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)
Clara is looking pretty in pink this evening, but her mood is sombre. She was thrilled, of course, that I saved her love from persecution, but quick on the heels of her joy came sorrow, for in that moment, she became privy to the impossibilities of loving an unsuitable someone. Her romanticising over the stable boy was never going to end well, but – and I do not wish to appear cold-hearted – the sooner she realised that, the better. The less hurt she will suffer.
‘Must we go?’ Clara says, sounding as grim as she appears. ‘I have no desire to pretend to be happy.’
‘We must,’ I say, brushing down the front of my silver-blue dress, smiling at the irony of this situation and how the roles have reversed. Just a week or two ago, it was I who was reluctant and unwilling, and Clara who was full of beans. Perhaps now I have an ally in my sister, someone who understands my plight, though for different reasons, of course. ‘At least you do not have to endure the motions of being courted by a man you do not desire.’
‘Desire?’ she says, accepting my arm when I hold it up for her to link. We leave the house and walk together around the square to Mr Fitzgerald’s home. ‘I do not desire him, Eliza. I love him!’
‘If one loves, one tends to desire the person they love.’ I smile down at my dear, naïve sister.
‘You mean pleasure,’ she whispers, her lips straightening to hide her grin. ‘Don’t you?’
‘What do you know of pleasure?’ I swallow, thinking about the tingles that engulf me whenever I think about the Duke. And the throb I feel between my legs when I see him. Just a myth.
Clara rolls her eyes. ‘You and Frank think I’m stupid. Well, if I am stupid, so are you two.’ She drops her hold of me. ‘You, writing articles about that duke. What are you, obsessed? And Frank cavorting with that Dare woman.’
I ignore her first accusation, naturally, and home in on her second. ‘What do you know of Frank cavorting?’
‘I was worried about Lizzy Fallow, the harlot, but Lady Dare?’ Her lips press into a straight line. ‘He is heading for trouble.’
I stop and grab her shoulders. ‘Clara, for Christ’s sake, what do you know of Frank cavorting with Lady Dare?’ Has she seen them?
Her eyes narrow. ‘What happened to variety in your writing, because all I’m seeing these days are words about that murdering Duke.’
I recoil. ‘There’s not much variety around here.’ My eyes fall on the window of the Winters’ house and I get us moving again.
‘He murdered his family, you know, Eliza,’ she says. ‘Burned them alive and fled London pretending to have perished with them.’
‘There is no proof of that, Clara.’
‘Except he looks as dangerous as he is claimed to be.’
Ridiculous. The only danger the Duke of Chester appears to pose is a danger to my heart, for it feels like it could explode each time I encounter him.
‘Eve Hamsley told me she overheard her father talking to Lymington, and he saw it happen!’
‘What?’ I whisper as we pass the Winters’ residence. ‘He saw Johnny Winters burn his family alive?’
‘Indeed, he did. We should have taken the longer route,’ she says, increasing her pace and rushing past, as though Johnny might emerge at any moment and throw flames at us. God, how desperate I am to ask the Duke about his family. ‘Apparently the whole of the square will be in attendance this evening,’ she goes on as we round the gardens to Mr Fitzgerald’s home.
I laugh. ‘I can guarantee you, Clara, the whole square will not be in attendance.’
‘I am not lying!’
‘Will the Duke of Chester be there?’ I ask, cocking my head when we slow to a stop.
She waves my question off as if it is a stupid one. I suppose it is, but she isn’t far wrong, because, it would appear, that everyone is here. Except, of course, Winters. It would seem the wily Duke is being ostracised, at least by the gentry. The ladies? I bet they wouldn’t mind an appearance from him.
I take a deep breath, remove my coat and hat and hand it to the waiting manservant, swoop up a glass of Champagne from a tray and float into the room, smiling. Inevitably, I am soon found by Frederick and the telling-off I have been bracing myself for ensues.
‘I must insist you refrain from bringing shame upon my family’s name,’ he blathers, and I inwardly roll my eyes. I also realise in this moment that the lack of scorn from my father is probably because he deems me the problem of another man, now that I am courting.
I purse my lips and smile tightly. ‘Excuse me, Frederick, but I have Champagne to drink and partygoers to insult.’ I walk away, shaking with anger, and it doesn’t improve when I spot Frank entering, looking as dashing as ever. I come to a stop by Countess Rose, whose face does not appear as alarmingly ugly in candlelight as it does in daylight. It’s a frightfully good job, since Mr Fitzgerald’s house is packed to the rafters with people, all of whom are rather close to one another.