Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
The gardens called to Eliza as they always did when Sophie was receiving callers.
Unfortunately, the possibility of seeing Benedict left her posed on the settee opposite her sister.
Of course, the drawing room itself was its own sort of garden, overflowing with the discordant blooms that arrived for Sophie.
Her sister smiled with a false giggle at whatever her current suitor had said—Eliza wasn’t listening, nor did she remember the man’s name. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Sophie couldn’t either.
No, Eliza’s thoughts lingered on the events of last night, both real and dreamed.
Benedict.
“Benedict,” she’d whispered after his lips pulled away from hers.
The dream had been rather a girlish imagining of a first kiss, nothing like the scandalous fantasies he’d encouraged.
Still, she had flushed so hot she had to press damp fingers to her cheeks.
Thoughts of the dream left Eliza floating and fluttering all morning—at least until calling hours brought her down to earth.
Benedict hadn’t specifically said he would call. There was no reason for disappointment to have settled in her sternum. But that rationality did not extend to her anxious mind.
Eliza was pretending to study her embroidery when Christopher, the poor, beleaguered footman, strode toward her instead of Sophie. He smiled brightly as he lowered his tray.
Centered on the etched silver was a single card. Printed in neat writing was The Right Honorable Viscount Sinclair. She pinched it between her thumb and forefinger, tracing the textured parchment and elegant script.
“Send him in, please,” she said, managing to sound mostly unaffected to her own ears.
Across the room, Sophie caught her attention with a questioning brow. At Eliza’s slight nod, Sophie offered a quick grin before turning back to her suitor.
And there he was, overfilling the doorway. Benedict’s stark frame contrasted the airy blues and yellows of the morning room until they faded into nothingness behind him. Dark eyes caught hers, paired with a half smile, before he turned to greet her mother properly.
That was when Eliza noticed the bouquet in his hand. It was simple, far more so than anything Sophie had received, but it was a bundle of purple violets tucked alongside various white blooms with tiny bursts of yellow in their stamens. Hers.
Sinclair bowed briefly to her sister and shook the other man’s hand before turning to her with a private, soft sort of smile.
“Miss Eliza,” he murmured. It shouldn’t have sounded sinful—it was nothing but her name. But, Lord, he knew precisely how to elicit a flush.
“Lord Sinclair,” she replied, proper in their mixed company.
“For you,” he said, presenting her with the bouquet. “Bella helped with the ribbon. I hope it’s to your liking.”
“Is that the best you can manage, Sinclair?” the other man called out.
Sinclair allowed her to see his eye roll before he turned to face the man. “And which is yours?”
The man gestured to an oversized bouquet of greenery and roses that Christopher moved to the mantel before Sophie’s current suitor entered the room.
Not a single arrangement Sophie received had considered her taste in the selection—this one was no different. Sophie detested roses. Benedict’s bouquet wasn’t an ostentatious display of wealth aimed at intimidating other suitors. It was a gift for her.
“That makes sense. You’d need to compensate somehow,” Benedict retorted.
A giggle caught in Eliza’s throat, threatening to erupt into a full fit.
If the way Sophie’s lip was trapped between her teeth was any indication, she, too, struggled to contain herself.
No one could feign an expression of serenity the way her mother could, but there was a twinkle in her eyes when she met Eliza’s over her embroidery.
“I’ve nothing for which I’d need to compensate,” the gentleman forced between gritted teeth.
“Of course not,” Benedict replied with false sincerity. “Miss Eliza, I hoped we might take a turn about the garden. If your mother would agree?”
Her mother offered him an unimpressed expression but acquiesced as long as they remained in view of the morning room windows. She was probably hoping to avoid fisticuffs—her father would definitely be put off by more fisticuffs, even if he would’ve appreciated the barb.
Eliza tipped her head toward the door, then led Benedict down the hall before handing her bouquet to a passing maid to be placed in her bedroom.
She took Benedict through the music room, which opened onto a small terrace.
The latch on the French doors was a little stiff, but Eliza flicked it open with a bit of force before turning the handle and inhaling the fresh air.
She made to take a step before Benedict’s hand caught hers. “Ten seconds,” he whispered, steeling a glance at the still open music room entrance. “Give me ten seconds,” he repeated.
“For what?”
Benedict’s gaze was heated as he brought her hand up to his full lips. Her heart fluttered at the thought of his lips brushing her knuckles. But he never met expectations. Instead, he placed a kiss on her bare palm.
Breath was beyond her. The feel of his lips—the very ones she dreamed about—on her flesh, trapped that air in her chest. His dark eyes held hers, overwhelmed by sensation.
He must have known that she still had a few wits that hadn’t abandoned her yet, because he raised her hand an inch or two to press his lips to her fluttering pulse.
Her gasp echoed in the room, and his expression ignited before he released her hand with obvious reluctance. He turned to check the open door once more.
“My ten seconds are up. I worry that any further generosity on your part will end with me on my arse on your front step.”
Eliza’s laugh was breathless even as she allowed him to urge her outside. There, Benedict shut the door behind her and placed her arm in his as he guided her into the yard.
His attention left her face, turning forward. He froze, struck at her cultivated floral beds. “All these are yours? You planted them?” he asked, a hint of awe in his tone.
“The smaller ones. Some of the bigger roses have been here for years, long before I was born—though they were half dead before I tended to them.”
“You breathed new life into them?” His eyes found hers, astonishment written in their dark depths.
“I merely helped them along,” she insisted. “I loved them, by the way—the flowers. They were perfect.”
“I am glad you did not find them wanting. I should not have goaded Gilbert like that over his arrangement.”
“Was that his name?”
“Yes,” he replied with an indulgent smile. “Now, tell me all about your flowers.”
She turned to the nearest bed, where roses lined the brick wall beneath the large study window. A riot of pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, and whites erupted in elegant bursts.
“Roses,” she said, gesturing with one hand.
“Astonishing,” he teased.
She pointed to the larger bushes toward the center of the bed with creamy pink blooms. “These were my grandmother’s.”
“Do you get your love of plants from her?”
“I suppose so. I never knew her, nor did my mother, so there is truly no one to ask.”
“Please accept my condolences for her absence. Though I am glad she left you the roses.”
“It does not pain me as I never knew her. But her roses were my first project. They were in a shameful state, and I nearly lost them in my rescue attempts.”
“These were on the brink of death?” he asked, brows high on his forehead.
“It was a blight. I nearly butchered the poor thing trying to save it. Pruned too far, dusted it with sulphur, washed every leaf, even had the gardener dig it up, cursing me all the while. New soil, better drainage, and finally, it held on. Now that I’ve blathered on about all of that, I realize that blight is perhaps not the best subject for a promenade. ”
“No! Tell me more about the blight,” he cried in a mirthful tone.
Her chuckle joined his chortle. “In truth, I am fascinated, even about the blight. I do not know that I’ve ever been as passionate about anything as you are about this.
And your dedication is clear in the haven you’ve grown.
What you’ve created is incredible.” He gestured around the yard to the other garden beds.
“Yes, well. I quite enjoy being out of doors. And it is quiet out here.”
“And you enjoy the quiet?”
Eliza worried her lip between her teeth.
“It was not intended to be a sensitive question.”
“No, I know. It is only— Well, I shouldn’t want to frighten you off. And the truth is, I’m quite wretched.”
“Lord of Sin,” he grinned, gesturing to himself. “Whatever it is cannot be so bad as all that.”
She rolled her eyes. “It is truly an absurd name.”
“It is. I believe the surname begs for such a title. My fate was sealed the day I was born.”
“Poor little Lord Sinclair,” she agreed with a pat to the shoulder.
“Yes, pity me. I am truly oppressed. But do not think the change in subject escaped my notice.”
Eliza rolled her eyes. “You must promise to lie to me about how horrid I am.”
“I swear it.” Benedict pressed his hand to his heart in mock solemnity.
She turned to examine her roses, unable to face him while she confessed her most shameful thoughts. “I love my sister with all of my heart. There is nothing I would not do for her. But all too often I find myself exhausted by her.”
His voice was entirely neutral, with perhaps a curious lilt, when he asked, “How so?”