Chapter 12 #2
Eliza and her sister were still all giggles as they walked arm in arm to the ballroom. The dull thunk of the cue followed by the smack and thump of scattering billiard balls in the quiet hall reminded them of the need for decorum as they passed the men’s room.
“What about you, Sinclair?” a male voice drifted out through the cracked door.
“What about me?” Benedict’s lyrical tenor replied. Another crack-thump of balls on felt.
Sophie caught Eliza’s elbow and pressed her against the wall alongside the door with one finger over her lips. Widening her eyes, Eliza shook her head, but Sophie’s grip held fast.
“Lost your head, Lord of Sin? And over the plain one? It was quite a lark, but now you’ve danced with the striking one—Sylvie?”
“Sophie,” someone said through the cracked door. The fight went out of Eliza. The floor tilted beneath her feet, and she slumped against the wall, gaze meeting Sophie’s.
“Surely you’re not so hard up for a fortune that you’ll take the unfortunate-looking one.” Eliza could not tell if the thud echoing in her ears was from the game or her own heart.
“You’ve never seen an uncut diamond, have you, Phillips?”
“Cannot say that I have. But what has that—”
“You’d take one look at it and chuck it away as plain. Which is why marcasite adorns your cufflinks.” The smack of a cue ball was followed by the thunk-thump of a ball landing in the pocket.
Beside her, Sophie’s eyes widened. Desperate to keep her head, to prevent her heart from running away altogether, Eliza reminded herself that Henry was right there. Benedict could not possibly agree with Philips with her cousin beside him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you mistake glitter for worth. And you’ve never learned the difference.” Another ball sank with a decisive thunk. “And if you ever refer to Eliza as unfortunate again, you’ll learn why I earned the moniker.”
“You can crawl back to whatever damp hovel you came out of, Sinclair.”
“Cheers,” Benedict said.
Sophie snatched her by the wrist and urged her along to the ballroom. “Eliza!” she whispered—too loud.
“Henry was there— He had to—”
“Henry was where?” Her cousin’s voice came from behind her.
Eliza spun around. “You are not in the billiards room?”
“Clearly not. Sinclair proved to be a very distracted opponent indeed. But I had a set with Emma. Why?”
“No reason,” Sophie answered for her. “But I suddenly find myself with an open set. I do not suppose you’d be willing to fill it?” She thrust her wrist out.
Henry stared at the dance card, puzzled. “They’re all full.”
“I will not be dancing with Mr. Philips tonight or ever again.”
“Alright… But if he calls me out, you’ll need to be my second.”
“Deal,” she said with a laugh.
Eliza, too lost in her own thoughts, struggled to follow their banter. She remained undone by Benedict’s words. He’d defended her. And with no promise of recognition or hope of reward. Her heart was too full—threatening to burst with sheer delight.
Before she could collapse in a giddy heap, Leo arrived to claim his second set. Then the gentleman Georgie had danced with earlier requested a dance. By the time the final set arrived, Eliza was breathless and dizzy with joy.
“You’re not too tired for our dance, I hope.”
Eliza whirled around to face him. Her toes slipped on the soft kid leather of her slippers, but Benedict’s hands found her shoulder to steady her. “Careful.”
“How was your drink?” she asked, trying to keep the knowing smile from her face.
“Humiliating. Your cousin thrashed me at billiards. The scotch was not near fine enough to endure the shame. How did you occupy your time?”
“Sophie and I talked. And then I danced with Leo again and Mr. Deveraux.”
A dark look crossed Benedict’s face. “Not the waltz, I hope?”
“No, the cotillion and lancers. They’ve saved the waltz for last.”
“Good,” he nodded, firm and decisive. “I will have to amend my request for our next ball. Your waltzes are mine.”
“They are?”
“Yes, I’ve claimed them. All of them.” He reached for her hand and set it in the crook of his elbow before tapping it as if to assure himself. “I’ve never hated gloves so much as these,” he added conversationally.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked with a laugh as he led them toward the floor.
“Well, all of your gloves, in truth.”
“Why on earth…”
“I want to feel your touch, Eliza. That cannot be so surprising.” He turned to face her and settled his hand low on her waist, skirting the edge of propriety. “Your softness, your warmth. I long to know you.”
“Oh,” she replied dimly as he collected her other hand in his.
Eliza watched, breathless, as he lined her fingers against his, measuring the difference.
Benedict’s hand was broad with long, strong digits beneath his own gloves.
By comparison, Eliza’s hand was small, dainty against his own.
For the briefest moment, she thought he might slot their fingers together.
Her heart clenched in anticipation as her cheeks flushed.
Then his eyes fluttered shut on an inhale, and when he opened them on a sigh, he twisted his hand to grasp the edge of hers. Devastatingly proper.
No sooner had he completed his flustering ritual than the quartet began, and he stepped into her.
He gave her a few measures to grow, to adjust to the movements before he spoke again. “Did you enjoy yourself this evening?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. I did as well. Your relations are very devoted to you, if perhaps a little overprotective.”
“Yes, I’ve been trying to break them of the habit, but, well, you’ve met them.”
His chuckle was a low rumble, and Eliza felt it in her own chest. “Yes, I have.” Benedict’s gaze searched her face. “Do not be too angry with them. Such relations are a gift.”
“I don’t…”
“I’m left with only Bella. My friend, West. And, I suppose, my father.” He added the last as an afterthought. Once again, curiosity bloomed about his childhood.
Benedict’s gaze snapped to something behind her before she could question him.
Their footwork turned, and Eliza caught sight of Lady Arabella.
She rested, her back against a corner, along the embrasure.
When she noticed Eliza, her expression shifted from something unreadable, almost dark, to a pleased smile.
They turned again, and Benedict’s gaze slid over Eliza’s shoulder. Only a flicker—but enough for his expression to shutter, something bright extinguished as though snuffed between finger and thumb. For a heartbeat, she didn’t recognize him.
Benedict continued, drawing her back in. “You have an entire cricket team worth of people prepared to defend you. It is a gift.”
“I know that, of course. They can be a little… overwhelming.”
“Yes,” he chuckled. “But they are, at this moment, all that stands between you and unimaginable scandal.”
“Do be serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” he whispered, pulling her dangerously closer.
“There is a proper way to treat a lady. I know that. You deserve that and more. But there are so many steps, so many meddlesome relatives lengthening the process. Your relations are eager to bar me from your side at the first misstep. But all I want to do is worship you, Eliza.” There was a rumbling hunger in his words, but something about them seemed strained, as if forced through clenched teeth.
It left her dizzy, flushed and weak-kneed, but also inexplicably uneasy. She could taste a hint of scotch on his breath. “Benedict…”
His head hinged back, allowing her a glimpse of his throat. She was seized with a desperate desire to bite it—a moment of pure insanity. Benedict dipped his gaze back to her before she could act. The heat in his gaze was different, more controlled than she was used to seeing.
“I ache, Eliza, to know all of you. In every way it is possible for a man and woman to know each other. The ache grows stronger with every flush of your cheek, each flutter of your lashes, each breath of your scent. I’m driven half mad in desperation.
But I know that to cross that line would mean to never have you again. ”
Eliza’s lips had parted, her eyes were certainly wide and cheeks heated. But his words made her weak, devastated, desperate.
“No,” he continued. “I’m left to torture myself now, with only the chance of tomorrow.”
“I— Benedict…” she whispered.
“Eliza,” he replied, gaze tracing the lines of her face while his lips pressed together. When he met her eyes, they were softer, with more earnest warmth. “You’re everything I’ve never dared to dream of. I need you to remember that.”
Eliza found herself lightheaded at the content of his words and befuddled by the urgency of his tone. “I don’t understand.”
His answering smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Our time is up,” he said quietly, resignation scraping along each word.
“Oh, I—”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but did not meet his eyes. It was all glittering bravado, brittle at the edges. “Perhaps next time, you’ll tell me which name you prefer.”
“Pardon?” she asked, even more off-kilter by his sudden shift. He could not be as devastated to say goodnight to her as she was him—but it was the only explanation she could find for the change.
“As I said, you may call me whatever you please in your dreams: Ben, Benedict, my god…”
Her shocked gasp at the blasphemy was only somewhat feigned.
“Let me know which name you cry out in your dreams. I need to be sure that mine are accurate,” he explained, his grin cheeky.
A knot threatened to overtake Eliza’s throat as she stared stupidly at him, her cheeks reddening beyond comprehension.
The music faded away with the last strains.
Slowly, deliberately, he took her gloved hand in both of his. He bowed over them with a whispered, “I’ll see you soon, Miss Eliza.”
After their dance and his use of her Christian name, the formality was a sobering jolt.
“Lord Sinclair,” she croaked along with a wobbly curtsy.
Then, he scandalized her still further. Wordlessly, he caught the middle fingertip of her glove between his thumb and forefinger and tugged.
He studied her expression carefully before moving to the ring finger and repeating the process.
When she made no objection, no move to pull back, he found her index finger and gave another pull.
With that effort, the kid leather pulled free, caressing the length of her arm as he claimed it.
Air abandoned her. She watched in a daze as he pocketed her glove with a grin.
Vaguely she noticed Sophie appear at her side, suggesting that they find their mama. But she couldn’t bring herself to break eye contact with Benedict.
He backed up one, two, three steps still facing her before he turned and offered his arm to a waiting Lady Arabella.
At her side, Sophie studied her before tugging at her elbow.
Instead of to their mother as she had suggested, Sophie dragged her to one of the recessed windows and pulled her inside. “Breathe, Lizzie. If I hadn’t had eyes on you for the entire set, I’d think he hauled you off to a darkened corner to ravish you.”
“I feel as though he did.” The astonished breathlessness in Eliza’s voice earned a laugh from her sister.
“Oh, my dear, you are lost to us all now. An enchanting rogue with a silver tongue has claimed your heart. May he endeavor to deserve you.”
“Oh, there is no danger of that,” Eliza assured her. “Truly, the danger is the other way around.”
“We must disagree on that. But I am so unbelievably happy for you.”
“I— Me too. He’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.” Eliza could not have wiped the smile from her face for the world. No, it was etched there forever.
“What on earth happened to your glove?”