Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
The evening was fine, warm and clear, and Benedict convinced his sister and Mrs. Frances to walk rather than wait for a hack. After they escorted her hired companion home, they began the brief walk to their rented townhouse.
For a few minutes, Benedict’s boots thumped on the pavement without interruption. While he was well aware of Bella’s penetrating gaze, he felt unequal to a conversation.
Instead, his gut rolled with angry guilt even as his fingers caressed the delicate leather of Eliza’s glove in his pocket.
Benedict could no longer lie to himself.
His was no mere attraction to Eliza. He desired her with a desperation he could not explain.
More than that, he was genuinely fond of her.
Far from the hardship he had anticipated when he set off for London, Benedict eagerly awaited their every meeting.
Whenever he breathed the same air as Eliza, his mouth ran away with him, revealing far more than he intended.
Each time he forgot himself, whispered the tender words of his heart or the indecent words of his desire, Bella was waiting beyond Eliza’s shoulder. The very sight of her was a constant dash of frigid water on his ardor.
“Tonight went quite well. I overheard Miss Eliza and her sister giggling about whatever absurd platitude you offered her. Her mother has no objections either. I spoke with her at length. Lady Juliet intends to extend us a personal invitation to the club’s annual masquerade. It is the social event of the season.”
Benedict’s only answer was a grunt.
“The uncle is softening toward you, which can only improve your station with Wayland.”
Another grunt.
“Soon—a week, perhaps a fortnight—you will be able to coax her into your bed. Once you’ve managed that, it will be no work at all to convince her to run away with you.”
“Bella… might we discuss something else? Anything at all? It seems we’ve spoken of little else for months.”
She stopped short, her arm ripping from his. “Oh, I beg your pardon? I thought we were discussing the vengeance and salvation we’ve been intent upon for years. But by all means, if you find the subject dull, we may discuss anything you wish.”
Benedict’s jaw clenched, trapping the litany of worries that threatened to escape.
“You forgot yourself tonight, more than once. Do not suppose it escaped my notice. I have no objection to your taking satisfaction in your efforts. It certainly lends authenticity to your flirtations. But this is too important for distractions. Do you suppose you can save Blackwood entirely with your fists? How long do you believe you can continue to win in the ring before your body betrays you? What would happen to me, to father, if you were injured? We need that money. And father needs his recompense. We all do.”
“I know. I understand my duty in this. To revel in my cruelty, though… it is unseemly.”
“Cruelty? Cruelty was Wayland cheating our father. What you are doing? This is justice. This is right. You are repaying a debt,” Bella hissed.
“A debt?”
“Father’s revenge—it’s still owed—long overdue, in fact. Wayland should be thrilled; he always collects on his debts.”
“I know this is necessary, but we needn’t delight in it, Bella.”
“Fine,” she bit out as she snatched his elbow and pressed him ahead at a furious clip. “What else shall we discuss?”
“Fine weather we’re having?” he supplied after desperately floundering for another subject.
It was Bella’s turn to grunt and continue their forward march in silence. Benedict was overwhelmed with relief. He did not require Bella’s constant reminders. His betrayal was imminent. There were mere days before he earned his moniker in truth.
In a sennight, perhaps two, he would add wrath to his sins, greed as well. Paired with his existing lust, envy, and pride, he’d nearly collected the entire set.
Lord of Sin indeed.
The siblings stomped off to their respective rooms once they reached their overpriced hovel.
As soon as he secured the lock, Benedict toed off his shoes and shed his coat, cravat, and waistcoat. He tossed them across the threadbare blue chair before searching the pocket for his spoils.
Once retrieved, he flopped down onto the too-thin horsehair mattress. The bed frame groaned in response, threatening to collapse. Thankfully, it held firm.
Benedict ran the glove between his middle and forefingers. The white leather was fine, with gold embroidery around the edge that glimmered in the candlelight. It was long, but the diameter was small—custom-made to Eliza’s lithe arms. Quite the treasure.
He was unhinged. This was madness, but he could have sooner stopped the sun from rising than he could have prevented himself from bringing that glove to his face.
Benedict breathed her in. Eliza’s delicate fragrance might cling to his coat, but here, along her wrist, her scent was potent, concentrated.
His eyelids fluttered shut as he inhaled, drawing the fragrance deeper. Violets—he was certain of it now. Violets paired with a citrus note. And something earthy, sensual, Eliza.
Without allowing himself time to pause, to think, his right hand drifted down his chest to the center fall of his trousers.
He did not even need to fiddle with the buttons but merely tugged the fabric to free his cock from its prison.
He wrapped his hand around his newly freed length, already half hard.
Ordinarily, he used a firm grip when he took himself in hand. But Eliza would be gentle, hesitant, until she learned how thoroughly she owned him. Then she would understand she could use him as she wished—that he would beg her for more. But this time, the first, she would treat him with reverence.
His thumb swiped over the head, gathering a bead of moisture. With one long stroke, he drew it along his cock. A groan threatened to burst from his chest.
He squeezed his eyes tighter and gasped for another breath from that precious glove.
“Benedict,” she would whisper; she would use his full name, he was almost certain, could nearly hear the desperation in the word.
He would learn her too, learn how to best lay kisses along the luscious swell of her breasts to leave her panting.
She would cling to his shoulders with those elegant fingers if he tongued along the neckline of her dress.
It was only appropriate to show his appreciation for the way she’d offered those breathtaking breasts up for his admiration that evening.
His fist tightened at the thought, and he forced himself to loosen it, to explore in a way he hadn’t since he was a lad.
Once Eliza overcame her shyness, her natural curiosity would shine through.
After she satisfied that curiosity and grew confident, she would tease him.
She delighted in teasing him. Their bed sport would be no different.
In words and actions, she would draw out his pleasure.
Her devilish temptation of a dress had closed up the back.
He’d caught the edge of it with his fingertips during their waltz.
Benedict was enough of a rake to know he could dismantle an entire row of hook-and-eye closures with one studied tug and release.
Not with Eliza though, not their first time.
She deserved the reverence and slow anticipation that built from freeing each hook, one at a time.
He would miss the first glimpse of her breasts displayed by her corset, a feast for his eyes and then lips.
The image of her pert derriere, tantalizing him through the gauzy cotton of her shift, would be a worthy consolation.
That swell teased his ring and little finger all evening and promised to be even more devastating than her bosom.
Yes, his Eliza had somehow hidden the curves of a goddess beneath her modest gowns.
Droplets of excitement left his cock slick, his hand easily gliding back and forth.
She would need encouragement at first. Perhaps with time and support, she would grow bold enough to reach beneath her skirts and gather some of her own arousal to ease her stroke.
He could watch as she worked the evidence of her lust into his own along his length.
The thought stole the air from his lungs.
Convinced of her own perfection, she would be assured enough to press him to the bed and claim what she wanted.
She would toss her wild curls back before straddling him, trapping his head between sumptuous thighs.
He could drown in the evidence of her pleasure.
The feminine musk of her scent would be stronger there.
Benedict’s entire world would narrow to Eliza, the essence of her arousal, the taste of her desire, the silk of her curves as his fingers dug into them—clasping her to his lips.
If he pleased her well, her moans might filter down to his ears, muffled by her thighs.
He might catch glimpses of her heavy-lidded eyes as she teased her own nipples.
She would be overcome as she demanded his attention, too devastated to tend to his cock. A shudder danced along his spine.
Benedict’s hand clenched around his aching length once more, but he allowed it.
Eliza would leave him to fan the flames of his own arousal until he pleased her so thoroughly that she wrapped her confident, contented fingers around his prick.
He would have done so well, held himself on the edge until she was boneless and sated.
She would only have to stroke him once, twice, and on the third, he would spill for her as she demanded, “Good… You’ve been so good to me, Benedict. Come for me now.”
His balls tightened nearly to pain as he broke, shuddering with each gasping surge.
Benedict. Yes, she would call him Benedict.
Sense returned to him at once, a tidal wave crashing over him.
Sense and shame.
During his increasingly unhinged fantasy, he’d tugged the hem of his shirt up.
A fact he was grateful for now, as he dug in a trouser pocket for a handkerchief.
He swiped at the mess across his abdomen with disgust. Finally, satisfied that he would not have to explain inexplicable stains to the laundress, he flung his shirt away with the rest of his clothing and rose to walk to the basin.
There, he dampened a length of toweling and scrubbed at his flesh.
Only when the skin was reddened and raw did he set the fabric aside and return to the bed.
Eliza’s fine glove still lay across his pillow. He pinched it between two fingers before he dropped it on the bedside table as though it burned.
Benedict could not be trusted with that glove.
He collapsed at the edge of the bed, dragging a damp hand through his hair. How could he have used Eliza like that?
If he had been a proper suitor with pure intentions, his actions, though unhinged and improper, wouldn’t have been unforgivably wretched. After all, Benedict thoroughly believed that women deserved to own their pleasure in the bedroom (and his, but that was reserved for private fantasies).
But this… to think of her, to use her in such an intimate way when he was plotting to betray her so thoroughly… Depraved, reprehensible. Benedict was bound for the deepest depths of hell. He would shame even the devil.
Benedict Sinclair, lord of all sin.