Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“Grayson,” Benedict offered with a nod, leaving the greeting implied.
“Sinclair,” the other man grunted, his steely gaze wary, unimpressed.
Benedict bit back an amused chuckle. This was hardly the first cantankerous relative he’d met, and a disapproving expression was far from the worst he had ever endured.
Over Grayson’s shoulder, he caught sight of his sister’s censorious brow. Bella was right, though; he would need the uncle’s approval—or if it was not strictly necessary, it would certainly not worsen his prospects.
“Your niece?” he asked, striving to find a curious note to infuse in the question.
Another grunt. Charming.
Still, Benedict forged ahead. “Is Miss Eliza’s father present? I should like an introduction if you could oblige.”
“He is not,” Grayson replied, and Benedict’s brows raised in a perfect demonstration of surprise. “I am here in his stead.”
“Then I should like to pay my addresses in the morning. Where might I find him?”
“Your reputation precedes you, Sinclair. I very much doubt my brother will have any interest in meeting with you after I speak to him.” Grayson was clearly used to intimidating others with his physical presence; he’d straightened to deliver the speech.
Benedict imagined it was often an effective strategy.
The respectful step back Benedict took was deliberate.
“I see. Well, I would be a fool to deny I’ve a reputation.
But I assure you, it’s far worse than I’ve actually earned.
And if you know of it, then you should also know that I’ve never shown interest in an innocent.
A notion to ponder when you relay the events of this evening to your brother.
” Benedict offered the other man a final, deferential nod before he turned to retrieve his sister.
He caught sight of a fluttery bronze-red gown dipping into an empty hall, and he trailed after her.
Fingers caught his elbow, clasping much tighter than necessary. “What on earth did you say to the man?” Bella demanded in a hissed tone.
“It hardly matters. He’s the uncle.”
“You’ll need all the support you can gather to overcome your reputation,” she hissed.
“Please, compared to some men out there, I’m a tame kitten. The ton only desires theatrics. With a bit of diligence, Wayland will see that it’s nothing.”
“It ought to be nothing.”
“If Grayson himself doesn’t have his own actress or singer in an apartment waiting for him as soon as he returns his wife to their respectable home, I’ll eat my shoe. It’s expected. Her uncle was merely posturing.”
“You had better hope you’re right.”
“I am, Bell. You know I am. I trusted you to choose the best sister. You need to trust me on manly posturing.”
She exhaled, shrinking slightly with the effort. “Yes, she’s certainly the better choice. Far too many eyes on the other.”
“I could have managed the prettier one, you know.”
“But Eliza will be easier to manage. And she’s handsome enough.”
Benedict could not contain his eye roll.
“Stop,” she insisted. “You know how—”
“Of course,” Benedict agreed. “How long do you suppose we need to stay?”
“Why? I presume you have an appointment at the theater?”
“Of course not,” Benedict retorted with a smirk. “I’ve just met the love of my life. I’ll never look at another woman again.”
It was Bella’s turn to roll her eyes. “Quite right. In that case, you’ll need to find the gentlemen and converse about whatever ignorant nonsense occupies men’s thoughts. You cannot leave so quickly after her; it would be noted.”
“Predominantly horseflesh and… other flesh.”
“You disgust me, the entire lot of you.”
Benedict offered a cheeky grin before spinning off deeper down the hall in search of the billiards room.
Two hours and at least three conversations later, in which Benedict could not distinguish whether the gentleman was discussing his horse or his mistress, he slipped into a hack after his sister.
“Well?” she demanded as the carriage set off.
Benedict offered her a baffled expression that was entirely genuine.
“Did you learn anything?”
“Linden is being played for a cuckold by his own son,” Benedict supplied.
“Obviously. I meant about your Eliza.”
“She is not my anything. And of course not. You selected the wallflower for me. The other one, Sophie, is a bit of a favorite—she is rather striking. And several men owe Wayland significant sums—nothing of note there.”
“Who?”
“I do not recall. Half of the beau monde at least.”
“Benedict…” Bella drew out his name in an exhausting display of disapproval.
“And I suppose you were more successful?”
“Yes. I hope your shoe is clean because you’ll need to eat it.”
Benedict’s brow hit his hairline.
“Grayson. He’s besotted with his wife. It was a revoltingly charming display.”
“And that benefits us in what way?”
“Because little Eliza will have grown up watching, envying, and dreaming of a love match.”
“So you’re saying—”
“That you’ll need to appeal to her romantic side.”
Before he could reply, the carriage jolted to a stop outside the townhouse he’d let last week. Benedict paid the driver with only the slightest wince before trailing Bella into the house. He grunted at their new butler as they passed, and made his way to the sitting room and the alcohol.
The drinks cart lived near the cracking mantel, and Benedict poured a scotch for himself and Bella’s favored gin before he joined her at the chair beside the bay window.
He waited, enjoying a well-earned sip as the butler wandered off down the hall. Satisfied the man was gone, he turned back to Bella. “Her romantic side?”
“All women have one.”
“Including you?”
She huffed in reply. “Other women.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“The same way you’ve attracted every other woman you’ve convinced to look at you twice.”
The corner of Benedict’s lip curled up. “Generally, I approach them and ask if they’re already engaged for the evening.”
“Truly?”
“They seem to appreciate it when I lean against things before I ask,” he offered with a bemused shrug.
She pinched her brow in familiar exasperation. “I fear for the state of womankind. Eliza will not be so desperate—not truly. You’ll need to do more than lean against things.”
“Such as…”
“Flowers, pretty words, get to know her. You need to make an effort. And while she may not make the leap, her father will—you’ll need to convince him you’re not after her fortune.”
“I know—that’s why we’ve rented this overpriced hovel instead of somewhere reasonable.”
“Wayland has considerable resources. You’ll need to work quickly to reassure him before he digs deeper.”
“Now I need to seduce that bastard as well? Is there anyone else? A grandfather? Or perhaps a cat?”
“Please take this seriously. You know what is at stake.”
“Yes, yes. I promise, Bella, I won’t fail us. This is what I was made to do.” Benedict infused the speech with all his usual confidence.
Something about the press of Bella’s lips, the downturn of her eyes, told him he might have missed the mark slightly. Still, she said nothing, merely shook her head before she downed the dregs of her gin. She gestured toward the door before abandoning him without a word.
He sighed and rose to sink down on the threadbare golden settee his sister had abandoned. There, he contemplated his scotch with an interest its quality did not deserve.
Benedict hadn’t lied to Bella. He had been preparing for this night for most of his life—since his father had concocted this scheme.
But he never expected her to be so… innocent. He’d had years to imagine her. There had been so many versions of her in his mind—seductive, manipulative, greedy, proud. How could the daughter of Michael Wayland be anything less?
But Eliza had been… not sweet, precisely; she was a more than capable verbal sparring partner. Just… different.
And prettier than he had ever dared to hope.
The men in the billiards room weren’t wrong. The other Wayland girl was striking. And if rumors were to be believed, vivacious and bold as well.
But there was a delicate beauty to Eliza. Her amber eyes were large and bright, her lips full—kissable—and her cheeks flushed a becoming pink when he teased her. And when she had smiled up at him… she had positively glowed from within.
Despite Eliza’s assertions to the contrary, his words hadn’t been a line; he was disappointed that she had stopped smiling.
All in all, Benedict found much to be pleased with regarding his performance that evening.
He had certainly caught her attention at the very least. With that thought, he sat up and tipped back the last of his scotch.
He rose, deposited the empty glass on the cart with a pointed click, then ascended the creaking stairs.
Once he reached the room he’d claimed for his own, he stripped off his stifling coat.
This endeavor had been truly costly. A new wardrobe for both himself and Bella, the rented house and small staff…
It was the entirety of what Benedict had stowed away for the last two years.
If this—he—failed, they would be in even worse straits than they had been in before.
But they couldn’t very well wait another season—the chance that both girls would wed in their first season was too great.
Failure was not an option.
Sighing, he tucked his hand into the pocket of his abandoned coat to retrieve his flask. As he did, the wool of his coat released a soft, floral scent.
A warmth tightened in his chest—an anticipation of his coming sip as he twisted off the cap. Benedict savored the answering burn in his throat before setting the bottle aside.
He flopped back onto the bed in an undignified sprawl, wincing as it gave a disgruntled croak in response. His cravat threatened to strangle him, trapped between his weight and the bed, and he fought to tug it loose.
Free of the trappings of his outerwear, Benedict turned to his side, too tired to remove the rest of his clothes or pull the coat from beneath him. Instead, he blew out the candle from where he lay and savored the darkness enveloping him.
In the cool evening air, he breathed in Eliza’s lingering perfume as he struggled to name the floral note. He rather thought she was the sort to appreciate a bouquet of that particular bloom, whatever it was. The scent was certainly pleasant, romantic, and one he already knew she favored.
Sleep claimed him before his head supplied an answer.