Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
“I hope you weren’t planning to hire a hack at this hour,” Bella said.
The moon was waning on the balmy, cloud-darkened evening.
“I said no talking, Bella.”
“The theater will let out soon—it will take hours.”
“Bella…” Benedict warned. Suddenly the entirety of his sister’s plan became clear. She was forcing his hand.
She would not find it sufficient to ruin Eliza by dragging her in the dead of night to his fight. Bella was orchestrating a visit to their house. A scandalous visit.
“She’s hardly a wilting flower, Ben. She can walk to the house. It’s not even a block.”
“I’m certain she can, but since we’re not returning to the house, it’s irrelevant,” he bit out between gritted teeth.
“Do I not get a say in this?” Eliza asked.
“Of course,” Bella said over Benedict’s “No.”
“No,” he said again. “We’re taking you home. Your father will have my head. If he’s unavailable, then one of your numerous uncles will.”
“There’s only two—well, three I suppose—four if you count Augie.”
“I count all of them, and that was not the point. Once they’re finished with me, it will be that dunner’s turn.” He gestured in an absurd circle to include all her invisible, too protective, relations. Her gaze caught on his bruises.
“Benedict, please. You’re hurt,” Eliza protested and reached for his cheek.
“Hardly,” he scoffed and pulled away from her searching touch, despite the pain it caused him to do so.
“Are you planning to march her through Mayfair in your sweat-soaked shirtsleeves? Bruised and bloody? While all the theatergoers pass by?” Bella asked, banging the final nail into his coffin.
“Ten minutes, no more.” His teeth gnashed together as he bit back a verbal thrashing for his sister.
Eliza’s nod was enthusiastic despite her concerned expression. Bella, possessing not a single scruple, offered him a wink. All the while, Benedict continued to grind his teeth.
The walk took mere minutes—not long enough for Benedict’s ire to cool, even as the soft breeze drew Eliza’s violet essence to him.
When they found themselves at the front door of the let house, the unease returned to Benedict’s chest.
The butler opened the door, raising only a judgmental brow at their visitor.
“Thank you, Norton,” Bella chirped.
“Would you see about getting a hack?” Benedict asked.
The man’s expression was one of displeasure, but he said nothing. Instead, he stepped out into the night.
“Well, I’ll be readying for bed.” Bella faked a yawn in the entry.
“Absolutely not. You’re acting as chaperone.”
Eliza’s lips curled in amusement, eyes twinkling in the candlelit hall.
She looked as pretty as a picture in her purple and grey frock, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
Benedict chafed at the necessity of bringing her here, to this place he was ashamed to call home—even temporarily.
No matter that it was in better repair than Blackwood, neither was good enough for Eliza.
She looked out of place against the cracked plaster walls and atop the warped floorboards.
Bella sighed and strode into the drawing room, leaving them alone in the hall.
“That was precisely what you were not supposed to do, Bell,” he called after her.
“I’m sorry, Benedict, you’ll have to speak louder. I cannot hear you from all the way in here,” she called back, the clink of a bottle against glass punctuating the speech.
Benedict bit back a smile at the sight of Eliza failing to hide her own. When her eyes trailed down the length of his chest, his answering groan was impossible to restrain.
She had no right to be that lovely, all soft and bemused, with lust in her eyes. How was a man to resist? Eliza Wayland was a temptation straight from the devil himself—a preemptive torment for future sins.
“You’re hurt,” she said as she brushed her thumb across his lip—her touch petal soft. “We need to clean you up.”
“We need to get you home,” he insisted.
She shot him a look. No one had ever communicated No, and you’re a fool if you think I’ll let this go, quite so effectively without words.
He acquiesced with a sigh.
“Where do you store the bandages?”
“In my room—no, absolutely not.” The thought of Eliza there, in that room, on that bed, where he’d stroked himself to thoughts of her…
“Benedict…” Instead of waiting for his very reasonable objections, she caught his hand and tugged him up the stairs. “Is it this way?”
He tripped after her. “Eliza, I cannot begin to enumerate the ways in which this is wrong.”
“I’m not leaving until I clean a few of these cuts. Your complaints are noted and overruled. Now, which one is yours?”
The fight left him at the sight of her determined expression. He pointed with two fingers to the room he’d claimed even as his skin crawled with the wrongness of it. She deserved so much better than this crumbling slum.
Her expression shifted as she took in his room. Something unreadable but certainly disappointed or disgusted crossed her face. She stepped inside and made a slow circuit of the bare walls.
“Hmm.”
“What?” he asked, weary.
“I suppose I imagined more personal touches. I can’t find… you in here.”
“It’s rented. For the season.”
“Oh, that makes sense then.” Her easy acceptance of the answer surprised him. Everyone in her orbit surely owned property—for several generations at least.
She forged ahead though, leaving him off balance. “Sit. Take your shirt off.” She gestured to the bed. “Where are the bandages?”
“Under the basin, but, Eliza, I can—”
“Hush. Be a good patient for me.”
Benedict was grateful she was occupied digging in the basket he’d indicated and did not see his reaction to that order—which he followed promptly and entirely without intent.
When she glanced up, she froze for a moment before jolting back into motion. She held a roll of old linen strips, an apothecary tincture, and a small jar of honey he kept for this purpose. She placed the items on the bed beside him before carrying the ewer over and setting it on the bedside table.
“Oh,” she whispered, catching sight of her glove resting there.
Benedict’s eyelids slid shut as shame overwhelmed him. She would know. He didn’t know how, but she would know the way he’d used her glove, and she would be revolted.
“You know, that was the most erotic moment of my life—until last night.”
His heart stopped. “What?” he blurted.
“When you took my glove. I’ve never— You left me quite flustered.” There was nothing accusatory or displeased in her tone. And her expression—a becoming flush bloomed on her cheeks as she settled beside him on the bed. His prick gave an appreciative twitch even as he willed it to behave.
“It might have been the most erotic moment of my life as well.”
She tutted, busying herself with unraveling a few of the linen strips. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not. You’re—” He shook his head. “I’m not an innocent. You know that. But it’s— You’re different.”
“Different how?” she asked, lips curved into a perfect O.
“Just… the way you make me feel—protective, tender—I’ve never felt those things before.”
“And you do with me?”
“Yes.”
She swallowed before turning back to her linen strips and dropped one in the ewer.
It dribbled over the bed coverings when she fished it out.
Dark eyes met his as her teeth caught her lower lip.
Slowly, and oh, so gently, she brought the cloth up to his lip.
She worked at the dried blood he was certain was there.
“You make me feel that way too. Protective, tender. I didn’t like seeing you hurt tonight.”
“I’m not usually quite this beat up. I was distracted.”
“Anything I can help with?” she asked, dragging the cloth along his throat to his chest.
Benedict was almost positive there was no more blood there, only bruising. But he wasn’t a good enough man to stop her—not with her parted lips and hungry eyes.
“No, it’s… no.” Industrious fingers slid down his chest, down, down toward his breeches. He coughed, then caught her hand in his. “He’s not allowed to hit me there.”
“I was being thorough,” she retorted with a cheeky grin. The deepening, flaming flush on her cheeks lessened the effect. Her gaze dropped to the cuts on his knuckles, for she set to work cleaning them.
Finally, when she seemed satisfied, she reached for the tincture. “I can manage that,” he said. There was no way he would survive the sight or sensation of her tiny hands rubbing the salve on his chest.
Her gaze caught his, studying before breaking off to find the jar of honey. She opened it and dipped her ring finger inside, then brought the finger up to his lower lip, drawing it along the split.
When her eyes skimmed up to his, Benedict was lost. No one had ever needed to be kissed the way Eliza did in that moment—he was certain of it. He shouldn’t want her hands on him, shouldn’t want her lips, shouldn’t want her tenderness—but God help him, he wanted all of it.
The hell with it!
Benedict was a mere mortal; a saint could not be expected to resist Eliza.
His hand found her jaw, cupping it. He covered the entirety of her cheek in his palm, fingertips curling around the back of her neck.
Eliza reached up to tangle her fingers in the damp locks at the back of his head.
He swallowed. “I need to kiss you. Please, Eliza.” Benedict was not above begging. Not tonight, at least, with his blood still thrumming from the fight, rushing from the sight and smell of her.
Her throat bobbed once before her rose-colored lips parted, her tantalizing bosom rising with every breath. “Yes,” she whispered.
Slowly, impossibly so, Benedict bent, lowering his lips to hers.
If he was to steal her first kiss from her—and he was certain this was her first—he would ensure it was perfect.
He would give her the kind of kiss a lady might dream about—soft, tender; a gentleman’s kiss.
Benedict caught her lower lip between his before pulling away—perfectly respectable.