Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
She watches me murmur the words, but then, as if snapping out of a trance, she shakes herself back to life and her eyes narrow on me, as if she has just this moment remembered that I have upset her. Good. The hostility, it is a good thing.
I shake my head to myself and take the steps down to the cobbles, circling round the back of her, and I get my mouth as close to her ear as I can without rousing suspicion or attention. What are you doing, Frank? ‘You’re not my type.’ I simply cannot help myself, feeling as though the power is now in my hands.
Taya laughs, and it causes chaos behind my breeches. ‘I have heard every woman is your type, Mr Melrose.’ She turns towards me, and her face is suddenly so very close to mine, so close, in fact, I can feel the heat of her breath on my cheeks. I swallow, and it is extremely lumpy from trying to be discreet. She has heard? Damn it, what exactly has she heard?
‘Fortunately, you are not my type.’ Her green eyes blink slowly as she, equally slowly, scans my face.
‘No?’
‘No,’ she whispers, her voice but a purr, ‘I am not partial to rakes.’
‘Thank goodness,’ I murmur, my eyes falling to those lovely, full, kissable rosy lips. It’s almost a travesty that God would bless a woman I cannot touch with such beauty.
‘I suppose you desire a woman with not an ounce of steel in her.’ Taya blinks and her lashes flutter. She bites her lip. And completely and helplessly mesmerised, I find the space between our mouths closing, the heat of her breath getting hotter on my skin, our surroundings disappearing. Kiss her. Taste her.
‘I beg to differ,’ I say, smelling the pleasure to be had.
‘And what do you think you are doing?’ she asks in a whisper, so quietly, but so very loud too. I stop just shy of her mouth.
Lord above!
That is a very good question. What the hell am I doing?
I gulp, move back, quickly look around us, relieved to see everyone is distracted by the happy couple, thank God. I shake myself back to life, resisting adjusting myself.
‘I think it’s best if we stay out of each other’s way,’ Taya says, and I laugh.
‘Fine by me.’ I value my life and my relationship with my sister. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day, my lady,’ I bow and force a smile, backing away.
‘Oh brother.’ Clara’s singsong voice is high and distant, one might say satisfied too, and I follow the sound up the front of our house to her bedroom window, where I find her casually leaning on her forearms, looking down at me. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks, somewhat cheerily.
Bugger everything to hell.
‘Quite all right, sister,’ I assure her, cringing, not bothering to question how much Clara might have seen from her view up there, as I am sure it was quite a lot while I was briefly lost in a trance. At least I know now she is not with the stable boy. It is a small mercy.
I leave Taya behind, and by the time I have made it back up the steps to the door, everyone is in the drawing room drinking champagne, including, and I’m still not over it, my sister and her new husband. I swipe up a glass and join them. ‘So you have delayed your bridal tour,’ I say as casually as I can, taking a little sip of my drink, looking around the drawing room, appearing as nonchalant as I sound.
I sense Eliza’s small smile and find her. ‘We have,’ she says simply, with no elaboration, which, I have no doubt, is intentional, for she knows, as we have spoken about my encounter with the highwayman who we think may be a woman at great length, that I am very keen to publish my story, but there is little point when Eliza is dominating the pages of The London Times with her extended, quite riveting story of the Winters family. Over the past few weeks, there has not been one long report, but many reports, the whole, unbelievable story being broken down into segments, a business tactic that I myself recommended. I didn’t, admittedly, realise that this would become a long-term feature, and by long-term, I mean longer than the few weeks in between Johnny asking for Eliza’s hand, them actually getting married, and then going off around the world. ‘If, dear brother,’ she goes on, ‘you had bothered to take the time to read my work this morning, you would have realised the story is far from finished.’
God damn me. ‘I was busy.’
‘Purchasing another new jacket?’
‘I do not support this, for the record,’ Johnny says, looking stoic and unimpressed, making me swing shocked eyes his way. Oh? Well, this is interesting. How might my determined sister react to a statement such as that from her new husband? Is he stupid?