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)
I pick up the bottom of my dress coat and pivot, heading back towards Mother, who is chatting with Lady Blythe, which, I’m sure, will place Mama in a fine mood. After all, not only is Lady Blythe the Marchioness of Kent and a well-established author, but a patroness, like Lady Tillsbury, of Almack’s too. Mother is increasing her odds of gaining access to the exclusive establishment. ‘We shall walk this way today,’ I say, motioning to the glorious gardens of Belmore.
‘Yes, yes,’ Mother says, hardly looking at me, her attention firmly on Lady Blythe. ‘Your new novel is simply sublime.’
I roll my eyes on a little laugh. Mother is not a fan of reading; she prefers cross stich and playing the harp these days. And before these days, she baked, taught her children, and chased her tail trying to control us. My smile widens. Such wonderful days were they.
‘Miss Melrose!’ Frederick calls.
‘Come along, my lord,’ I sing. ‘Let us go on an adventure.’
‘We must not!’
‘Says who?’ I ask, looking back, seeing Frederick is still in his state of consistent uncertainty, his head swinging back and forth between me and my distracted mother.
‘Well… everyone.’
Not true. ‘I don’t.’
‘You’re just a lady.’
I slow to a stop on the edge of the gardens, scowling at the gilded gate. Just a lady? I will not be able to marry Frederick, because Frederick will not have a head after I’ve bitten it off. Besides, he is incorrect. I am not a lady. If Frederick hasn’t yet realised that, then his ability to observe is lacking as much as his thirst for adventure. I ignore his insult, for challenging it would be a pointless endeavour, and, really, as I keep telling myself, he is a harmless fellow, and continue on my way through the gardens. I look back and find Frederick motionless, his expression still torn. ‘Do come along, Frederick,’ I sigh. ‘Rigor mortis will catch you soon.’
Exasperated, he follows, joining me on the threshold of the gardens. As we take our first steps in the opposite direction of our usual route, I look up at him. ‘See,’ I say, linking my gloved hands, smiling. ‘We are still alive.’
He rolls his eyes, it is rather endearing, and we fall into an unhurried, steady walk, Frederick keeping his usual respectable distance of one whole very large body-width away from me, and like each time we have promenaded, I hear him talking but fail to listen. My eyes remain on one corner of Belmore Square. It has been over a week since the Duke of Chester made his dramatic return to London, and I have not been blessed with even a little peek of him since, which makes me wonder with increasing disappointment whether he has remained in London or galloped off on horseback to wherever he has been playing dead this past year.
Our stroll brings us gradually closer to the Winters’ residence, and I unwittingly slow to a stop when I see the silk and taffeta draperies in one of the windows move ever so slightly. My skin prickles, and my body is quickly awash with many of the sensations that bombarded me the day Johnny Winters nearly trampled me with his horse.
‘Miss Melrose?’
‘Yes, my lord?’ I say, lifting a heavy foot and stepping closer, my eyes unmoving from the window. He is still here. I silently beg for more movement. For more of these sensations.
‘We must walk on.’
‘Indeed, my lord,’ I whisper, inhaling quickly when I see another move of the draperies. He’s there. Watching me.
Another step closer.
I observe, waiting, pleading.
‘Miss Melrose!’
I jump, being wickedly snapped from my moment, my heart pounding from fright rather than pleasure. ‘Frederick, you gave me a scare!’
‘We must not be seen loitering around here.’ He glances around, nervous.
‘Why?’
His eyes shoot to mine, surprised, not only because I have once again questioned him. ‘It is not one of the most desirable corners of Belmore Square.’
‘But it is such a beautiful building,’ I say, looking up at the impressive front of the Winters’ residence. One can’t help but wonder if Mr Fitzgerald despaired as he watched the renovations, because the homes he has designed sadly pale against it. My eyes naturally and greedily fall to the window where the silk and taffeta draperies hang. I bet it is wildly wonderful inside.
‘Miss Melrose,’ Frederick calls, prompting me to lift a foot, ready to follow, but before I can, something on the cobbles catches my eye. I dip, picking up the paper. A letter? Addressed to the Duke of Chester. On a bite of my lip, I search the window again and slowly slip the letter into my pocket, for I am unable to knock on the door and hand it over. I would like to though. To see him again. Feel those feelings again. Unfortunately, that might make Frederick’s heart stop with shock. And, truly, should I be entertaining such thoughts about such a man? So put the letter back on the ground for the Duke to find!