Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Taya turns sharply into the gardens, and I do not contest her as it is probably a good idea to keep in the shadows to avoid being seen. So I follow, watching her unruly hair bounce across her back, the glossy waves shimmering when the moonlight catches the shiny strands. I have never met anyone so self-righteous in my life. She condemns Lady Dare, and yet she behaves just as inappropriately. She really is deluded. My eyes drop to the bunched fists around the material of her dress, seeing, even in the darkness, that her knuckles are white. She releases her dress but keeps up her march, letting the material drag across the ground behind her. Mistake. My boot steps on a trailing piece of fabric, jarring her, and she stumbles backward.
‘My God!’ she gasps, my arms rising speedily to catch her, and, annoyingly, but it is something I have come to expect, sparks fly around the square on contact. My God indeed.
She’s laid across my arm, her fists now clenching the front of my new coat, screwing it up, but I cannot say I am all too bothered about that in this moment, as I stare into her wide green eyes. I see the lump in her throat from her swallow. See her wet her lips before they part. Hear the sound of her dragging in air. Or is that me? Compelled and quite out of my mind, I’m sure, my mouth starts lowering of its own volition to hers, her lips like a truly powerful magnet.
But a noise snaps me out of the moment and Taya shoots out of my arms, leaving them feeling quite empty. ‘Damn it,’ she curses, quite unladylike, it must be said, as she looks past me. And then she’s off again, darting down the path to the centre of the gardens. I frown and look back, seeing her brother, Sampson Winters, walking with quite some sway into Belmore Square, singing to himself. I laugh under my breath and wander back out to greet him, knowing his infuriating sister will be quite safe hiding in a bush in the gardens for now.
‘Evening, my lord,’ I say, crossing the cobbles towards the youngest of Taya’s brothers, the Earl of Chester.
‘Melrose,’ he chants, undoubtedly too loudly for this hour. ‘Or should I call you brother now?’
‘Melrose will do.’ Because if Sampson Winters was to call me brother, Taya Winters might like to, too, and that would be most unfortunate. ‘And how was Gladstone’s this eve?’
‘I wouldn’t know, for I was not there.’
‘Oh?’ I say, frowning. ‘I thought …’ I catch my tongue in time, as something else comes to me. ‘Ohhhhh,’ I breathe. ‘Kentstone’s?’ The mention of the seedy club where ladies of the night hang around and blue ruin will, indeed, ruin you, makes me wince. It’s as I thought. He’s far more suited to Kentstone’s than the stuffiness of Gladstone’s.
Sampson Winters grins, and I am sure I do not appreciate it. What does he know about me and Kentstone’s? I am about to ask, but he enlightens me before I can. ‘I heard quite an amusing tale about a certain rescue of a certain drunken man from the rooms of Kentstone’s some weeks ago. That’s you by the way. The drunken man.’
‘I gathered,’ I say quietly. ‘What is it with you Winterses listening to conversations you should not be listening to?’
‘We Winterses?’ he asks, interested.
I am unsure as to whether or not I like Sampson Winters. He is far too cocksure. ‘I walked myself out of Kentstone’s,’ I say, making that clear. It was the rest of the journey I didn’t contend with all too well. Or remember, for that matter. I suppose I should be grateful for Eliza’s intervention that evening. And Johnny’s assistance, because as strong minded as my sister is, she is slight and would never have held me up all the way home on her own.
Sampson laughs. ‘Good evening to you, Melrose,’
I stuff my hands in my pockets wishing I could also stuff something in his mouth to shut him the hell up. ‘Good evening to you.’ I hope he walks through the gardens and finds Taya hiding in the bushes. I hope he thoroughly scolds her too. Which reminds me …
Clara.
I wander off towards the stables, looking back, seeing Sampson staggering from one side of the path to the other, making his journey, I’m sure, especially long. But rather than exit on the side where number one Belmore Square is, his home, he diverts, heading down the right-hand side. Where the hell is he going? I sigh and turn back to ensure Taya gets home safely. Surely that is Sampson’s responsibility? Of course it is, but I cannot tell him I know of her whereabouts without rousing suspicion. So instead of alerting Sampson, I watch as he approaches a house and knocks at the door. ‘Oh good God,’ I whisper, watching as the door opens, revealing Scarlett Dare in quite an outrageous sheer chemise. Her blonde hair, that is usually so polished and perfect in public, is spilling over her shoulders. She smiles suggestively at Sampson, reaches for his jacket, fists it, and hauls him into her home. Scarlett Dare. Oh, Scarlett Dare. When her husband died, he left her rich and free too, and with that liberty came non-conformity. I can attest to that, for I have stepped into number six Belmore Square where Lady Dare resides, and I have experienced that non-conformity. Only on a couple of occasions, I must add. Or was it three? Regardless, my brief encounters with her came to an abrupt stop when I discovered, only recently, mind you, that she threatened to expose Eliza as being ruined. She might be a smooth seductress, but her integrity is somewhat cracked. It appears to be a consistent problem with the women I have become involved with in London, and a reminder of easier, more carefree days in the countryside. The ironmonger’s daughter was not so ruthless. Neither was the butcher’s daughter. Nor the farmer’s or baker’s. Where is these women’s integrity? Their ambitions beyond bending a man to their will?