Chapter Five
The book in her lap could not hold her attention.
Closing it with a snap, Eleanor again glanced at the clock on the mantle. It had four minutes until three in the afternoon. At any moment, Benedict would arrive and his tutelage would continue.
Nerves and excitement roiled inside her.
Ever since he’d proposed this course last night, she had been able to think of nothing else.
She’d lain awake in her bed, staring at the canopy as her mind raced.
This morning, she had twisted herself into a knot at the breakfast table and so she’d decided to clear her mind with a visit to her modiste.
She had intended to distract herself only, but she had ended up ordering two new gowns, more daring in cut and bolder in colour than she usually wore.
Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she’d bought decadent silk stockings she’d wanted forever but could never bring herself to purchase.
She’d stopped by Victoria’s townhouse but her friend had not been at home, so she’d taken lunch at Liddle’s Tea Shop and then made her way back to Penhurst House.
Now she was in her drawing room, pretending she was not watching the clock and keeping up the pretence she was even remotely interested in reading the book in her lap.
The clock chimed the hour. Benedict would not come precisely at three, he always was ten minutes late to everything, and—
“Lord Benedict, my lady,” her butler intoned.
She jumped, the book almost slipping from her lap.
Simmons stood in the entrance to the drawing room, his expression as impassive as ever.
“Thank you, Simmons. Please show him in.” She should not hesitate in saying the next part.
They were more often than not alone and interrupted, but she had never directed such.
Just say it, Eleanor. “Please also ensure we are not disturbed.”
Her butler did not even blink an eye. “Yes, my lady.”
She gripped the book in her lap. Should she sit or should she stand? Sitting would put her at a disadvantage, but standing would be odd? Which, and she had but a second to choose.
Standing. Standing would be better. Putting action to thought, she then set about arranging a casual smile on her face, but then she didn’t know what to do with her hands. She was still trying to decide such when Benedict strode in.
He stopped. His brows lifted as he took in her awkward stance in the middle of her drawing room. “Why are you standing?”
“I— Because—” She scowled. It was ridiculous how awkward she felt.
He grinned, though his grin faded when he spied the heavily loaded tea table. “Is that Mrs Johnson’s coconut cake?” he said in awe.
“I don’t know if I should tell you,” she said crossly.
He’d already made his way to the platter, not bothering with a side plate as he picked up a slice. “You love me,” he said, his mouth full of cake.
She must, because she was only slightly disgusted. “Can you not display the bare minimum of manners?”
“Not when Mrs Johnson’s cake is on offer.” He eyed the platter, as if he thought to devour another slice.
“Are you going to stuff your face with cake all afternoon?”
“No, of course not. I am here for your lesson.”
A strange feeling curled low in her belly, anticipation and nerves and something she could not quite identify. “Well, what are we about? Is it fans again?” She had brought her fan, just in case. It currently resided on a side table along with the book she hadn’t read.
“No, I think we have conquered the fan. Today, we shall practice the almost touch.”
Frowning, she watched as he shoved the last piece of cake in his mouth. “The almost touch?”
“I don’t know what else to call it, El.” Wiping his hands on a napkin—at least he did not wipe them on his breeches, as he used to do as a youth—he made his way to the pianoforte. “Come stand with me.”
Unsure what he was about, she joined him. He gazed down at her expectantly, as if she should magically know why he wanted them to stand at the pianoforte. “What are we doing?”
“We are pretending we are at a ball and this is a balcony.”
“It is a pianoforte, Benedict.”
“Use your imagination, El.”
She blew out a breath. “And we are going to almost touch?” she said sceptically.
“Yes.” His gaze held hers. “It is a hot evening. You have spent the evening luring the earl with your fan and, with a final look, you have let him know silently you wish to take the air. You know he will follow you, and so you look out over the garden while you wait. You have found a quiet corner, far from the other guests. And then, he approaches.”
His voice lulled her, so she could practically see the picture he wove, only instead of Lord Malvern, it had been Benedict she had been teasing from across the ball. She could almost feel the cool breeze on her face, the thrum of her blood as she waited for him to come to her.
Awareness of him stole her breath. He was so much taller than her, and though he was lean, he was still bigger. Her arm brushed his, the perfect tailoring of his jacket deceptive. Beneath that sleeve was muscled strength and, if she turned her head, her chin would rest on a hard, rounded shoulder.
“I’ll show you what you could do.” His thigh brushed her skirts, and she fancied she could feel the heat of his body through their clothing. “Others are around, so it will be nothing obvious. Perhaps something like… your hand is on the balcony. I shall place mine next to yours.”
Long, well-shaped fingers stretched next to hers, his smallest finger almost touching hers.
He was ungloved, as he always was when he came to her house.
What would his bare skin feel like? He must have touched her a hundred times, a thousand, and yet she’d never longed for it, her breath strangled in her chest as she stared at his hand, willing it to cover hers.
His smallest finger flexed, almost touching hers, and her heart leapt in her chest, throwing itself against her ribs.
She sucked in her breath, so quickly she felt lightheaded.
His brow creased. “Are you well, El?”
She managed to nod, even give a reassuring smile. Because it was ridiculous that she had suddenly noticed how tall he was, how broad, how devastatingly handsome.
“Pretend you yet stare out over the balustrade.” Replacing his hand with the other, he turned and took half a step forward, until barely a breath remained between them.
“See how we are close but do not touch? There is allure in the space between us, and it is so simple to perform. At a ball, the theatre, a musicale.” His deep voice lulled her, wrapped around her.
“On a balcony or by a refreshment table. We could be stood beside each other like this, respectable to those watching but we both know what this means.”
What did it mean to him? Because she was beginning to believe it did not mean what she’d thought it did.
He looked down at her. “El, I’m going to lean over you.”
She drew in her breath. His eyes… They were so blue. “Yes, Benedict.”
Something flared in those stormy depths. For a moment, time stood still.
Mouth dry, she wet her lips. His gaze flicked to her mouth and then he blinked, averting his eyes. The world returned in a rush, such that she almost needed to steady herself.
Placing his hands either side of her on the pianoforte, he leant forward. She didn’t know what to do with hers, her arms bent behind her, her fingers clutching the pianoforte’s edge. How had she never noticed how big his chest was, how his shoulders dwarfed hers?
“Perhaps this is too close?” he rasped.
She could only shake her head helplessly, completely under his thrall.
“Good.” His breath whispered over her ear, stirring her hair.
She tried like mad to pretend this was not affecting her, that she wasn’t aware of his big body around hers, that she desperately didn’t want his touch. His chest rose and fell, the air thick with…something. She didn’t wish to think too hard on what that something might be.
Abruptly, he pulled himself from her. Cold air rushed to replace him, a consuming emptiness in the space he’d once occupied.
He moved to the table holding the tea service, clutching a dainty cup in his big hand. He downed the tea, his throat moving.
She bit her lip as her gaze ran over him, his long legs, his flat stomach, his broad shoulders. His hands, with their long, elegant fingers. The ones that hadn’t touched her.
Swallowing, she closed her eyes to regain her composure. It was Benedict. Benedict. This was absurd. “I can see how that would be effective.” She was ever so proud of how her voice only shook a little. Clearing her throat, she said, “Was that the extent of this lesson?”
He blinked and then looked at her. “Apologies, El, did you say something?”
She attempted a smile, though it felt strange upon her face. “Is our lesson finished?”
“Oh. Yes. You did well.” He poured another cup, the tea coming at a trickle. He downed it and winced at the no doubt bitter taste of the overbrewed tea.
“Would you like some more? Or I could ring for some lemonade.”
Placing the cup down carefully, he ran his hand over his jaw. “Yes. Lemonade, if you would. And perhaps some more cake?”
Distracted, she stared at his mouth. The thin upper lip. The plush lower one. The dark mauve colour of them, and the way they glistened from the tea.
Brows drawing, he touched his chin. “El? Do I have something on my face?”
She started, blushing furiously. “No, I— I’ll ring for lemonade, shall I?”
“And cake.”
“And cake.”
He smirked, and just like that, all was again as it always had been between them. He was her friend. Her dearest one. She would not risk that for the world.
She rang for the lemonade and cake. They took their usual seats, he on one settee and she on another. A companionable silence rose between them, and she took the moment to examine him. He was lost in thought, his eyes distant.
“When shall be our next lesson, Benedict?” See, she could be normal. The thought of the next lesson did not in any way cause her heart to flutter, or her stomach to flip, or excitement thrum through her veins.
His gaze shifted to her. “Hmm?”
She lost herself in blue and for a moment forgot what she had asked. “Our next lesson?”
Something crossed his expression, something dark and wanting, before they returned to their usual warmth. “I think the day after next.”
“Why the delay? Should we not arrange it for tomorrow?”
“I have plans tomorrow, El.”
She gasped. “I beg your pardon? How dare you have plans that do not involve me?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I am the worst sort of friend,” he said solemnly.
“As long as you acknowledge it.” She tossed her head. “Fine. I expect I can find it within myself to forgive you. However, know it is under sufferance, and I am quite put out with you for making me weight two whole days.”
“That is very kind of you,” he said.
“I know.”
He laughed, and she grinned, and then the lemonade and cake arrived and the fizz in her stomach was because of the lemonade and not because she had made him smile.