Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Because something about this was crushing him, and he couldn’t put a finger on why.
Maybe that he’d told this man, this man he’d idolized from afar, his darkest secret.
And Brendan hadn’t even batted an eye. Not like it didn’t bother him.
Like it didn’t even matter.
Indifference was better than censure, though. Disgust. And Cillian pushed that feeling aside when Brendan owed him nothing, and focused instead on checking the lines. He frowned at the little line of direction at the bottom of the page.
“…how far do you want to read this? Because if it’s to the part where the servant jostles her…”
“Don’t think you can carry me, Cillian?” that dark voice mocked.
“…seriously, I understand more every day why Mr. Anderson wants to kill you,” Cillian muttered, then took a few long, centering breaths, just…settling into himself. Slipping on a role felt like he was sinking into himself, subsuming himself into some dark space deep down inside to make room for someone else to emerge.
And as that sinking feeling settled, he felt a bubbling of longing hope rising up, this aching distant love of a young Duke searching for anything to ground him when his world was falling apart. That love stiffened his spine, made his voice rough, even as he crisped the edges to match the period accent. And when he looked up, he saw not Brendan Lau…
…but someone he had put on a pedestal so high he couldn’t even reach them anymore.
“My lady,” he breathed. “Lady Violette Cheng, if I may have a word…”
“You have already had several,” Brendan retorted tartly, lips pursing primly; he’d fallen right into the heroine’s role, his body language adjusting as he drew himself up as if looking down from a long, slender neck, carrying himself with a delicate lady’s poise. “I’ve no use for solicitors, if that’s why you’re here. Please see the house steward if there’s a matter you need assistance with.”
Cillian spluttered. She’d mistaken him for…? He looked down at his clothing quickly, still a little shabby from a day out riding, in his mind’s eye filling in little patches of dust and dirt, a loose thread. But when he looked up, Brendan was brushing past him, sailing gracefully toward the windows. Cillian stretched out a hand, reaching for him.
“My lady…!” He fell just short of touching. “I fear you have mistaken me. If you’d allow me to make your acquaintance, I’m Richard Kerrington, heir to the—”
Brendan stopped at the window, plucking at his fingers as if plucking at and smoothing gloves, eyes lowered coolly. “I’m aware of who you are. You’ve made quite a bit of noise among the peerage. My father despises you. I assume you’re now pursuing me as an attempt to win his graces, perhaps use him as a moneylender…”
“No, Miss Cheng, I—!” It came out in a rush, heartfelt frustration. “Miss Cheng, I—I love you!”
Shite.
That wasn’t in the script.
It was supposed to be a longer speech, more elaborate—but even as Cillian grasped at the script and searched for a line to pick up and flow into, Brendan turned to face him slowly, trailing the invisible swirl of skirts he almost made real by the way he carried himself as if their weight dragged on him subtly.
“Love?” Brendan lilted in a cold, lofty tone. “You speak to me of things that do not exist? I’d rather you begged for my father’s money. That’s who you are, isn’t it? Richard Kerrington, the penniless Duke.”
“Money and love are two separate things, and only woe may come when they cross,” Cillian rushed out, taking a step closer, pulled in, needing to make her believe. “The moment I first saw you, all thoughts of coin and crown fled from my mind, and I would live a pauper all my life if only you would accept my love.”
“Men who trade fortune for feelings too soon find they cannot live on dramatic proclamations,” Brendan answered with utter scorn. “If you’re quite d—ah!”
Right on cue, as noted in the script, Brendan stumbled as if a clumsy page had bumped into him from behind, sending him tripping forward in a flurry of imaginary skirts. Cillian dropped his script, heart leaping as he lunged to catch Brendan, sliding his arms around his waist as if he were a tumbling damsel and catching Brendan against his chest.
…and grunting, as Brendan’s weight reeled him back. Brendan draped on him fully, his entire body crushing down on Cillian, and Cillian locked his jaw, bracing his feet, struggling not to reel backward.
“You…are doing…that on purpose,” he forced through his teeth, and gave a breathless shove.
“Nonsense, the lady’s lost her footing,” Brendan mocked primly—then snapped his teeth at Cillian’s ear. Cillian yelped, rocked to one side—
“—oh shite.”
For a second his world was nothing but sideways slashes of linen furniture, brown skin, brown eyes, reflections in glass, his stomach zipping one way and his body falling the other.