Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 127368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Virginia was a blonde version of Clara Bow, complete with wide, wounded eyes filled with vulnerability.
Apparently, David and Virginia never lived Dorothy’s death (murder?) down, but David was rich and titled (as well as entitled) and didn’t give two shits what anyone thought of him. He went about his business and life as if a woman he’d been having an affair with under his wife’s nose (almost literally) hadn’t died a horrible death in the entry of his ancestral home.
However, within months, Virginia had secluded herself in Duncroft, never to be seen on the London scene again. In fact, never to be seen again, unless someone went to Duncroft.
Something that sounded unnervingly familiar.
When I put my phone back on charge, it was nearing four thirty in the morning.
I considered my vibrator before I reached and turned off the light, plunging the room again in complete darkness.
I ruled against a self-induced orgasm, mostly because the dream with Ian Alcott seemingly marrying me, then making love to me, only to end up smothering me, was not something I wanted associated with a real-life climax.
Unsurprisingly, I had trouble sleeping, but eventually managed it.
Only shortly after to be awoken again.
And this time, someone was definitely in my room.
Six
THE TOUR
I jerked up in bed about the time the first set of curtains on one of the four windows in my room was slapped open by one of the maids.
I blinked as she moved to the next window, then whipped my head around when I sensed movement on my other side.
A second maid was approaching the bed carrying a legged breakfast tray, while the maid who’d offered to help me with dressing was finishing tucking my evening shoes into the wardrobe. She then turned toward the gown I’d thrown over the back of the sofa.
Brittany was not there.
“Breakfast,” the maid who set the tray beside me on the bed said. She was now reaching behind me to gather pillows and fluff them for me to lay back on while I ate. “Lord Alcott will meet you at ten in the Conservatory to take you on a tour of the house.”
The window maid was done with the curtains and was looking down at me, and it was her turn to talk.
“If you require any assistance, just use the bell pull,” she instructed.
She then pointed to the wide, velvet ribbon ending in a silk tassel, which hung down the wall close to the bed.
The maid with my dress was walking toward the door.
“Hey,” I called. “Where are you taking that?”
She stopped, turned my way and looked confused. “To the laundry, of course.”
“It’s dry clean only,” I pointed out. “And I can see to that when I get home.”
“We dry clean in house,” the curtain maid sniffed, clearly affronted. “It’ll be returned this afternoon.”
All the maids were now heading to the door. Indeed, the dressing maid was already out of it, with my dress.
“Hold on,” I snapped.
The breakfast tray maid slipped out, the curtain maid remained, arching her brows toward me.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Laura,” she answered.
“And the others?” I demanded.
“Rebecca brought in your tray. Harriet will see to your dress. I believe Brittany has already introduced herself.”
Yes. They definitely talked among themselves.
“Please don’t come into this room without knocking,” I requested, firmly.
She hesitated, gave a slight bow to her head, and said, “As you wish.”
And then she left, the door giving a soft snick when she closed it behind her.
I felt bad for being snappish, but for goodness’ sakes. Who walked into a stranger’s room, woke them up, fluffed their pillows and took their clothes?
No, in a team of three, who did all that?
None of this requested, after they’d unpacked personal belongings, again not requested.
I mean, honestly. If it wasn’t for the USB ports in my nightstand, it’d feel like I’d been thrown back to the 1890s.
Still sleepy, feeling off, and definitely unsettled by what just happened, I looked down at the tray.
And for God’s sake.
This was beginning to be too much.
The tray was large, like a small table. And the china appeared to be designed for the room, cream with carnation-pink edges clad in slender strips of gold.
Breakfast included egg in cup, impeccably toasted squares in an ornate silver caddy, coffee service, cup and saucer, creamer and tiny sugar bowl in the same cream and pink china. The silverware, as it had been at dinner last night, was gold-plated. There was half a grapefruit, several rashers of bacon, sauteed mushrooms, two delicious-looking sausages, two hash brown patties, and four small bowls, one of brown sauce, the others of ketchup, butter and marmalade. The only things missing from a proper English were the beans, blood pudding and grilled tomatoes.
There was also a small, gold vase, the top being tightly packed poofs of four pink carnations.
I grabbed the tray and set it aside so I could swing my legs off the bed. I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, wash my face, and lightly moisturize (I could hardly eat with morning mouth).