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)
Rake.
One night with the Duke is something every available lady within a rather expansive radius, possibly stretching into Europe, or maybe even beyond, should like to experience, and many unavailable ladies, too, I expect. I do not wish to marry, but I also do not wish to surrender myself to a man who will steal my virtue and cast me aside for his next victim. He is the male equivalent of Lady Dare, except of a higher status. They are made for each other! My nose wrinkles. ‘I should like you to put me down.’
‘I should like you to stop fighting, but we do not all get our way, do we, Eliza?’
‘It is Miss Melrose to you, Your Grace.’
‘Oh please,’ he mutters, getting us back on our way. ‘Do not insult me with formalities now.’ He once again squeezes my thigh, and I once again stiffen from top to toe. It is as if he has established that a mere touch will render me incapable of contesting his advances, and, unfortunately, he would be right. Bugger it all, fire races through me unstoppably and those darn tingles attack – they attack – and I am helpless. This is a catastrophe of the greatest proportions.
‘Where are we going, anyway?’ I mutter, continuing to bob up and down, at the mercy of his strength.
‘To my home.’
‘Why?’
‘I should like to talk to you.’
‘Talk?’
‘What else would you suggest we do?’
‘I do not like your tone, Your Grace,’ I say, although, I have to admit, I am feeling somewhat exhausted by this tiring back and forth game we seem to be playing. ‘From what I have heard, talking is not something a lady should expect from the rakish Duke of Chester.’
‘As you kindly keep reminding me, Miss Melrose, you are not a lady.’
And to that, I have absolutely nothing to say. I have somehow managed to talk myself into a corner, and I know not how to talk myself out of it. So I shall, for my own sake, remain mute. It’s disconcerting, for I could, according to my father, talk myself out of even the trickiest of situations. He has also claimed that my mouth would get me into trouble. He is correct.
Only once the Duke has got us into the privacy of his home does he do me the kindness of setting me on my own, albeit unstable, two feet again. I am unable to look at him, for to look at him may be to ignite those newfound tingles, and I am truly fearful that they may lead me astray. I am apparently incapable of thinking sensibly when I am being indulged by his pleasing green eyes. So, yes, I shall avoid them at all costs.
I spend a stupidly long time brushing down the front of my dress after he removes his jacket from my shoulders, but he does not put it back on, rather hands it to Hercules, who, after brandishing an unmistakably concerned expression, silently leaves us with a nod. Yes, I am foolish.
‘Where would you like me?’ I ask, spending a pleasant while, because it is so worthy of my admiration, taking in the exquisite hallway of the Duke’s home.
‘Do not ask me questions like that, Eliza,’ he replies, striding away, leaving me behind. I must think before I speak. I am wholly at a disadvantage if that is a vital necessity when in the company of the Duke, because I have always had a terrible habit of letting my mouth work before my brain.
On a sigh, I follow the Duke into the same room I was escorted to on my last unexpected visit and find him standing by the blazing fire, his hand resting on the mantelpiece, his face thoughtful. Am I expected to await instruction? Should I sit? Speak?
Exasperated, and surprisingly staunch, I say, ‘And what now?’
He appears to jolt, and his eyes shoot to mine. I am caught off guard, and as a result, my resolute vow to avoid eye contact is foiled. Lord, have mercy on my soul, I am a slave to his hooded gaze. I am well aware that every thought I have about the Duke is sinful, not merely because he is a known rake and a man whom every mama would warn their daughter away from, despite his title. In addition, he is thought to have committed an unthinkable crime. Perhaps that is something that should be addressed, for the Duke simply must be wondering with untameable curiosity what the hell I am doing here, but as I move towards the chair, preparing myself to speak, he beats me.
‘I suppose you are privy to the rumours about me.’ He looks away and pours himself a Scotch from the well-appointed cabinet that is home to an impressive display of various liquors. ‘Would you like a drink? Wine, perhaps?’ He picks up a bottle. ‘This one here is French. I am told it complements fruit beautifully. You will try it.’