Chapter 14 #2
Eliza sighed. “Sophie commands attention in every room—if it were only her beauty, I do not think I would find myself so discontented. But she is seldom still and rarely stops talking. A subject that little interests her will be changed at the earliest opportunity. If such an opportunity does not present itself naturally, she will create one. She acts on the slightest notion with no thought for the consequences; cycling through interests the way others change their clothes. She is never without some new obsession to discuss. Sometimes, when I’m in the room with her, it feels like she has claimed all the air and I’m left gasping. ”
“And so you took to your garden where you could be at peace with your own thoughts?”
“Precisely,” she said, finally chancing a look at him.
Benedict’s expression was pensive, assessing her, but far from judgmental.
“I do not know what it is to feel overlooked in such a way. But I, too, have antithetical feelings about my sister and others in my family on quite a regular basis. If you are wretched, I am more so.”
“I cannot believe it of you!”
“Believe it. In fact, she is exasperated with me at this very moment—over something I said on our way home from the ball.”
“What could you possibly have had a disagreement about?”
“She was discussing her own obsession, and I requested to change the subject—admittedly rather rudely. Bella will nurse the grudge for another fortnight at least. I am no expert—possessing only the one—but I rather believe that to have a sibling is to know love and vexation in equal measure.”
Eliza blinked up at him, feeling a familiar tightness loosen in her chest.
“I must firmly disagree with you about one point though,” Benedict added. “You aren’t in the shadows. If Sophie is the sun… then you are the moon. Quiet, constant, a light to banish the darkness.” Benedict delivered the speech with such naked sincerity, paired with a hint of desperation.
Eliza could read nothing of artifice or guile in his face, only urgency. Dark eyes had trapped hers, searching for something she couldn’t name, but it left her heart sputtering.
“Say you believe me,” he demanded.
“I believe you,” she whispered, compelled.
Benedict’s gaze snapped down to her lips and back. He longed to kiss her, Eliza knew it, felt it—she was more certain of that fact than she had been of anything that came before. And she wanted nothing more. Her lips positively ached for the caress of his mouth.
Unthinkingly, her tongue dipped between her lips. Benedict’s head rolled back toward the sky with a sharp exhale. When his gaze returned to her, he had clawed his way back to respectability. Eliza couldn’t help but lament it a little, even as she took his offered elbow.
“Show me your other flowers? Tulips?”
“Tulips,” she agreed as she tipped her heard toward the bed that housed them. “I bred that varietal.” Eliza pointed to a purple tulip so dark it was nearly black with crimson feathering toward the tips of the petals.
“You bred them? How? Did you pour them a glass of inexpensive wine and snuff out the candles?”
A laugh bubbled up from her chest, mixing with his own into a pleasant symphony. “Cross-pollination, though I may try your method next time.”
“I wouldn’t. You’re just as likely to find yourself with an aching head and regrets as you are a bouncing baby bulb.”
“Good to know,” she replied in a feigned, serious tone.
“Wildflowers?” he asked, gesturing to one of the last beds. There, every conceivable bloom sprung from a lush carpet of green. A riot of color swirling in a beautiful, cultivated chaos.
“For my pollinators.” Eliza explained before she drew him toward the final garden. Violets. Concentric rings of violets in every imaginable shade—the standard blue-purple, white, yellow, burgundy, orange, and pink. This was her showcase. “I told you they were my favorite.”
“I had no idea… It seems such a simple, unassuming flower...”
“Oh, they’re an absolute menace. You plant them in one place, and they take over everything until all that’s left is violets.
Of course, I wouldn’t mind that, but everyone else does.
Violets aren’t showy like the roses or as celebrated as the tulips, but they’ll wind their way in and you’ll be powerless to stop them. Sophie calls them fancy weeds.”
“Who could see what you’ve done with them and call them weeds?”
“Anyone who knows anything about them, I’m afraid.”
“They’re lovely. All of it is. You’re an incredible talent.”
Eliza’s cheeks heated once again; she was unused to such compliments.
She glanced at her violets. There, in between one of her neat rows, was a sprout of chickweed.
She dipped down and ripped it out by the stem before remembering that the basket she kept to dispose of such intruders remained tucked away in the shed.
Now she stood beside Benedict, holding a weed with nowhere to put it.
A smile played at the corner of his lips before a soft chuckle escaped. “What do you usually do with them when meddlesome suitors do not interrupt your day?”
“I’ve a basket,” she admitted, her smile a mix of pleased and sheepish.
“Where?”
With a dip of her head toward the back fence, Benedict set off to retrieve her basket. He returned at a gentle loping pace, basket in hand. Once at her side, he presented her wicker basket on both palms, bowing. “Your receptacle, my lady.”
She dropped the chickweed in her basket, following it with an affected curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“Show me?” he asked, tipping his chin to the violets beside them.
“Show you what?”
“Teach me to garden, Eliza.” A pair of worn gloves hung over the side of the basket, and Benedict handed them to her. His grin was boyish and bright as the corners of his eyes crinkled with delight.
She hesitated, lower lip caught between her teeth. “Is my blanket in there?”
Before she could blink, Benedict had knelt to spread the worn woolen fabric over the ground. He rose to his knees and caught her fingers in his, then eased her down to the ground. She fussed with her skirts, arranging them around her, and donned the gloves.
“What am I plucking?” he asked as he settled beside her.
“Not these,” she retorted, pointing to the row of pansies in front of them.
Benedict’s smile didn’t falter in the face of her teasing. In fact, it seemed to deepen.
“What about these?” he asked, gesturing to the row of white-and-yellow dotted two-eyed violets. There was not a lick of sincerity in his tone or on his face.
“Perhaps you could keep me company?”
Benedict delivered a put-upon sigh. “Are you suggesting that I sit here and look handsome?”
“Precisely. It is not beyond your skill set, is it?” Eliza flushed, only cooling when Benedict laughed.
“I shall give it my very best effort. But do not hesitate to provide feedback. I’m quite good at following instructions.”
Eliza rooted out another shoot of chickweed and dropped it in her basket. “Are you?”
His hum caused Eliza’s breath to catch before she forcibly exhaled. “I enjoy knowing what you want, Eliza.” Benedict allowed the back of his finger to trail along her wrist above where her glove sat.
Eliza swallowed, struggling to ignore the stirring between her thighs. “You’re very familiar,” she said, with no severity behind it.
His smile was soft, private. “I am, I’ll make no apologies for it. I want to know you,” he whispered. “I want to discover things about you that no one ever has.”
“What does that mean?”
“I want to be the person you come to with all your hurts, your joys, and your plant blights. And I want you to know me. I’ve never wanted to be… close to anyone. Not really. I—” He looked away, jaw clenching. “I didn’t intend to say… any of that.”
The sound of his proposal, the life he offered, she wanted nothing more. To be seen, to be known, and to be adored, not in spite of, but because of what she was—there could be nothing better.
“I— Me too. I want those things too. The things you don’t intend to say, I love them. Those moments—the delights and devastations—I want to share those with you. And I want to hear about your plant blights. I mean—not plant blights, but—”
“I know what you mean,” he said, his smile soft, private with a soft, tender expression in his gaze.
“Sometimes, I can be... I struggle to be open. It’s not for lack of desire or trust—you must know that.
It is… my life has not been like yours. Vulnerability does not come easily to me.
No one has ever… wanted that from me before.
” His voice was raw, as if it had been raked over hot coals.
Her heart tripped over itself. He was so earnest, so entirely without the rakish persona that so often accompanied his words.
This was Benedict Sinclair in his purest form—trusting her with the vulnerability he’d just admitted to shunning.
“I wish I could give you all of me, Eliza.”
“Oh,” she said with a sigh as she stared into his eyes.
Her hand ached to cup his cheek, the one tipped up in a half smile. It rose of its own volition—a tiny purple violet clasped in her grasp. She looked down at the stem in her hand, uncomprehending, until giggles bubbled forth.
Benedict’s chuckles joined hers, gentle and warm. Once their laughter drifted off in the breeze, he tenderly urged her wrist to his nose with two fingers underneath. He took a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut.
“These— This is the source of your perfume?”
“Sweet violets,” she explained, nodding. “I hadn’t realized—”
“Every time I’m near you, it lingers. And I can take you with me back into the real world.”
“Benedict…” The weight, the significance of those three syllables hung in the air between them.
His gaze shot to hers, pinning her in place. “Benedict? Is that what you’ve settled on?”
“Yes.” There was no need to feign ignorance. They both knew what he was asking.
He nodded, his throat bobbing before prying the violet from her. Carefully, he plucked the singular leaf that had joined the bloom. Impossibly soft-looking lips pressed tighter together as his gaze turned back to her.
Slowly, giving Eliza time to stop him, he tucked the violet behind her ear. Bare fingers traced along her neck before pulling away, drawing a shudder down her spine. “In mine, you wore violets in your hair.”
“Your what?” she whispered.
“In my dreams last night, you had violets woven through your curls. And you called me Benedict as I worshipped you.”
“Oh.” It was all she was capable of, her every higher thought consumed with the possibilities of what his worship might entail.
“In in your dreams, what did you call me? Or were you awake?”
“I— It was a dream. Nothing particularly— It wasn’t scandalous. At least not overly so.”
“I want to know your dreams too, Eliza,” he pressed, expression eager.
“It was a kiss—just a kiss.”
He hung on every word, gaze fixed upon hers.
Benedict shook his head and laced his fingers with her gloved ones. “There would be no just about a kiss between us.”
“There wouldn’t?”
“No—”
“Lizzie?” Sophie called from the house, shattering the moment. “Mama says it’s time for you to come inside.”
Eliza ripped her hand from Benedict’s as she shot up. Her skirts were in a right state, certainly enough to distract her from the disappointment that flooded her veins at the broken connection.
His expression when she finally braved a glance at him was both sheepish and bemused, but there was frustration, longing in his gaze.
“Are you attending the Macclesfield ball in two days?” she asked, unable to hide the desperate, breathy quality in her voice.
“Saturday? No, I haven’t received an invitation.”
“Oh, but…”
“I could not attend anyway. I’ve plans.”
“Plans?”
His chuckle was warm and self-satisfied.
“Nothing fit for a lady.” Benedict turned from her to glance distractedly up at the house’s facade as he guided her through the gardens.
“Oh, they look nice there,” he said, tipping his head up toward the second story room where her bouquet of violets perched in the window.
“I, yes… Thank you,” she fumbled as they slowly made their way back to the house.
Sophie hadn’t done them the courtesy of allowing them a moment to say goodbye. Instead, when they reached the French doors, she was eyeing them both warily and trailed the two of them all the way down the hall to the front entry.
Seeming to read Sophie’s face when they reached the door, Sinclair offered her a formal “Good afternoon, Miss Eliza.”
“Lord Sinclair.”
There was nothing formal about the look he gave her before turning and making his way down the steps into the late-afternoon sun.
A hand caught her elbow and whirled her around. “Lizzie! What on earth has he done with my sensible sister? You’re blushing so hard I cannot see how it will ever fade.”
Eliza ignored the questions, countering with her own. “Did Mama really wish for me to return?”
“She sent me to check on the two of you. She strenuously implied that I was to interrupt anything untoward. But, Lizzie… I’ve never seen you this way. I hardly recognize you.”
I love him. Her head supplied the thought, and her heart gave a nearly painful thump of acknowledgment. I love him. A second time, her new reality settled, a pleasant, warm weight in her chest. I love him.
“I’ve no idea, Sophie,” she said, too distracted for much else.
Her sister chattered on about something, but Eliza was incapable of conversation.
And she wasn’t yet ready to give voice to this fundamental truth yet. Still too fresh for words. I love him. Even as her heart thrummed in a novel rhythm—bump, bump, bump. I. Love. Him.
“Forgive me, Soph. I need to wash up,” she said, then stepped around her sister and up the stairs without waiting for a response.
Once she reached her bedroom, there, on the table beneath her window, was a vase filled with tiny deep blue-purple blooms—all for her.