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)
‘Small accident,’ I say, as I edge my way to the door, quite sure I should leave before I succumb to this madness. ‘I do apologise.’
‘For what?’ he asks, watching Taya closely for a few uncomfortable moments as I will her to find that smart mouth of hers and fool her brother into believing … anything! Anything so he does not murder me, because I am pretty sure he looks capable. I am not a coward, be sure of that, but I would rather not take on the notorious Duke of Chester, because … well, he is family now, and it would upset Eliza greatly if we were at odds.
Johnny eventually makes his way to where his sister sits and motions to her chest. ‘Fasten it,’ he orders shortly, making Taya reach for the loose string of her chemise and tie it, albeit with shaky hands, and I know Johnny notices because his mood seems to darken some more.
Time for me to leave. ‘For the damage, please do send the bill.’ I make haste, but get intercepted by my dear sister who does not look so dear right now.
‘What did you do?’ she hisses.
‘Nothing!’
‘I do not believe you. Need I remind you that Taya isn’t only a lady, officially, I might add, she is also my sister-in-law.’
I laugh. She is no lady. She’s a goddess. ‘Since when did you become so self-righteous? Need I remind you that Winters is a duke, and you had no title.’ What am I saying? I need to sew my mouth shut. ‘Oh, never mind, we are having a discussion about something that needs no discussing. Nothing happened. The end.’
‘You cannot play games with her, Frank. She is not just another lady for you to have fun with, she is my husband’s little sister!’
Play games? This isn’t a game. No. It’s more like a bloody nightmare. ‘Good day to you, sister.’ I walk on, avoiding Eliza’s eyes, for she knows me too well, and only when the door closes behind me do I breathe easy, having to reach for the wall to steady myself.
There must not be a repeat. I will surely end up dead, killed by my shiny new brother-in-law.
What on earth is she trying to do to me?
What am I doing to myself?
Stay away!
Good God, I need to work more than I ever appreciated, not only to scratch this insatiable itch, but to keep myself busy.
Chapter 6
The dining room is still empty when I arrive home, and with my appetite vanished, at least my appetite for food, I go to Father’s study. A copy of today’s edition of The London Times is on the desk awaiting me. I drop to the chair and pull it over, unfolding it and finding the headline. It’s as much as I can do not to slam it shut and stamp all over it when I see today’s catchy, enticing string of words meant to lure the reader in. For Christ’s sake, she got married yesterday. How did she also manage to get her story to the printworks in time for today’s edition?
Two Dukes at War – Pistols at Dawn
Of course, Eliza’s tactic works, and before I can think better of it, I’m reading the full article on the next page, and I am most perturbed, if only because I know the whole damn story already because I have had it straight from the horse’s mouth. That horse being my delightful new brother-in-law. And there you have the magic of Eliza Melrose. Damn it, I can’t be mad with her. She’s too bloody good at this.
I shut the paper and slap it down on the desk, quite heavy-handed, before pulling over the figures for last week’s sales, mulling over the numbers. I cannot deny, and I would never, for I am not a fool, that Eliza’s storytelling talent, her way with words, has indeed catapulted the number skyward, and we now sit pretty at a more than respectable fifteen thousand copies per day. ‘But it can be more,’ I say to myself, knowing that once this story is told, numbers will drop, and we need them to climb if we are to become national. Or even global. Just imagine …
I sit back in my chair, my fingers laced and resting on my velvet jacket, my mind racing.
Taya Winters.
‘Oh hell,’ I mutter, getting up and pacing, pulling the piece of paper from my inside pocket and reading what I have written once again. Distraction. Where has the horsewoman come from, what is her purpose, her story? Who is she? These are all questions I plan on finding answers to, as well as wowing the ton with the utterly preposterous notion of a highwaywoman. Preposterous but true. At least, I bloody hope so, or else this story is simply a story like all others. Ordinary.