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)
‘That’s what I said, Melrose. Simpson’s the name.’
‘The ship builder?’
‘You know of him?’ he asks, still focused on the two creamy mounds of plump flesh within his grasp.
‘I too live in Belmore Square.’ This is fate. It has to be.
‘Then I suppose we will be seeing a lot of each other, either there or here.’ He turns a grin my way, one I can’t say I appreciate, and suddenly being here in Kentstone’s feels even more wrong. I am better than this seediness. The Melrose name is better than this.
‘I look forward to doing business with you, Fleming,’ I say confidently. I am going to make this happen, just as soon as I have appealed to my new brother-in-law’s softer nature. That’s my solution. Him.
Problem is, I don’t think the Duke has a softer side. At least, not with anyone other than his new wife, and I highly doubt I can get into her good books, for she will certainly be suspicious of my motives. Rightly so. But this story will not be fresh forever, and men like Fleming don’t come along every day.
Papa wants to make the newspaper national? I can make that happen. And best of all, I don’t have to get married to do it.
Chapter 9
I am, unfortunately, far drunker than I planned to be, but the chatter went on after Fleming had finished fondling Ruby, who is quite possibly more a bluestocking than a cyprian, for she often, if only momentarily, forgot herself and spoke with too much knowledge and with a good tongue.
What would Fleming say, I wonder, if I were to tell him that I suspect one of the highwaymen to be a female? I smile at the thought of his outraged face as I wobble down the steps of Kentstone’s onto the street and look up and down for a Hackney coach, finding the cobbles empty, the street quiet. Well, I think, as I start wandering towards Piccadilly, at least I am able to walk without assistance.
The time alone offers me the perfect opportunity to mull over the events of the day. Get married? I laugh out loud as I wobble around the corner and, most unwelcomed, Taya Winters face pops into my mind’s eye and brings my amusement to a sharp end. Yes, quite a day, which ended with a strong dose of Fleming’s utter vulgarity and started with a strong dose of Taya Winters’ charms. My God, resisting her will kill me, I’m sure of it, but resist her I must. Not resisting her will have me killed. The urge to kiss her. The taste of her fingertip in my mouth. The way she gazed at me. Would it be a terribly bad idea?
Yes!
No.
Yes, yes, yes.
No, no, no.
Jesus, yes.
I must be drunker than I thought to think such pathetic thoughts, perhaps the fresh air assisting there. I must get the deal with Fleming underway so that I may become too busy to let my mind wander to Taya Winters. It’s a good plan, and one I must stick to.
I smile as I turn onto Belmore Square, but it drops when I lose my footing and stumble into the road, narrowly escaping being run down by a carriage that is travelling at quite a remarkable, and, I might add, unacceptable speed. ‘Watch it!’ I yell, righting my staggering body, the blue ruin not helping. ‘Idiot,’ I grumble, watching the coach leave the square. ‘Someone needs to impose speed limits ar—’ Something catches my eye, disappearing into the gardens, a cloaked being moving too fast, up to no good. ‘Who goes there?’ I call, cautious, hearing the sound of footsteps. Light footsteps. If I am not mistaken, the light footsteps of a female. I follow the sound, making it into the gardens, and stop, looking around the darkness, listening carefully. I hear a bush rustle, and then see movement in my peripheral vision. I dart my eyes that way, just catching sight of a figure. A figure in dark breeches and a dark jacket.
And a hat.
I inhale. ‘Hey!’ I yell, going after it, dipping and weaving my way through the bushes and shrubs, stopping every now and then to listen, to watch. Another rustle, another flash of movement to my left. My neck cracks when I snap my head that way, just seeing the waft of some dark locks. ‘Show yourself,’ I call, following, my heart as frantic as my pace. I eventually find my way to the edge of the gardens and stumble out onto the road, turning on the spot, searching for her. Her! It was a female, her frame, her footsteps, her hair.
Then I hear the distant sound of hooves hitting the cobbles, and I wait, bracing myself, the trampling of the ground growing closer, and then out of the darkness, from nowhere, it would seem, a white stallion comes charging towards me, and I am useless, motionless, my eyes set upon the rider who is standing in the saddle, bent over low. I cannot see her eyes, but I can feel them on me, daring me not to move. I cannot move. It is not bravery, but rather simply being mesmerised.