Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Sophie was in a right state over their father’s treatment of Bash. Eliza felt no small amount of guilt for her part in his plight.
She prided herself on her ability to read people at the card table. But the distraction of Sinclair on her right blinded her to the threat on her left. And her desire to impress the viscount, had her thrashing Hughes more thoroughly than she otherwise would have.
Papa returned home later than usual and, after receiving Sophie’s litany of complaints with more forbearance than usual, banned both girls from the club for the foreseeable future.
Eliza didn’t particularly mind. While she was as confident at the table as Sophie, she took less enjoyment from it.
After that pronouncement, and the subsequent additional complaints that Sophie laid at his feet, he finally lost patience and sent her stomping to her room. Mama trailed after her to peace keep.
At last, it was Eliza’s turn.
“Papa?”
Her father sighed, and Eliza’s heart settled into her stomach. It must have crossed her face because he patted the settee cushion beside him before he moved her mother’s delicately embroidered cushion.
“I’m not saying no,” he began.
“But…”
He caught her hand in his, squeezing gently. “There’s something about him I don’t trust.”
An ache bloomed in her chest, but she pushed past it. “What?”
Her father’s eyes drifted shut, and she knew the answer.
“You do not know. You cannot explain,” she supplied.
“Petal…”
She bit the inside of her lip as she closed her eyes, trapping the hurt and anger inside. It settled there, knotting in her throat, clawing its way up even as she tried to swallow it.
“Is it so hard to believe that anyone could want me with pure intentions?” Her voice broke partway through the sentence, but her eyes remained dry, and of that she was proud.
“Lizzie, no. Of course, that’s not—”
“You say that, but you offer no other reason for your suspicion. Sophie’s suitors receive no such scrutiny.”
“Your sister has no interest in those suitors.”
“I danced with the man once! I don’t even know that I have a serious interest in him.
Or if Sinclair has designs on me. But the entire family has decided that I’m head over feet.
Do you think me so foolish as to fall for a man who is manipulating me?
Or so pathetic as to fall for the first man to throw me a scrap of affection? ”
“Elizabeth Wayland! I think it is my duty as your father to ensure your safety and security in any relationship you choose to enter into. And I think it a privilege to do so. Now, I told you my answer was not no. Though if you continue to speak to me in this way, that may change. I do not trust him— I do not know him. And neither do you.”
The fight seeped out of her at the broken note in her father’s voice. After a moment, he wrapped an arm around her, urging her to rest her head on his shoulder.
“I used to be one of the most respected and feared men in town. Now look at me… shouted at by two daughters in as many minutes. Tell me truthfully, am I even slightly intimidating any longer?”
“I threatened him with your wrath while we danced.”
“Good. Always use me to threaten suitors.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
Eliza’s head rose and fell with the force of his sigh against her cheek. “Have we done something? To elicit this misbelief you are operating under—that Sophie is more deserving of suitors than you?”
“No, it’s only— I have eyes.”
“There is so much of your mother in you. I should be offended not only on your behalf, but hers. Your mother is unequivocally the most beautiful woman to walk the earth—almost lost her to a duke, you know.”
“You almost lost her to Uncle Xander—quite a different matter.” Whenever Eliza pictured her uncle’s husband, in the eyes of all but the law, and her mother as husband and wife, she giggled.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” her father said.
“If your Lord Sinclair has honorable intentions, then he will be all too willing to court you—properly. It seems from our conversation this afternoon that he is willing. I do not want you to choose him because you feel he is the only option. You spend too much time on the wall at these ridiculous events. Look around at the next one. Perhaps there is another gentleman who catches your eye.”
Eliza rather thought he was wrong in that assessment, but she agreed nonetheless.
“Now, to bed with you, before you and your sister give your poor papa a fit of apoplexy. No one told me raising daughters would be so difficult.”
“You really ought to have anticipated that.”
He turned, giving her a false, sharp look that spread into a smile. “Bed. And no giggling with Sophie either.”
“Goodnight, Papa.” Eliza dropped a kiss to his forehead before setting off up the stairs.
Without explanation, Eliza’s mother had insisted on a promenade two days later. It wasn’t until May buttoned Eliza into her finest dark teal walking dress and took extra care with her hair that Eliza suspected an ulterior motive.
Primped, Eliza descended the stairs to the entry where her mother awaited her with a matching parasol. And Sophie was nowhere to be seen.
Eliza’s expression must have reflected surprise because her mother answered her unasked question. “It’s just us this afternoon, darling.”
“Thank you,” Eliza said, pressing a kiss to her mother’s cheek.
“Of course. Let us hope your gentleman is everything amiable.”
Mother and daughter set off, arm in arm, for Hyde Park. The day was pleasant, with a gentle breeze that dragged the wispy clouds across the sun’s facade at its leisure.
“I’m given to understand there was a commotion at the club?”
“I should have thrown one more game; I knew our mark was becoming agitated. But Lord Sinclair arrived, and I just…”
“Wanted to impress him?”
“Yes,” Eliza admitted, feeling a flush climb her cheeks.
“Did it work?”
“I believe so.”
“Good. I would object strenuously to a match with him were he not impressed by you.”
“Sinclair hit the man.”
“I heard that as well.”
“Hughes— He insulted me, and Sinclair punched him.” Eliza clarified, studying her mother from the corner of her eye for a reaction.
“Of that, I wholeheartedly approve. And remind me to remove Hughes from the masquerade guest list.”
“I would have expected you to disapprove.”
A little smile bloomed across her mother’s lips. “Your father has been in too many scrapes for me to disapprove. It would be the definition of hypocritical.”
Eliza and her mother crossed the lane into the park and there, perched on a wrought iron bench, were Sinclair and his sister.
Sinclair was striking in a candlelit ballroom; he was distracting, cast in the shadows of the gaming hell. In the sunlight, he was breathtaking. The sharp lines of his face played against the softness in his gaze and the swell of his lips. A provocative contrast that left Eliza dizzy.
“Lord, no wonder you’re smitten,” her mother whispered.
The Sinclair siblings rose at their approach, and Eliza felt that too-familiar fluttering in her stomach when he bowed with a significant look.
“Miss Wayland,” he murmured in that low baritone that seemed to reverberate along her spine.
“Lord Sinclair.”
After greeting the other members of their party, they set off down the path. Eliza and Sinclair were trailed by the soft notes of Lady Arabella and Eliza’s mother.
“Miss Wayland, you’re looking well after your ordeal the other day,” he said.
“It is not so uncommon an occurrence, our visits to the club ending in bloodshed—though usually it’s in retaliation for something Sophie did.”
“Never for something you’ve done?” There was a teasing note in his voice. His raised brow emphasized the crooked slant of his nose.
“You must have seen it yesterday. She takes outward pleasure in her wins.”
“And you do not find pleasure in your wins?” He leaned into her side. The rough edge of the word pleasure glided along her body like a promise of more.
Eliza swallowed. “I do. I particularly enjoyed my latest victory.” Her voice was steady, a source of pride.
Sinclair’s lips curved in a closed-mouth smile as he hummed. A hint of a dimple appeared on his right cheek. How had she failed to notice that before?
“I enjoyed your victory as well.”
“You did?”
“I enjoy any sport or game played against a worthy opponent. But when that opponent is a beautiful woman… flushed with the thrill of victory… Well, the sting of loss is lessened.”
Sinclair’s elbow brushed against hers—holding her parasol steady—as it swung past, too slow to have been anything but deliberate.
Her lips pursed in an expression she intended to be stern. The way his dimple deepened led her to believe her reprimand was less than effective.
“And you, I trust you’re well? After your fisticuffs?”
A huff escaped him. “Fisticuffs and I are old friends.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been known to step into the ring on occasion.”
“Boxing? How thrilling. Papa has never allowed us to attend a match.”
Sinclair drew his gaze down her frame before darting back to meet her eyes with a pointed expression. “I can see why. There would be riots.”
“Hardly.”
“Hmm, you don’t understand. The scent of blood, the jeers of the crowd, the ache of fists and bruised flesh—against the fresh scent of a woman, the lilting sound of her voice, the healing of her soft touch.
It’s a victory sweeter than any won with fists.
A temptation too great for any man to resist.”
Even as her heart thrummed against her ribcage, she retorted, “You speak from experience.”
“My reputation is somewhat exaggerated, though not entirely unearned, if that’s what you’re asking.”
His gaze traced the neckline of her gown with sinful intent. The effort left her voice caught in her chest—trapped by the corset offering up her bosom as a feast for Sinclair’s gaze.