Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Eliza woke with the first muted streaks of dawn dancing through her sheer curtains.
A smile etched across her lips while a permanent flutter lived in her chest. She might have been more concerned were it not such a pleasant sensation.
Unwilling to ring for May, she slid out of bed and threw open the window to greet the day before she dressed.
Her violets were still damp with dew when she stepped outside and greeted them.
The morning was cool, and fog hung like a heavy woolen blanket in the lowest areas of the garden.
After retrieving her blanket and donning an apron and gloves, she knelt beside the garden bed and began rooting out the various weeds that fought for purchase in her carefully tilled soil.
There, shaded in her own personal cloud, she relived tender kisses and whispered words without interruption.
The mere memory of Benedict’s masculine presence in the ring, contrasted with his tender touches to her lips, left her breathless. Such a man, capable of such feats of strength, made soft by her. It was an invigorating thought, and one she wished desperately to explore further.
When she was satisfied with her violets, she floated over to her rose bed.
She crouched beside the house. The creamy white Wickwar roses that climbed the side of the house needed pruning.
The rambling roses brightened the brick with the vibrant stamens exploding from their centers in a riot of gold, but they tended toward unruly when left unchecked.
Today, their chalky blue foliage threatened to overtake the window of her father’s study.
She reached for the shears in her apron pocket as a door rattled within the room above her. Startled, she glanced up to see the pane open.
“There you are,” Mama said, volume rising as she approached the window—or, more likely, her father’s desk next to it.
“Here I am,” Papa said, a weary note in his voice.
“My love? You did not come to bed last night. You look the worse for it.”
Her father’s answering chuckle was half-hearted and carried a hint of bitterness.
“Tell me,” Mama said.
He sighed. A squeak accompanied it—he’d shifted on the wretched old chair. “Our daughter may never forgive me.”
Any hope Eliza had of behaving as a decent, honest sort of person who would never eavesdrop was vanquished. She crept closer and sat on her blanket, pressing her back against the wall beside her roses, shears falling forgotten beside her. It wouldn’t do to be caught spying, but…
“I am certain that is not true.”
“You may not forgive me either.”
“Michael…” It was the tone her mother usually reserved for moments when she was certain Sophie was up to something mischievous but hadn’t the evidence to prove it yet.
“Sinclair,” he said simply.
Eliza’s heart stopped as ice raced through her veins.
“What of him?”
“He’s gone—or soon will be.”
Eliza gasped as her hand fell into the rose bed and caught on a thorn. She stumbled away, clutching her hand as a drop of blood pooled along her palm.
A curse came from above, barely audible over the pounding of her heart in her eardrums.
“Eliza…”
She glanced back, and her father appeared in the window, searching beyond her for a moment before his gaze lowered to meet hers.
“What have you done?” she demanded, hardly recognizing her own voice beneath the cool, steel tone.
Mama’s worried cobalt eyes and round face took shape beside him before he could reply. “Your hand! Come inside. We need to clean that.”
“You sent him away,” Eliza directed to her father, ignoring her mother’s concern entirely.
“We ought not have this conversation through the window, petal.”
“You have, haven’t you?”
He sighed, then disappeared from the pane entirely. The music room door slid open a moment later, and her father stepped outside, careful to shut it behind him.
He caught her arm, still frozen in shock, then guided her to the gazebo.
Papa pressed her onto the bench and shoved a handkerchief against her palm.
Delicate, hand-stitched periwinkle forget-me-nots lined the edges of the white linen—a testament to how distracted he was in that moment.
Otherwise, he never would have used one of Mama’s embroidery pieces to mop up something that might stain.
His fingers pressed into her palm. The sharp sting of an embedded spicule dug deeper into her flesh, a dull pain compared to the tightening agony in her chest.
“Why?” Her voice cracked on that single syllable.
Her father’s eyes slid shut. “He’s not acceptable. I don’t suppose there’s even the slightest chance you might accept that answer and be done with it.”
“But—”
“I didn’t think so.” His dark gaze lifted, finally catching hers—a mirror of her own—but his expression was entirely unreadable. “Sinclair is not suitable. There are debts.”
“Debts rule out more than half the gentlemen of the ton. You hold most of them.” She was impressed with the steady cadence of her argument, with no hint of warble.
“He is a notorious rake.”
“Papa, I am under no illusions that he is innocent. Nor were you when you met Mama, if I recall.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Aunt Cee,” she retorted with a raised brow.
The thumb and forefinger of his unoccupied hand found the bridge of his nose as he briefly closed his eyes.
“Damn it all to hell and back, Celine,” he muttered, then returned his attention to her.
“Regardless, whatever arrangements I may or may not have had with Cee are hardly the same. And certainly not what I wish for you.”
“That is not for you to decide!”
“You are my daughter. It is for me to decide. That decision is the single greatest responsibility I have ever taken on, and I’ll not leave your happiness, your very life, to the whims of a handsome wastrel.”
“But I—” love him. The words hung in her mind, echoing with every aching beat of her heart, thrumming along to her palm where her father still kept pressure—pounding there.
She ripped her hand from his grasp. His betrayal pooled in her gut to solidify like a wretched boulder.
“Eliza, my decision is final. I do not expect you to appreciate it. You may be as furious with me as you wish. But I expect you to abide by it.”
This was not the doting father she loved. This man was a cold, cruel stranger—a stranger intent on destroying all her future happiness.
“You truly intend to do this? Forbid me?”
He swallowed, throat bobbing with the effort. “My decision is final. And one day you will thank me for it.”
“Never,” she vowed, venom dripping from the word. “I’ll never forgive you for it.”
A distant, detached part of her recognized the agony that swept across her father’s face as though she’d struck him, but she could not bring herself to feel empathy. Not for him. Not in the face of everything she’d lost with this decision.
“As is your right,” he offered after a moment, his voice hoarse. He rose then, abandoning her to the righteous fury simmering in her veins.
Dimly, she was aware of light footsteps approaching even as her father’s heavy boots departed.
“See to her, please,” he croaked, a few feet away.
“Why? Is he truly so unsuitable?” Mama’s soft whisper washed over her.
“Later. She needs someone—someone else. I’ll be at the club.”
“You’ve not slept,” she protested.
His answering chuckle held a self-deprecating note.
Then Eliza felt the familiar weight of her mother’s hand on her shoulder.
“Lizzie.”
Words, furious and hateful, caught in Eliza’s throat, trapped there by the wave of grief that swept over her as Mama enveloped her.
She hadn’t even noticed the burning tears running down her cheeks until the soft cotton of her mother’s robe dampened beneath her.
Cool, elegant fingers tangled in her curls, brushing along the back of her neck, soothing.
It was a shamefully long time before Eliza dared venture from the comfort of her mother’s arms, tears dried in tacky trails along her cheeks.
“Mama, please,” she croaked.
Her mother was conflicted. Eliza read it in the way her lips pressed together. Not once in her life could she recall a moment when her parents had appeared before her as anything other than united.
Mama and Papa disagreed at times, of course. She and Sophie listened through the door during more than one impassioned discussion late at night. In front of their daughters, though—never.
But this—the tightening at the corners of her mother’s eyes—it was the closest she had ever been to directly disagreeing with Papa.
Hope bubbled up in Eliza’s belly, creeping along her spine.
Only to be dashed a moment later.
“Your father loves you, Lizzie. More than anything in this world. He would not have your heart broken without cause. The very thought breaks his own. Nor would I.”
“You do not even know the cause!”
Her mother reached out to tuck a curl behind Eliza’s ear in an irritatingly patronizing gesture. “No, but I know your father. And so do you.”
“Your father never would have approved of Papa. You’ve said so yourself.”
“Eliza!” Mama snapped. “My father is not your father. And I thank God for that every day. My father was more than delighted to sell me to the highest bidder, my happiness and safety be damned. I may not yet know the precise reason your papa finds Lord Sinclair unacceptable, but I do know it is a damned good reason.”
The curse echoed through Eliza’s ears. She could not recall a single instance of such a word escaping her mother’s lips.
Eliza’s shock must have shown on her face because her mother sighed.
“Your grandfather was not a good man. He did not love or care for my mother or stepmother, nor did he care for me. Once it became clear he would have no heir, the gaming table held his only cares. That is the way of it for some. Nothing and no one holds the attention of such a man, save the next wager. Perhaps Lord Sinclair is one of them.”
“But, Mama—”
“No. I’ll not hear more slander against your father.
He loves you. He has your best interests at heart.
And he would never, ever hurt you without a sound reason.
Lord Sinclair will not be the only man to pay you attention.
” Mama dropped an unwelcome kiss to Eliza’s forehead.
“Now, I would very much like you to join me for breakfast, but I understand if you wish to break your fast in your room or remain here.”
Wordlessly, Eliza abandoned her mother to the gazebo and strode for the house and the solitude of her chamber. Frustration warred with devastation, each fighting for prominence.
She took no satisfaction from the clang of the door rattling with her fury.
The display was childish and dramatic, her stomps reverberating against the steps.
She knew she would regret the scene even as she created it, which provided no relief against the ache in her chest. Humiliation burned in hot rivulets down her cheeks, streaming alongside the impotent tears.
The worn cotton of her summer quilt was no comfort as she flopped atop it. Sobs lingered, trapped and silent, in her throat. Her vision of a future, so new, full of hope and love, now dulled and tarnished.
And she did love him. She was certain of it now. The hitch in her lungs and burning in her center could mean nothing less. Each ragged breath was a fresh agony, ripped from her chest.
If Papa had his way, Benedict would never be hers. His lips would trail along some other woman’s jaw. The thought of his voice—low and rough—spoken for someone else twisted in her gut, as sharp as the thorn still lodged in her palm.
And Eliza would stand by the wall on the side of ballroom after ballroom.
Alone forevermore.