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)
You will come to me this eve.
I snort at my thoughts. Never.
On that conclusion, a conclusion I am sure is sensible, I undress, laying my lavender gown over the back of the chair, but I falter, frowning, when I catch the sound of rustling in the silk. In nothing but my pantaloons, I stand, rummaging through the material – thank goodness not as much material as some of the dresses being worn this eve – until I find a piece of paper. My heart begins to clatter, though I beg it to stop, for all these reactions, now to a silly piece of paper too, are quite unnerving. I unfold it and read the neatly scrolled words.
I await your arrival with bated breath and, be assured, if you fail to call upon me, I will not think twice about collecting you myself. The choice is yours, Eliza. I rather think the former option will be less conspicuous, don’t you?
Yours, JW
My heart leaps, my lips press together, and a flurry of tingles marches through me, forcing me to lower my bottom to the mattress, as I vehemently fight with my thoughts.
Go.
Do not go.
I stand and walk to the window and look out across the square, pulling the draperies across my body to conceal myself. A few carriages pass, delivering partygoers back to their homes, the sound of hooves hitting the cobbles echoing in the darkness. So dark. But still I see him, standing on the corner of the gardens. My heart stops as he steps into the moonlight, and I am certain it is an intentional move to ensure I see his serious face. It’s expressionless, impassive, and his gloved hands are joined before him, his tall body rigid in its stance. If I didn’t know him, I would be scared of him.
When he steps back into the shadows, I know I am being summoned. I go to my mirror, releasing my hair from the jewelled comb, and it tumbles over my shoulders. I comb through it, thoughtful, staring into my eyes. My mind cannot be my own, for it is thinking quite unthinkable things. The Duke. My senses scream, my breasts ache, and the flesh between my thighs throbs. That kiss. My lips part, and my heart booms, and all of these feelings, untimely in their arrival as they are, for I should not go to him, are quite thrilling.
If I go to the Duke now, we will both bend under the pressure of our desires, despite how angry I have been, and I am certain to be ruined forever. Perhaps we should just talk. Converse. I know I have many questions again, the pile seeming to build each day.
I pull on a chemise, a cloak, slip on my boots, and I leave my bedroom quietly, creeping through the house like a mouse. I am sure to avoid all the stairs that creak, as well as the floorboards. My surreptitiousness, to be expected, I suppose, lengthens the time of the short journey considerably, and by the time I have made it outside, the Duke is crossing the cobbles, a dark, angry look plastered across his handsome face. He spots me and stops abruptly, and I see the darkness lift somewhat.
‘I had feared,’ he says as his shoulders lower, as if he was tense but now not, ‘that you had jilted me.’
‘I am here,’ I say, lowering the hood of my cloak. ‘Only here.’
Worried, and not unduly, I suppose, he moves in and lifts it back into place as he glances around. ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I am here, not in your home or your bed, and I have no intention to be.’
‘I always get what I want, Eliza, so we will see about that.’
‘We will,’ I retort sharply, quite unappreciative of his reminder of his rakish ways, and I can see he regrets his words. His hands still, holding each side of my hood, and his green eyes, eyes I am sure I could get lost in, turn onto mine.
‘Let us not begin our evening on a bad note.’ He steps back, creating space between our bodies that crackles and sizzles no matter how much I try to shut off all my senses.
‘Our evening began hours ago, and it has been a constant and consistent stream of bad notes.’
‘Perhaps you will write about it in tomorrow’s newspaper.’
I inhale sharply and move back, desperately, though very slowly, trying to locate some words. Some defence. ‘Pardon me?’ is all I can muster.
‘Just imagine,’ he whispers, pouting in contemplation. ‘If I knew your mind well enough, paid enough attention, listened with a keen enough ear, to know your words when I am blessed to be reading them.’
I swallow, damning him to hell. It is as if he knows exactly what to say in order to win my affections, and yet I do not know why he would when he has not long ago rejected me. ‘Imagine indeed,’ I counter quietly, unable to confirm it. Damn him, he must never tell. Lymington will soon put an end to my writings if he should discover Porter and Frank have been claiming work that is actually mine. ‘Maybe your imagination is wild,’ I retort, but he only smiles. ‘I am not interested in one night,’ I blurt, eager to move the conversation along.