pursuing. Why is that? Not one man? I know I am not a proper lady, not by status or title, but I am at least blessed with a good bone structure. That is thanks to my mother. My personality traits, traits I have inherited from my father, however, are not such a blessing. Furthermore, and an utter bone of contention, those traits are acceptable in my father, and yet not in me. Because he is a man. ‘And, when you called upon me, what did you say?’
‘I asked if you were home. Your butler seemed rather alarmed and called for your father, whom, as I expected, and most certainly would assume, questioned me.’
‘He asked if we were acquainted?’
‘He did.’
Good grief. If indeed my father really is ill, this would explain everything. And does my mother know of this call from the Duke? ‘And…’