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)
How odd it is to feel this new sense of purpose. To be inspired. Motivated. Excited. This enthusiasm to write is rather refreshing.
I watch Taya Winters pass through the gilded gate, ready to disappear into the greenery of Belmore Square Gardens. But she stops, stands still for a moment, and then slowly turns, looking up at my window.
I think I move before she catches sight of me or my bare chest.
I think.
I know I didn’t.
Belmore Square. What a weirdly wonderful place it is, the home to an eclectic mix of people, all stinking rich, it must be said, with a wildly vibrant colour pallet, from the shrubs and flowers of the gardens, to the frocks of the residents that grace the cobbles. It even sparkles – the gilded railings enclosing the square gardens that the thirteen homes circle polished and ever shiny, as perfect as the homes, the clean cobbles, and every petal and leaf on every flower and bush.
Money, power and respect, they are all contributory factors to the idea of perfection. It is a lovely notion, if unrealistic. Perfect is an illusion, and my family breaks that illusion most days with the stories that we print in our newspaper. Our success is not only attributed to the invention of the steam printing press, but to the talented hand of my sister, who has always penned the most riveting of tales for readers to indulge in. Not that the readers knew it was, in fact, a woman entertaining them. No. Every story was credited to me, Frank Melrose, for the idea of a female journalist was, much to Eliza’s dismay, laughable. Unheard of! But the arrangement suited us both, for my passion to write did not match my sister’s.
Oh, how one quite inconsequential encounter with a horseman has changed that. Suddenly, I wholly appreciate my sister’s drive. I understand her desires to write and entertain the ton with wild, elaborate stories. Wild and elaborate but true. Her recent tales have been received rather well. Of course, anything concerning to the Duke of Chester is guaranteed to pique the interest of the ton, their raging curiosity about him and the murder of his father begging to be settled. My sister is doing a terribly fine job of settling said curiosity and answering the questions that have lingered for some time. Of course, it helps that she is to marry the duke in question, and she now has a walking, talking reference guide on all things connected to the Winters family. But the story that has dominated the front page of The London Times for some weeks now is almost told, for the happy couple will wed today. I smile. Eliza will be whisked away on a bridal tour, and the people will still wish to be riveted each week by a good story. In her absence, someone needs to maintain the momentum Eliza has set. Sales need to keep growing. Our reach expanding.
I stand on the steps of our home on Belmore Square and cast my eye around as I fasten the buttons of my new jacket, bracing myself for the upcoming celebrations. I honestly never thought I would see the day. My sister is as independent as a female could be. Almost to a fault, if the truth be told. She has got herself into many scrapes because of her headstrong ways and ambitions. Me? I’ve spent most of my adult years finding pleasure through intimacy. I cannot deny it, I have been quite lavish with my affections, and my focus has most certainly been misplaced. If I didn’t appreciate my sister so much, I might see her as an obstacle in my way. If I didn’t love her so much, I might not have approved of her marriage to the Duke. Unfortunately, to my own detriment, I appreciate her more than she’ll ever know, and I love her dearly, so I must be patient. It’s hard, I must say. I have always found writing to feel like I’m pulling teeth. These days, my hand simply cannot keep up with my brain. But I am not foolish enough to go up against my sister in a war to win the front page. Not only because I could never be at odds with her, but because I have spent too long taking the credit for Eliza’s words. She must have her time, for she has more than earned it.
We sold ten thousand copies the day after father finally gave Eliza his blessing to write her story and sign her name as the author. Ten thousand! It’s a record, and not at all surprising given the interest in the notorious, deadly Duke. He might be a stoic beast of a man with a questionable past, but there is no denying the love he holds for my sister. Not to mention, he’s a duke, and it is easy to forget one’s past when one has a title to paper over the cracks, not that any of us are likely to forget his or his family’s past, for it is still the talk of the square. And on that thought, I wonder how the Duke’s sister, the floating, forbidden Lady Taya Winters, has taken to being back on Belmore Square.