AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment there, he was sure she was going to fight him about the book. She had a fire in her. It was a fire that intrigued him, but it wasn’t one he wanted when he was trying to make sure nothing bad happened to her.
He sat back in the chair. Everything was quiet and calm out there. He would have to assume that the Duke of Winnett hadn’t made any moves while he had been away from the window.
About ten minutes passed before Eleanor said, “I can’t sleep.”
He glanced over at her and realized she was staring at the ceiling. “Close your eyes and remember that book you were reading in the carriage today.”
“Why would I do that? I already know what happened up to the point where I stopped reading it.”
“Then come up with a suitable ending for it.”
“If I wanted to come up with an ending for the book, I would have written it.”
“Think up an ending and then compare it to the ending that’s actually there. Maybe yours will be better.”
She turned her gaze to him. “But if my ending is better, then it’ll ruin the ending in the book.”
“What if your ending is worse? Maybe you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be true.” She tapped her fingers on the mattress.
He sensed she was getting ready to present a counterargument, so he asked, “What is it?”
“Well, if my ending is terrible compared the book’s ending, then that will mean I’m a poor storyteller.”
“So what if you are? Not all of us are meant to be writers.”
She sat up in the bed. Before he had a chance to get a look of the outline of her breasts, she drew her knees up to her chest and clasped her hands around her legs. This might have been a nice view had her gown not been so long it went all the way to her ankles. He shook the thought aside. He had no business in thinking such things until after they married. He forced his gaze back to the window.
“But I have created stories in my mind,” she said. “I started when I was young. I don’t recall how old I was when I came up with the first story. I might have been six. Maybe seven. All I know is that stories come to me without me even trying for them.”
“Have you ever written them down?”
“I wrote a couple when I was ten, but my governess told me it was better to leave writing to the authors.”
That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Doesn’t the fact that you wrote a story make you an author?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. She made it sound like writing was something only gentlemen should do.”
That was further nonsense, but her father wasn’t inclined to take her thoughts or wants into consideration, so he wasn’t surprised. Why would he hire a governess for his daughter if the governess disagreed with him?
“After we marry, you can write all the stories you want,” he replied. “I might not be able to afford much, but I can supply you with all the parchment and ink you’ll ever need.” He paused then glanced her way. “What kind of stories were you writing when the governess put a stop to your writing?”
“Well, one had to do with a lonely rabbit who was tired of being stuck in her underground burrow, so she ventured into the forest to find out what other animals were out there.”
When she didn’t continue, he pressed, “Did she find any animals?”
“She did, and they invited her to their tea party in a sunny glade. But the other rabbits weren’t happy. They made her leave. The new friends she made rescued her, though, and she was able to escape. She was never lonely again.”
“Were all of your stories like that?”
“No. I had other ideas. That was my favorite one. When my governess found them, she made me get rid of them then forbade me from writing anything else.”
That explained quite a bit. The governess had probably concluded that the lonely rabbit was Eleanor and that she hated being stuck out in the country all by herself. Though Eleanor probably hadn’t intended it, the other rabbits in her story had to be the governess, the servants, and, to a lesser extent, the father who refused to bring Eleanor to London.
“Tell me something about yourself,” Eleanor spoke up after a minute of silence passed between them. “It seems like you know a lot about me, but I don’t know anything about you.”
“I’m afraid there’s not much to tell. I’m just the way I seem. This,” he gestured to himself and the window, “is who I am. I’m a Runner. People hire me to figure out who has done them harm.”
