The Love List by Deb Marlowe Read Free Book Online Page B

could not see.
    “Miss Wright?”
    “Yes.”  Her grip tightened around both of Brynne’s hands then.  “Dear God help us all, but yes.  You can stay.”
     

Three
     
    I have danced through the halls of the finest palaces, dandled Princes on my knee, entertained the greatest minds of an Age.  But I have also knelt next to a bleeding woman in the meanest streets, plucked infants from the bodies of their dying mothers and tried to blaze a torch of light against the black depths of despair threatening so many.  An extraordinary life it has been, and a happy result is many friends in places both high and low.  Remember that as you listen to my story.  It begins in Bath . . . 
—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
     
     
    London, Three Months Later
     
     
    Weary, the Duke of Aldmere shifted in his seat.  A futile effort, since his discomfort came from within and was in no way due to the furniture.  To the contrary, he regularly referred to the padded leather monstrosity as his throne .  Crafted specifically to his measurements and situated elegantly behind an expansive desk of polished mahogany, the thing might well have been gilded and bejeweled, for without a doubt it was from this seat that he ruled an empire.
    A duke’s days—his days—were filled with duty, responsibility and obligation.  Estate management and agricultural concerns vied with financial matters and business interests, and that didn’t take into account his political duties or the piles of social invitations that arrived daily.  Morning, noon and night Aldmere granted audiences and granted favors, he took his seat in the Lords, he attended meetings and chaired committees, and very occasionally he allowed himself to be rigged out in formal dress and dangled like a brass ring before the hopeful mamas and daughters of the beau monde .
    Thus was a dukedom run, and his life lived.  His days stretched out before him, endlessly busy, endlessly the same . . . and today, just seemingly endless.
    “Your Grace?  Your Grace?”
    Startled, he looked up, his attention caught by the concern in his secretary’s tone.  “Yes, Flemming.  What is it?”
    “A letter, your Grace, from Killingworth Colliery.”  The man’s expression was oddly hopeful.  “Their locomotive is nearly complete and Mr. Stephenson invites you to attend the testing of it.”
    This should have been exciting news.  He’d been keenly following the intriguing developments of locomotive engines in the North lately, and yet he stared at the letter, waiting for a rush of enthusiasm that would not come. 
    He nodded.  “Thank you.  Just leave it there and I’ll attend to it directly.”  He lifted the report in front of him.  Five and thirty years he would mark at his next birthday.  The prime of his life, surely.  Too young to feel so jaded and . . . bored.  Too young to stare down the corridor of his remaining life and feel his ballocks shrink at the sheer meaningless of it all. 
    He stifled a curse.  One might imagine that if you were afflicted with such a terrible lethargy, it might at least come with a bit of calmness or tranquility.  But oh, no.  Aldmere faced the empty years to come and suffered a surge of restless frustration that he could do nothing about.  When was the last time he’d felt simply normal, at peace?  He damned well knew the answer—he’d been fifteen years old and as green as grass.  Perhaps it was time and past to just accept the fact that he would never feel that way again.
    Certainly not today, at any rate.  Flemming still stood across from him, waiting.  He didn’t look up.  “Was there something else, then?”
    “Yes, sir.  I wondered,” his secretary hesitated.  “I wondered if there was something . . . special that I might do for you?”
    That had him raising his head and piercing the man with a frown.  “Special?”
    Flemming nodded.  “I can’t help but notice how restive you’ve been lately,