Page 54 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
The Duke of Death?
Ellie rapped on the coach’s roof. The little slot opened. “Aye, milady?”
“Do you know where the tavern called The One Ball is located?” she kept her voice quiet, in case Merida could hear. This was becoming a habit. A disturbing habit.
Matthews hesitated, then admitted, “Aye, milady.”
“I would like to go there, please.”
A pause. Then, “’Tis a rotten part of town, milady. I can’t guarantee yer safety.”
Well, she supposed that answered her question. Ellie hesitated.
Merida will be with the carriage. Matthews can drive her to safety. Leaving onlyyouin danger.
But…she’d been in danger before. Tonight, just coming here, had been a danger. She wanted this. Wanted it enough to risk the danger.
Ellie took a deep breath. “I understand. Please take me there.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears, heart racing at the rash decision she’d just made. On the other hand, her life had been nothingbutrash decisions since she’d realized how close she was to losing her place in the world. One more wouldn’t hurt.
After a long moment the small window slid closed, Matthews grumbling under his breath. Ellie exhaled and sat back against the squabs.
Right. Off we go.
Tonight she’d worn another simple gown with nothing beneath, in the hope of repeating what had happened the last time she’d gone to his flat. Now she was back in the coach, however, she slid her arms into her frock coat and buttoned it, grateful for its warmth.
As the coach trundled through the dark city she reached for her bonnet, turning it over in her hands. The wool would keep her ears and cheeks warm, while the brim would hide her face from anyone who might recognize her.
Who is going to recognize you in a place called The One Ball? Youdoknow that is a reference to a male with an unfortunate affliction?
Ellie rolled her eyes at her subconscious and refused to think about gentlemen’s ballocks. The bonnet landed beside her on the squab, forgotten.
You have thought about one set of ballocks fairly regularly.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
God forgive her, she had.
In all her years, she’dneverobsessed over a man the way she’d obsessed over Fawkes MacMillan. The way he’d touched her, the way he’d made her feel…the way pleasure had exploded throughout her body…
She was already breathless, with the heat crawling through her veins.
Her legs fell open, her hand falling to her breast. With her head tipped back against the squabs, she squeezed through the heavy wool material, wondering what it would feel like to have Fawkes touch her this way, when she was fully clothed. Strange, how little clothes had factored in their…connection.
Beneath the simple wool gown a rush of warmth flooded her core, and she shifted on the seat, trying to capture that sensation. How easy would it be, to hike up her skirts and touch herself there?
The wayhehad.
With histongue.
You are fantasizing about a man you just found out is a murderer.
No, she’d just learned that one lad, whoever he was, called him apoisoner. Surely that wasn’t enough to condemn a man? Besides, she was investigating.
Fantasizing. Not investigating.
Still.
