Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Silently, astonished at this unexpected turn, Eliza lifted her wrist. Her dance card dangled humiliatingly bare for Lord Sinclair to sign.
If he was shocked to find it empty, he didn’t show it. Instead, he scrawled his name wide across the next two sets. The pencil was small in his ungloved hand.
Eliza raised a brow but didn’t feel herself equal to a comment. The corner of Lord Sinclair’s lips tipped up, his gaze locked on hers and impossible to read.
Lady Arabella, on the other hand, sighed at the sight of her brother’s signature. “Are you incapable of doing things properly? Or do you simply enjoy vexing me?”
“Both,” Sinclair said, gaze still trapping Eliza’s. “But my primary motive at present is to enjoy the company of Miss Eliza for as long as possible.”
Eliza could feel the penetrating looks from her sister and cousin, but she couldn’t bring herself to break from Lord Sinclair’s gaze. Not a single time, not once since they’d entered society months ago, had a man been presented with both Wayland twins and found himself captivated by Eliza.
Once, Mr. Philips orchestrated an introduction to Eliza—even danced a set. But less than a minute into the dance, it became apparent that their waltz was a ruse to gather intelligence about Sophie.
“Behave yourself,” Lady Arabella directed her brother, a warning note in her voice. “Miss Eliza, I promise he was taught propriety. Whether he retained any of it is debatable.” Her address to Eliza had finally broken whatever spell Lord Sinclair’s eyes had cast on her.
“It is no matter, I—”
The announcement of the next dance—the schottische—cut her off. Oh good Lord, why could it not have been something that separated them? Even at this distance, he bordered on overwhelming. In his arms…
“Shall we?” Sinclair asked, low, a private note to his voice as he offered her his hand.
Eliza nodded, swallowing her trepidation as she placed her gloved fingers in his bare palm without a second glance at her companions.
His gaze lowered to their hands as his thumb brushed across her knuckles.
The contrast was striking. His hands were large, their strength evident even in this light caress.
He led her with sure steps to the middle of the dance floor. Once situated, his free hand found the space between her shoulder blade and waist, spanning much of it easily. There was fire in his touch—it burned hot through the many layers of silk and linen.
“You’ll need to touch my shoulder now,” Lord Sinclair murmured, a teasing curve to his lips.
The words were enough to shock Eliza out of her awe, and she set her palm along the broad plane, studiously ignoring the flutter in her chest. It was a nice shoulder, she noted, solid, without being so large as to overwhelm his frame.
Her gray silk glove fit quite nicely against the lightweight black wool of his coat.
With four soft clicks, the quartet burst into life. The long-short, skipping beats of the dance filled her frame, spreading throughout her limbs and finally reaching her feet. At the precise moment Lord Sinclair’s hand tightened around her waist and he stepped forward.
Eliza’s feet responded without her input, lighter than they had ever been.
She considered herself a skilled enough dancer—not that such skills were often displayed.
But this—there was something instinctive about the way her body countered his, something thrilling in her smile that bloomed in response to his mischievous one, something giddy in the way her skirts swirled around them when he added a spin for no discernible reason.
“I do not believe that belongs there, my lord.”
“Perhaps not, but it made you smile,” he retorted, then added another.
“And it is your aim to do so?” she asked, a little breathless with exertion.
He shrugged the shoulder beneath her hand, the muscles defined through the fabric. “I suppose it is.”
The edges of her grin deepened, a flush rising on her cheeks.
“Perhaps Lady Arabella is right and you are incapable of propriety.”
“I learned many years ago, my sister is right in all things—including dance partners.”
There it was.
Eliza missed a step, faltering before righting herself. “Your sister?” Her voice was small, cold, but Lord Sinclair didn’t seem to notice. His brow remained furrowed over her misstep.
“Yes?” He peered at her curiously.
Eliza’s legs solidified beneath her once more. Each step required conscious consideration. Her body turned awkward. “She suggested me as a partner.”
“Well, yes.”
“I see,” she said, her heart dropping to her stomach.
He tried again to guide her into an unnecessary twirl, but her feet refused to cooperate, tangling.
“I’m not certain you do,” he protested.
“You asked me to dance as a favor to your sister—a kindness to the wallflower she met earlier.”
“Is that what you think?”
“It is the truth. You said as much yourself.”
Lord Sinclair’s chuckle was low. Despite her disappointment, the sound warmed Eliza’s chest. “You’ve missed the beginning in your summary.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve left out the part of the story where I pestered my sister into facilitating an introduction with the striking young lady across the ballroom who hadn’t so much as spared me a glance.” He punctuated the speech with another spin, this one setting Eliza’s belly aflutter.
“You jest,” she accused, forcing herself back to reality.
“You may ask her yourself, if you wish. Bella merely confirmed that you would be an engaging partner.”
If he was lying, she couldn’t make out his tell. Eliza wanted to believe him; her chest ached to do so. But her head remained cautious. “How disappointed you must be.”
“Only that your smile has gone.”
Her traitorous heart skipped to the music, along with her feet, even as she fought back a scoff. “That was an impressive line.”
“It was not a line.”
Eliza decided then that his motive did not matter.
Whether he asked her as a favor to his sister or because he was so struck by the sight of her that he was desperate to be near her—the fact was, she was in the arms of the most handsome gentleman she’d ever seen.
She could fret and frown, or she could enjoy herself.
And the latter was so much more appealing.
“Does that truly impress the ladies?”
“You would have to be the one to tell me. Did it impress you? You are the only one to receive the words.”
“Not in the slightest,” she lied, fighting the upward curve of her lips.
“I shall have to try harder.”
“See that you do.” She raised an imperious eyebrow.
“I have not impressed you with my footwork or wit. Have you a preference as to what other method I may employ?” Lord Sinclair asked, a hint of gravel in the query.
A hint of the tension in her spine loosened. “Where is this wit you speak of?”
His answering laugh was bright, and she had to battle back a smile. “I seem to have misplaced it. Do be sure to let me know if you stumble upon it.”
“Are you certain it will be recognizable as such?” It was freeing to flirt in such an unrestrained manner.
“Until this moment, I would have insisted on it. Now… Well, I’ve seen the face of wit, and her eyes are dark and discerning.”
She rolled her eyes. “Flattery is for the dull.”
“You’ve left me no other option, Miss Wayland,” his voice dropped half an octave as he pulled her closer.
The new distance between them kissed the edge of scandal but did not cross it.
Nor did his hand as it slid lower along the curve of her waist. The pewter silk of her gown contrasted beautifully with the gold undertones of his skin when she glanced down at it with a gasp she couldn’t hide.
“Impropriety is all that remains to me.”
“Lord Sinclair…” she warned half-heartedly.
“Do not worry; your honor is safe on this dance floor. After all, I cannot have some brutish father or prudish mama chasing me off before we finish our set.”
“My father isn’t here. And my mother courted scandal once or twice in her youth.” Eliza supplied the information without thought. Only after the words had slipped from her lips did she recognize the risk inherent in that intelligence.
“And her daughter?” he asked. His tone was conversational, with no worrisome interest.
“In general, I leave the scandals to my sister.”
“And on special occasions?”
“I dance with dull-witted lords whose hands best remain precisely where they are and not an inch lower if they do not wish for my brutish uncle to interrupt.”
Lord Sinclair’s head tipped back on a laugh, exposing the enticing knot of his throat beneath the black silk of his necktie. “Any other relatives I need to avoid?”
“I’ve a protective cousin. But you had the right of it. Though my father is not in attendance, I rather think he is the one you ought to concern yourself with.”
“And why is that?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“You’ve not been in town long, have you?”
“We arrived a few days ago. How did you surmise that?” His curiosity seemed piqued, even as he rewarded her with another improper spin.
“Just a suspicion.” She infused the response with a cryptic note. “Where were you, if not in town?”
“I’m not certain I believe that. But I’ve been helping my father with a project.”
“You may believe or disbelieve at your leisure. It is of no matter to me.”
“Did Bella tell you?”
“She mentioned she had been much in your company of late. But that was not what led to my suspicion.”
“You must tell me.”
“I must do nothing. And I’m certain you’ll stumble upon the answer on your own.”
The music reached a crescendo before fading into the milling voices. Eliza’s curtsy answered Lord Sinclair’s bow—a flirtatious edge to his expression.
“May I fetch you a glass of lemonade?” he asked as he guided her toward the edge of the floor, away from both of their sisters, Eliza noted with some relief.
“I would not wish for you to be parched while you mock my ignorance.” There was no reproof in the statement.
No, he was perfectly content to allow her teasing.
“Oh, you do not want the lemonade, trust me. It’s wretched.”
“It is?”
“Yes, they’ve skipped the sugar entirely. Added sawdust to the pastry as well. Lord Linden is under the hatches.”
Lord Sinclair choked on nothing before clearing his throat. “How the devil do you know that?”
Eliza offered a closed-lip smile as she tipped her head to one side.
“Mysterious… Well, unless you enjoy scotch, I’ve nothing to offer.”
She held out a wordless hand, her smile deepening when his brows raised in astonishment.
Lord Sinclair caught her elbow and guided her to an alcove, boxing her against it.
When she tried to glance over his shoulder for onlookers, she understood he was shielding her.
His hand, the one that seemed so at home on her waist, reached into the breast pocket of his coat.
The silver flask he pulled out was etched with a design that time and use had made indistinguishable.
He unscrewed the cap before he handed the flask to her, shifting so his shoulders blocked more of the room.
It wasn’t the expensive brand her father preferred. Neither was it the cheap swill he provided for those who had lost too much in his club to care. The smoky caramel flavor was pleasant enough, but it burned when she swallowed.
Lord Sinclair’s eyes were darker than she recalled when they met hers again. Eliza handed the flask back to him after a single sip, still pinned by his gaze. She watched as his full lips curved around the small opening and he snuck a quick sip. He tipped it back toward her, brow raised in question.
Eliza shook her head, struck as sure fingers tightened the cap and tucked it back into its hiding place.
Here, nestled behind the wall of Lord Sinclair’s shoulders, the disarray of the ballroom quieted.
All Eliza could hear was the thrumming of her heart as his gaze broke from hers to trace along the curve of her throat.
It shouldn’t be possible to feel his gaze as though it were tangible, as though it were a caress. But, Lord, it felt that way.
For the first time in ages, possibly ever, Eliza wasn’t concerned about her unruly hair or dull complexion.
She’d seen a great many things in Lord Sinclair’s eyes during their dance.
But judgment hadn’t been one of them. Interest, perhaps even lust, but he seemed…
captivated. By her. And wasn’t that a giddy thought?
“Lizzie?” A deep voice cut through her reverie, an icy downpour on her bubbling warmth.
She peered around Lord Sinclair’s shoulder to find her Uncle Hugh in his most disapproving state. His grey eyes unforgiving and unimpressed.
“Yes, Uncle?” Despite her best efforts, there was a guilty note in the words.
“Your mother has a headache. She wishes to leave.”
“I’ve promised Lord Sinclair another set. Perhaps, if it would not be too much trouble, I could ride home with you.”
“The gentleman will have to accept your regrets.”
“But—”
“Say goodnight, Lizzie.” His tone was stern, like the angry slash of his mouth. She’d known, on an intellectual level, that her uncle could cut an imposing figure; she’d never been on the receiving end of it.
“I suppose I’ll have to claim my second set another time,” Lord Sinclair assured her, not appearing the least affected by her uncle.
“Yes, I—”
“Perhaps not. Lord Sinclair, was it?” her uncle asked, but there was no question in his tone.
“Indeed…”
“Lord Grayson,” Eliza supplied, brow still furrowed as she parsed her uncle’s comment.
“You may be waiting a long time for that set, Lord Sinclair.”
“But—” she protested again.
“The carriage, Lizzie.”
She sighed and turned back to Lord Sinclair even as she struggled to keep the disappointment from her expression. “Thank you for our dance, my lord.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he assured her, his eyes dark and fixated on hers.
“Now, Lizzie,” Uncle Hugh interjected, breaking the spell.
Eliza kept her head up. She did not trudge toward the doorway, but it was a near thing. Her uncle remained behind, presumably still glaring at Lord Sinclair.
The caramel burn of Lord Sinclair’s chuckle as it trailed after her was even more potent than the scotch.