I am nose-to-nose with the white stallion. My body as still as can be. But my heart? It thunders in my chest. My pulse? It booms. My God, I am more alive than ever. Whether it be with fear or excitement, I cannot tell. I allow my eyes to slowly travel up the horse’s nose to its rider. The horseman is staring down at me, their eyes hardly visible past their low hat and high scarf and the shadows they cast. Curious eyes, I’m sure, that are slightly narrowed, inspecting me. Then a small sparkle. Smiling?
I inhale and step back, needing to get the horseman in my sights, arms, body, legs and all, for I am certain I am not looking at a horseman at all.
But the impressive stallion moves before I do, rising up on its back legs on a neigh, loud and intimidating as I expect is intended. I stagger back and fall to my backside on the stones, but I somehow succeed in keeping my eyes up. The rider laughs but stops abruptly.
‘My God,’ I whisper, watching as she slides down from her horse and approaches me slowly, despite the warning of her two fellow, male – they’re definitely male – riders, who remain just a few yards away, their horses treading the ground impatiently. She holds out her gloved hand, and I take the dainty thing, getting to my feet. I must be at least a foot taller. She comes closer. Closer. Closer. Reaches up on her tippy toes. I close my eyes and breathe in, holding my breath. The skin of my cheeks heats, feeling her breath on my face from where she’s pulled her scarf down. And then her lips push into my rough cheek.
Magic.
Her face. Does she want me to see it? For she has removed her scarf.
I inhale and step back, needing to get the horseman in my sights, arms, body, legs and all, for I am certain I am not looking at a horseman at all.
But the impressive stallion moves before I do, rising up on its back legs on a neigh, loud and intimidating as I expect is intended. I stagger back and fall to my backside on the stones, but I somehow succeed in keeping my eyes up. The rider laughs but stops abruptly.
‘My God,’ I whisper, watching as she slides down from her horse and approaches me slowly, despite the warning of her two fellow, male – they’re definitely male – riders, who remain just a few yards away, their horses treading the ground impatiently. She holds out her gloved hand, and I take the dainty thing, getting to my feet. I must be at least a foot taller. She comes closer. Closer. Closer. Reaches up on her tippy toes. I close my eyes and breathe in, holding my breath. The skin of my cheeks heats, feeling her breath on my face from where she’s pulled her scarf down. And then her lips push into my rough cheek.
Magic.
Her face. Does she want me to see it? For she has removed her scarf.
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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.
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.
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I hum, just as a newspaper lands at my feet. I kneel and pick it up, smiling at the first few words of the headline. My sister’s words.
Imagine if …
‘Yes, imagine if,’ I murmur, folding it up and slipping it under my arm.
I rest my hat upon my head, collect my cane from where it is resting against the door, and take the steps down to the cobbles, starting a wander around the square, breathing in the new day, swinging my cane casually. I circle the square anticlockwise, relishing the sounds of the morning bustle, horse’s hooves on the cobbles, wheels or carriages bumping across them too, people calling out their polite greetings to everyone they pass. I have never appreciated the benefits of early mornings, for my nights are too late, being spent in a gentleman’s club, indulging in too much liquor and even more female flesh. The mornings are quite delightful, it must be said.
‘Good morn to you, Melrose,’ Mr Simpson, Belmore’s resident ship builder says, tipping his hat, prompting me to tip mine too. ‘I look forward to the celebrations later.’
‘As do I, Simpson,’ I reply, carrying on my way. ‘Good morn to you, Casper.’ I lift my stick in hello to our family lawyer – a kind man with kind eyes and a kinder smile.
‘Good news about the sales,’ he says. ‘Long may it continue.’
‘We’ll be expanding to ten pages in no time at all,’ I assure him. ‘Let me know if you require any more advertising space, Casper.’
He waves his cane, looking up at the clear blue sky. ‘What a wonderful day for a wedding.’
‘Indeed,’ I say quietly, passing by the Hamsleys, whose daughter, Esther, one of the only women on this square who hasn’t caught my eye, is on her fifth season. Fifth! I am not surprised, she is rather frosty. I have never once seen the girl smile.
‘My lady.’ I nod politely to Annabella Tillsbury, Baroness of Shrewsbury. Her eyes fix to mine. Her smile is demure. She is an understated, beautiful, soft lady, whom Mama has become rather friendly with, and it is for that reason alone, and a crying shame, I must admit, that I have avoided her advances, as I have Lady Blythe, Marchioness of Kent, our local famous author who has a silver tongue and a wicked sense of humour.
I smile fondly at the thought of Mama, who is currently breezing around the house in her morning coat singing orders to our staff, while Emma, her maid, scampers along behind her trying to fix her hair, and Clara, my gorgeous baby sister, whinges and whines about having to wear frills. It’s a stark turnaround from when we arrived in London. Back then, Clara was most impressed, dazzled by the fancy frocks and sumptuous surroundings. Until she realised that those fancy frocks are quite restrictive, and I don’t mean literally. She can no longer dirty herself in mud, pick apples in the orchard, take some home for Mama to bake and throw the bad ones at the boys in our village while yelling blue language. It was rough enough accepting Eliza has come of age and will now marry. Clara? She is just sixteen. Sixteen and overflowing with attitude. Of course, I love it. Of course, it is not suitable for our life these days. So imagine my displeasure when I discover from Eliza that our little, wayward sister is in love with a stable boy. A stable boy! It is not so much that he is a stable boy, although, naturally, that is a problem. She is my baby sister, and I should like to keep her as such for as long as possible. In addition, such a scandal will very likely ruin the family name, and we’ve all worked too hard to allow that. Therefore, the stable boy has had a polite warning to stay away from Clara. Poor thing looked terrified as I casually stroked a hoof knife and nippers. Good. Although, admittedly, I did feel a trifle guilty. I have hardly led by good example when it comes to suitable company to be keeping. Perhaps that changes now.
Perhaps.
I spot Lady Rose, the Countess of Somerset, who resides at number nine Belmore Square, a pointed, haggard old woman, crossing the cobbles up ahead, the feathers on her bonnet looking like they came from a decaying pheasant. The hat must be as old as she is. ‘Melrose,’ she sneers, her nose high. Christ, she looks quite frightening.
‘My lady,’ I say, tipping my hat and bowing as she breezes past. ‘Will we be seeing you for champagne later?’ I ask, forcing her to stop. I smile on the inside, for I know Mama has not invited her.
‘I only attend the weddings of aristocracy.’
And we are not that, as she so often likes to remind us. Lady Rose does not like very many people around here, and the feeling is mutual. Mama always looks like she is sucking on a lemon whenever she encounters the old Countess.
Imagine if …
‘Yes, imagine if,’ I murmur, folding it up and slipping it under my arm.
I rest my hat upon my head, collect my cane from where it is resting against the door, and take the steps down to the cobbles, starting a wander around the square, breathing in the new day, swinging my cane casually. I circle the square anticlockwise, relishing the sounds of the morning bustle, horse’s hooves on the cobbles, wheels or carriages bumping across them too, people calling out their polite greetings to everyone they pass. I have never appreciated the benefits of early mornings, for my nights are too late, being spent in a gentleman’s club, indulging in too much liquor and even more female flesh. The mornings are quite delightful, it must be said.
‘Good morn to you, Melrose,’ Mr Simpson, Belmore’s resident ship builder says, tipping his hat, prompting me to tip mine too. ‘I look forward to the celebrations later.’
‘As do I, Simpson,’ I reply, carrying on my way. ‘Good morn to you, Casper.’ I lift my stick in hello to our family lawyer – a kind man with kind eyes and a kinder smile.
‘Good news about the sales,’ he says. ‘Long may it continue.’
‘We’ll be expanding to ten pages in no time at all,’ I assure him. ‘Let me know if you require any more advertising space, Casper.’
He waves his cane, looking up at the clear blue sky. ‘What a wonderful day for a wedding.’
‘Indeed,’ I say quietly, passing by the Hamsleys, whose daughter, Esther, one of the only women on this square who hasn’t caught my eye, is on her fifth season. Fifth! I am not surprised, she is rather frosty. I have never once seen the girl smile.
‘My lady.’ I nod politely to Annabella Tillsbury, Baroness of Shrewsbury. Her eyes fix to mine. Her smile is demure. She is an understated, beautiful, soft lady, whom Mama has become rather friendly with, and it is for that reason alone, and a crying shame, I must admit, that I have avoided her advances, as I have Lady Blythe, Marchioness of Kent, our local famous author who has a silver tongue and a wicked sense of humour.
I smile fondly at the thought of Mama, who is currently breezing around the house in her morning coat singing orders to our staff, while Emma, her maid, scampers along behind her trying to fix her hair, and Clara, my gorgeous baby sister, whinges and whines about having to wear frills. It’s a stark turnaround from when we arrived in London. Back then, Clara was most impressed, dazzled by the fancy frocks and sumptuous surroundings. Until she realised that those fancy frocks are quite restrictive, and I don’t mean literally. She can no longer dirty herself in mud, pick apples in the orchard, take some home for Mama to bake and throw the bad ones at the boys in our village while yelling blue language. It was rough enough accepting Eliza has come of age and will now marry. Clara? She is just sixteen. Sixteen and overflowing with attitude. Of course, I love it. Of course, it is not suitable for our life these days. So imagine my displeasure when I discover from Eliza that our little, wayward sister is in love with a stable boy. A stable boy! It is not so much that he is a stable boy, although, naturally, that is a problem. She is my baby sister, and I should like to keep her as such for as long as possible. In addition, such a scandal will very likely ruin the family name, and we’ve all worked too hard to allow that. Therefore, the stable boy has had a polite warning to stay away from Clara. Poor thing looked terrified as I casually stroked a hoof knife and nippers. Good. Although, admittedly, I did feel a trifle guilty. I have hardly led by good example when it comes to suitable company to be keeping. Perhaps that changes now.
Perhaps.
I spot Lady Rose, the Countess of Somerset, who resides at number nine Belmore Square, a pointed, haggard old woman, crossing the cobbles up ahead, the feathers on her bonnet looking like they came from a decaying pheasant. The hat must be as old as she is. ‘Melrose,’ she sneers, her nose high. Christ, she looks quite frightening.
‘My lady,’ I say, tipping my hat and bowing as she breezes past. ‘Will we be seeing you for champagne later?’ I ask, forcing her to stop. I smile on the inside, for I know Mama has not invited her.
‘I only attend the weddings of aristocracy.’
And we are not that, as she so often likes to remind us. Lady Rose does not like very many people around here, and the feeling is mutual. Mama always looks like she is sucking on a lemon whenever she encounters the old Countess.
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