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)
‘Can you believe we are here?’ Mama says as we follow Father and Frank towards the arch that leads into the centre of the palace. ‘The Prince’s royal party, Eliza,’ she gasps, so enthralled, so excited. I’m awed, no doubt, but I am also dreading the evening ahead.
‘Wonderful,’ I murmur, as we enter a grand hall. I have never seen so many people. Hundreds, if not thousands. It appears every lord, lady, duke, duchess and anyone who is anyone is here. ‘Oh my,’ I breathe, remaining behind Papa and Frank as they are welcomed by the Prince himself. His cheeks are red, his demonstrative moves making his wine splash across the elaborate velvet material of his jacket. He doesn’t seem much perturbed by the mess he is making. In fact, for such an early hour, he appears rather intoxicated. So the whispers of his indulgent lifestyle are true? The party prince. I bet that would be an interesting story to pen.
‘Melrose, yours is the only newspaper I will read,’ the Prince declares. I inwardly roll my eyes. Of course it is, because Papa’s newspaper will only print political and religious pieces to please the Prince and his mad father.
A few words are exchanged, and the Prince laughs, jolly as can be, then music starts to play, he gasps, and he is off towards the dance floor as his guests start to clap, thrilled.
‘It’s his favourite,’ Mama whispers, joining Papa.
‘You could at least appear pleased to be here,’ Frank says, prompting me to smile. ‘Well done.’ He backs away on a bow that is sarcastic. ‘Enjoy your evening, sister.’ A cheeky cock of his head, a peek around at the abundance of women. ‘I think I will.’
My eyes narrow. Off he goes, dragging no chains along with him. ‘Eliza,’ Father says, pulling my attention his way. His smile is hesitant, his eyes pleading. ‘I would like you to meet someone.’ He motions with his hand for me to come.
‘So long as it is not a man I am expected to marry,’ I say on a sweet smile, making his expression drop, his complexion turning ashen. Oh, please, no.
‘Eliza,’ Mama hisses, laughing, checking for listening ears and the faces of the gentlemen that I cannot see past Father. There are two of them, though. One taller than the other. I can only see the taller gentleman. He looks utterly boring. The shorter one, I can’t see his face, but I see a cane suggesting he’s older. Mother is worrying over nothing. I hardly heard myself.
I step forward, searching the crowd for Frank. The scoundrel. He knew of the introductions about to transpire. ‘May I present my daughter,’ Papa says proudly, stepping aside and revealing the gentlemen. Oh no. The Duke of Cornwall, Lymington, scans me up and down, his face crabby, his quizzing glass dangling from a piece of ribbon, as who I assume is his son, Frederick, the apparent bore, stands like an un-ripened, hard plum to his side, showing no signs of softening. This is my suitor? The silence stretches to a point where I become extremely uncomfortable, and His Grace looks as if he’s preparing to feel down his chest for that quizzing glass to inspect me with it.
I look at Father, somewhat confused. ‘Are they mute?’ I ask, and his eyes widen as the Duke coughs, recoiling, nearly dislodging his grey wig and sprinkling me with hair powder. That wig speaks volumes, for no one in their right mind would cough up the outlandish tax now demanded for such a luxury item. He must have more money than sense.
Father, mortified, rushes to intervene. ‘Eliza, you have met His Grace, Duke of Cornwall, and this is his son, Frederick Lymington, the Earl of Cornwall.’
I fail to curtsey, my etiquette further abandoning me. Damn it. My father crumbling in humiliation gives me no pleasure at all. ‘Your grace,’ I say, lowering my head. ‘How lovely to see you again.’
The Duke looks at Father, who quickly gets his confusion under control and smiles brightly. ‘We have a rather interesting story releasing in the morn,’ Father says, and I freeze, my inhale sharp. He found it? ‘I’m sure it will spike the interest of many. Porter hand-delivered it himself at the crack of dawn.’
My throat becomes thick, and for a moment I wonder just how guilty I must appear. Is my father even looking at me? ‘Tell me more,’ Lymington says, moving in closer.
‘I met with him this evening before our carriage arrived, to clarify some of the content,’ Father goes on, as I try in vain not to look surprised. Father spoke with him? Why? It’s not uncommon for Porter to deliver stories for Father’s approval. Father has never, not once, needed clarification on anything. Oh, bugger it all, has my cover been blown already? ‘He was very insistent that we run the story.’