Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eliza spent the night after her visit with Rose hardening her heart to Benedict Sinclair.
She reexamined their every interaction with new, critical eyes: his decisive approach, his artful and deliberate phrasing, his tenacious pursuit.
Every moment had been artfully orchestrated to result in the greatest possible humiliation.
Of course they had.
Because her mother and father were right from the beginning. No one could possibly be interested in Eliza for her own merit; she had nothing to tempt a man, nothing to entice, save her fortune. She was Sophie’s younger, plainer, duller sister and nothing more.
Eliza had thought herself in love with Sinclair, eager to accept a proposal whenever he thought to deliver it. And the entire time, he’d been laughing at her. If there was a greater fool in all of England, Eliza could not imagine such a pitiful creature.
But that man deserved no more of her sorrow.
She was determined to stop acting a fool over him.
The next morning, she donned in her steel-grey dress dotted with little purple flowers at the hem.
It was a more cheerful statement than she felt, but if she pretended she was fine for long enough, it would become the truth.
Desperate to claw herself back to a semblance of normalcy, she fled down to the garden at first light. The morning was irritatingly fine. The sun, at its low angle, kissed the dewdrops on her rose petals. They glinted at her like diamonds. Blinding her.
Instead of the peace and comfort her flowers usually provided, they were too bright, the thorns too sharp, the weeds too overwhelming. Her neglect these last few days had left them in disarray.
After the roses’ thorns caught her sleeve a fourth time, she abandoned them for the violets—in desperate need of weeding.
But once she had settled next to her beloved purple flowers, her heart gave a spasm, an ache as longing bloomed before her head recognized her position.
In this precise spot, Benedict had tucked a flower in her hair—the moment she had fallen in love with him.
Except she didn’t love him, couldn’t. Because Benedict Sinclair was a stranger and a liar.
She stood, brushed off her skirts, and strode for the breakfast room. Another equally unpleasant task awaited her there.
Eliza walked into the room feeling every bit of the discomfort she was due after her prolonged absence. The table’s three occupants froze.
A protracted standoff followed before her mother, ever the peacemaker, rose to call for another plate to be brought.
Wordlessly, Eliza took her seat across from Sophie. She hated herself just the smallest bit for the sting she felt at the sight of her beautiful sister. Even now, still wearing a dressing gown with her hair spilling out of her night braid, she was more beautiful than Eliza could ever hope to be.
Eliza rather thought that might be one of the more painful aspects of Sinclair’s betrayal—she would miss the moments when she felt beautiful, worthy of the affections of such a man.
“Lizzie,” Sophie offered, more tentatively than Eliza could ever recall her acting. “You look well.”
“You too,” Eliza croaked. “And you, Papa, Mama.”
Her mother’s gaze softened on her where she stood behind Sophie waiting for a servant. She knew. Eliza swallowed, shaking her head carefully. If she were forced to talk about her heartbreak… she would certainly break her vow to never again cry over a man.
Her father’s gaze bored into the side of her head as he studied her, but he said nothing.
“I thought I might go to Hudson’s today,” she announced.
“If you wish,” Mama said as she returned to her spot at the end of the table. “Sophie?”
“I suppose, since Papa still will not allow me back in the club.”
“Preparations are underway for the masquerade already. Bash is unavailable to supervise you,” he said.
“I hardly need supervision.”
“Yes, you do. Constant, in fact,” he retorted.
“Potter could supervise me,” she suggested.
“Potter couldn’t supervise a rock.”
“Fine. Lizzie, do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Eliza agreed smoothly. Now that she had resolved to never think or speak of Benedict Sinclair again, she was desperate for some other occupation. A trip to the bakery would have to suffice.
“Bring me back a few of the raspberry ones?” Papa asked her, voice tentative and expression hesitant.
“Yes,” she said, equally uncertain.
“Thank you.” Papa smiled, full of sincerity.
Sophie required no input at all to carry on a conversation. She chattered happily as the three women strolled to the bakery. Eliza was thrilled to allow her to prattle.
As they approached the bay windows that distinguished the bakery from the other shops on the mercantile street, they paused to appreciate the display window overfilled with a veritable rainbow of macarons—Emma’s addition to the Hudson’s menu.
Vanilla, pistachio, and lemon were usually available, and sometimes more sought-after flavors—pineapple, orange, and peach—made an appearance, though they tended to disappear quickly.
Chocolate was an ever-popular choice. Emma’s macarons also came in more improbable combinations that were always a delight.
The other window featured one of the few tables for those who preferred to see and be seen. Eliza stepped inside with her mother and sister and joined the always lengthy queue, the usual scent of fresh berries mingling with the buttery and vanilla sweetness of pastries.
Today, however, the scent was oddly weaker, less potent, less tempting.
Normally, this close to the counter, Eliza’s mouth would begin to water at the delectable promises before her. Instead, she knew only a bland numbness.
When they reached Emma behind the counter, she was her usual poised, elegant, and lovely self—seeming only slightly harassed today. Patrons loved the offerings and could be demanding. A few strands of strawberry hair threatened to escape her simple knot, and her cheeks were flushed.
“Oh, thank goodness, someone who won’t shout at me,” she whispered in greeting.
“Who is shouting at you?” Sophie asked.
“Who hasn’t? The cocoa shipment never arrived.”
Eliza winced in sympathy. The various chocolate options were crowd favorites.
“Do you by chance have a few raspberry tarts left?” Mama asked.
“Of course. Mama saw you come in and is already packing them up in back. She pulled them fresh from the oven for Michael.”
“Miss Lizzie, Miss Wayland,” a masculine voice called from behind them. “This is a pleasant surprise.” Eliza turned, startled to find Leo behind her. “Are you taking your treats with you?”
“Lord Bellemere! We thought to enjoy the hustle and bustle,” Sophie said.
“I do not suppose you have room for one more?”
“Of course,” she replied.
“What are you having? I’ll bring it over if you are able to claim a table,” he offered.
Sophie requested her usual fairy cake, and their mother requested her own raspberry tart. Eliza usually preferred to sample Emma’s newest creations. “I’ve not decided yet. I’ll help you carry them,” she said.
Emma smiled, but it seemed a little forced. The shop was even busier than usual that morning. “If you could, I do need you to order before a riot breaks out.”
Eliza laughed, too bright and too false, sparing a quick glance for the irritated patrons lined up to the door. “Whichever is your favorite today, please.”
Emma plated the requested pastries, then added a yellow macaron with purple filling. “Lavender and lemon,” she explained. “With a hint of white chocolate.”
“I thought you said the cocoa shipment was delayed.”
“We use less of the cocoa butter in white chocolate—there was enough left.”
Eliza hummed in a vague approximation of interest as Leo set a few shillings on the counter.
“Oh, Waylands do not pay here,” Emma said. “It would be passing money around unnecessarily.”
Leo leaned forward, then waited until Emma did the same. “I’m trying to show a pretty girl a nice time, Em,” he whispered. “Let me pay. Besides, Father would never forgive me.”
Emma giggled, a touch uncomfortable as her gaze shifted to Eliza for a response.
As far as Eliza was concerned, Leo was welcome to spend his money as he liked. But she rather thought Sophie would be unimpressed with the gesture. Frowning, she offered Emma a shrug.
Finally, Emma settled on, “If you insist,” as she handed over the plates. Eliza reached for one but was foiled when Leo stacked them between his fingers.
“Now, get out of my line, please,” Emma finally demanded with a more genuine grin.
Leo and Eliza chuckled, though hers was a touch perfunctory, as they made their way to the table her mother and sister had claimed.
Eliza settled into the unoccupied chair next to Sophie, while Leo claimed the one on the other side of the small, round table.
Their families’ country estates were close enough to each other for regular visits and holidays, but the Bennet family was rarely in London.
Leo’s father had his own observatory on their grounds, and Eliza found it quite fascinating.
The gardens, too, were lovely—wild and unkempt, but lush with a riot of color in the spring months.
As such, Eliza never minded a stop on the way to their country home.
Leo set her macaron before her with a little fanfare. “You’ll have to let me know how it is,” he said, nudging the plate before her. “I tend to stick with my usual favorites.”
“Emma’s combinations are always incredible and an unexpected delight. I enjoy trying them. I’ve never been disappointed.” Eliza was fairly certain today’s might be the exception, but that sentiment had nothing to do with the quality and everything to do with her emotional state.
Leo nodded, considering her for a moment, his dark eyes penetrating. “Still, sometimes an familiar favorite can be the right choice. Comfortable, known, a long-standing love.”
“I suppose I’ve never considered it that way…” she said, not entirely certain she was grasping his full meaning. Rather than remain in her ignorance, she pushed forward. “Forgive me, it seems you may not be speaking of pastries. But I am lacking the greater context.”
Leo’s breath caught, and he leaned in toward her before remembering himself. He turned, glancing at Sophie’s eager face peering at them without a hint of propriety.
“Oh, dear,” Mama interjected. “I think I see a dear friend over there. Sophie and I will just go say hello.” Her mother gestured toward the other side of the shop, but Eliza did not recognize a single face in the crowd.
“Lizzie, perhaps you and Lord Bellemere might defend our table from the circling wolves?”
“Miss Eliza?” Leo asked, brows raised in question.
She nodded, still all befuddlement at his formality and her mother’s baffling behavior.
Once Mama had dragged away a protesting Sophie, Eliza waited a long moment. Then, realizing she would need to break the silence, she asked. “I’m afraid I’m still at a loss…”
Leo sighed before straightening. “I know Sinclair is courting you. And I know he is novel, handsome, and mysterious. But I cannot let you choose him without presenting another option. We’ve known each other all our lives.
We’re well suited. And I—at least—am quite fond of you.
My own parents’ marriage was based on much less, and they’re blissfully happy.
If you give me the chance, I know I can be better for you than him. ”
Eliza’s jaw fell to the floor in an entirely unladylike display. “I-I beg your pardon. I hadn’t the slightest notion that you harbored that sort of sentiment toward me. I— What precisely are you asking?”
“If you tire of Sinclair, if you determine that the two of you will not suit, I’d like to ask your father for permission to court you. If you’re amenable.”
“Lord Sinclair is gone.” Whatever she had been intending to say, it wasn’t that. But Leo had her so completely flummoxed that Eliza was incapable of anything more intelligent.
“Pardon?” he asked, brows raised to his hairline.
“Father found gambling debts.” Her father’s ruse was the most comforting lie she could supply. And Eliza was certain she did not wish for the whole of London to know she’d been a wretched gambit.
“So you are free?” Leo asked, breathless.
“I-I am not prepared to… not so soon. Forgive me, I find myself absolutely baffled. I hardly know how to respond.”
“I apologize. I’ve shocked you. But you and I, we’re a practical sort. And I think we could be content together.”
“Why have you not considered Sophie?”
His brow furrowed, as if he were now the baffled one. “Sophie isn’t like us. She’s flighty, brash.”
Eliza tried to assure herself that she would rather have this—earnest honesty—than Sinclair’s pretty lies.
Leo was right; they were of a similar temperament.
And Eliza knew well that she was nothing like Sophie.
She wasn’t the sort of girl men fell in love with.
But was contentment the best she could hope for?
Were the brief, false moments of passion with Sinclair the only ones she would ever have?
She had resolved that very morning to never cry over a man again. And she was almost certain Leopold Bennet would give her no cause to cry. Certainly not with such a proposal as this.
“I— As I said, I’m not prepared to enter a formal courtship. But I would be amenable to… spending more time together. Informally.”
“Informally… That is an excellent notion. I am so pleased you’ve agreed to consider it. I promise you won’t regret it.”
“I’m certain I won’t.” She turned to her macaron. Safety would have to be enough.
“I’ll call on you tomorrow then?” he asked, eager.
Eliza merely nodded, swallowing thickly.
At last, she lifted her macaron. In front of Leo, she took a more delicate bite than she would have with her sister and mother. She was certain the flavors were lovely together—herbal, sweet, and tart, perfectly balanced.
But she tasted nothing at all. Which was really all she should have expected.