Chapter 19 #2
Between one breath and the next, however, Eliza formed her own plans, entirely in opposition to his. It was a tiny movement, a quick shifting of her weight, but her lips pressed against his again, and he was lost.
There had been an undefinable something missing from every kiss he’d ever known, evident only now that he’d found it.
If asked, he would’ve said he quite enjoyed kissing.
But this… Was kissing even the right word?
Nothing had ever been as perfect, as tender as Eliza’s lips moving against his—tentative but so, so brave and eager.
His heart clenched along with his prick as his thumb slid down her jaw, guiding her, encouraging her to take everything. Eliza was a quick study. There was nothing surprising about that. When her tongue brushed his lip, he opened for her on a gasp.
And he was hers.
He’d had such beautiful intentions, so sweet and loving, but he was bound for hell, regardless. With that recognition, he forsook his former intentions. They could burn with him. He countered her enthusiasm with his own and a groan, pulling her closer.
The previous night had been incredible, but tinged, dulled with the swirl of drink. This moment was sharp, vivid with lust burning, unfulfilled, through him. In an instant, it morphed into a ravenous hunger.
His cock pushed insistently against the fabric of his old, worn breeches.
Eliza’s quiet moan when his tongue traced hers stopped his heart. That sound… How would it change when brushed along his throat as he entered her?
She tasted of whiskey and hope, and a touch of honey—nothing had ever been as wonderful. Benedict couldn’t get enough. He wasn’t sure it was possible to be sated of her, in her.
How had he left this incredible creature beside the wall the prior evening? Her tongue was as quick as her wit, and her teeth sharp as they nipped his lip, provoking a reaction—a snap of his hips against hers.
“Your hack is ready.” The cool, entirely too masculine interjection rattled around Benedict’s empty head for a moment until comprehension settled into his spine and his lips stilled.
“Out!” he ordered, not bothering to turn to the man waiting just outside the door. Turning meant abandoning Eliza to another’s gaze, and he wasn’t willing to do that.
Pointed, too loud, footsteps trod back down the stairs.
Reluctantly, Benedict pulled back from Eliza’s grasp, then tugged a fresh shirt over his head. She wore the flush of his attentions well, her lips swollen with his kisses. And she’d never been more beautiful. Her brilliant, wide eyes looked at him with such adoration, such trust.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she said, even as she met his gaze, unwary—as though he were a good man.
“About what?”
“Your butler—”
“I’ll take care of it,” Benedict assured her and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “We need to leave now before we lose the hack.”
Eliza nodded, disappointment crossing her features and settling into her brow.
Benedict allowed himself the final indulgence of tracing his fingers along her neck and collarbone before finding the sleeve that had slipped from her shoulder. He set it to rights, this flesh even silkier than the supple skin of her cheek.
Not for the first time, he wished he hadn’t been quite so drunk the night before. So he might recall the more subtle details of the velvet sensation of her inner thigh. He longed to remember exactly how she’d felt—anything more than so fucking good.
Eliza’s delicate fingers reached up to tuck a lock of hair back from his forehead.
She traced the line of his hair, down to his jaw, his throat, before dancing along his sternum.
When she reached the neckline of his shirt, hanging off his own shoulder, she gently tugged it into place before smoothing her palm down the front of his chest.
His heart skipped in understanding before his head caught up. She was setting him to rights too. And her touch, so impossibly tender, as though he was deserving of the same reverence she received.
He wasn’t, of course.
Quite possibly no one had ever deserved reverence more than Eliza Wayland and less than himself. But God, his body craved it. The whisper-soft brush of her fingers sent tingles down his spine and his heart skittering. When was the last time someone had touched him with such gentleness?
Benedict had known only fury in gaze, words, and lash from his father. Women had grabbed him with lust in their eyes and hands. His friends, the few he could count, had clapped him round the shoulder with laughter. But this… No. He’d never known anything like Eliza.
Benedict shook the thought away and caught her about the waist with a soft hand, then guided her into the hall. The butler lingered by the foot of the stairs.
“I believe I hear Lady Arabella calling,” Benedict said pointedly. He didn’t hear Bella, of course, but the man needed to be elsewhere.
“Yes, my lord.” Annoyance was heavy in his tone as he stomped into the drawing room.
Benedict didn’t particularly care if the man was peevish. He’d interrupted. And he’d embarrassed Eliza. Termination would have been a fitting punishment. But Bella would make his life miserable in the interim.
In the hall, he snatched his greatcoat off the rack before draping it across Eliza’s shoulders.
A covetous, possessive, greedy part of him rejoiced at the sight.
Eliza wasn’t tiny, not compared to some ladies, but she was a great deal shorter than him.
The worn wool skirted her ankles, and the shoulder seams fell to her elbows.
“Thank you,” she said as he opened the door for them.
The hack awaited, the driver impatient in his pacing. Benedict waved the man off, giving him the directions.
He handed Eliza inside himself. The carriage jerked forward the second he climbed aboard—the driver unwilling to wait even the moment it would take for Benedict to find his seat.
Benedict half fell beside Eliza, earning a warm giggle. He let her bundle him into her side, luxuriating in a few more moments of warm, caring gestures.
Wordlessly, she snatched his hand and clasped it between hers, then traced her fingers over the bruises forming along his knuckles.
At her questioning gaze, he said, “It doesn’t hurt.”
She pulled his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to the knuckles.
Benedict’s throat was thick with sentiment he wasn’t ready to name. Shadows danced across Eliza’s face with each passing lamp.
“Eliza,” he croaked, too overwhelmed to feel shame at the pathetic tone. He settled back against the seat, tugged his hand from hers, and wrapped it around her shoulders to tuck her closer.
“I know you said I should not come tonight. But I cannot lament it.”
“You weren’t frightened?”
Her soft curls brushed his cheek when she shook her head. “No, it was exhilarating.”
He agreed with a chuckle.
“Did you— That is…” She swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet rocking of the carriage. “Your back?”
Her question landed like a blow, harder than any thrown in the ring. Benedict’s stomach dropped. It had been too much to hope she hadn’t noticed, that she wouldn’t question.
“You need not tell me if you do not wish it,” she rushed to assure him.
After a fortifying breath, he began, uncertain where the thought would end. “It’s not that I don’t… But perhaps not tonight? I— It’s not the thought I wish to end our night on.”
“Of course.” She accepted him so easily, so earnestly. “Whenever you’re comfortable.”
“You are too generous with me.”
“I am precisely as generous as you deserve.” Eliza settled into the crook of his arm with that proclamation. She had no way of knowing what her certainty did to him—the way her faith jolted his heart before twisting in his gut to amplify his overwhelming guilt.
He allowed himself the unearned luxury of breathing in her fresh, hopeful scent from the silken curls that brushed his chin.
Long before he was ready to give her up—not that he ever would be—the carriage shuddered to a halt. Reluctantly, he allowed Eliza to unwind herself from his grasp and straighten her skirts.
Benedict stepped from the carriage to hand her out. Eliza tucked herself back into his side while he instructed the driver to wait for him.
The drawing room of her house was still alight. “Eliza, is that—”
“Mama always orders the house to remain lit until Papa returns home. He’s often quite late. I’ll need to sneak in through the back though,” she explained, guiding them toward the short wrought iron gate he’d made excellent use of the night before.
She glided inside before turning and shutting the waist-high barrier between them. “I’ll bid you adieu here.”
“But—”
“If you join me in the yard, I’m afraid I’ll never stop kissing you. And the hack is waiting.”
“I like the alternative better.”
Her laugh was low and sweet. “Me too, but needs must.”
Swallowing his desire, he dropped an adoring kiss on her temple. “Sweet dreams.”
“You too,” she whispered before scurrying off into the night.
Benedict waited a moment, two, to be certain she wouldn’t return for one last kiss before turning back to the waiting carriage.
The driver was no happier to see him a second time, but he made no comment when Benedict climbed back in.
Hints of Eliza’s floral essence clung to the worn upholstery. Perhaps her scent was permanently imprinted on his memory. That was a hopeful thought—every moment of the rest of his life tinged with the scent of violets and impossible dreams.
Benedict’s head leaned back, resting along the top of the threadbare cushion. His thoughts were a tangled, snarled, thorny swirl—all save one.
He couldn’t do this—not to Eliza.
Even if it destroyed everything else.