Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Every rut jerked at his torn flesh, leaving Benedict in pulsing agony.
He hadn’t managed to apply either the honey or the salve in the day and a half he’d been trapped in this blasted carriage. The angle proved impossible to manage, and the wounds had ripped open and bled, leaving the linen of his shirt fixed to his skin.
The beginning of his journey had been the most infuriating hours of his life.
A dense fog settled in during the night, not abating until morning.
It left the mottled, poorly maintained roads between Bodmin and Exeter even more treacherous than they otherwise would have been.
His dread was not tempered by practicalities such as safe travel conditions.
Nor was his pain eased by the knowledge that the road would soon smooth out.
At last, the scent of damp hay gave way to the greasy slick of oil lamps. Eventually, they reached the smoother, packed roads, and his drivers were able to gain speed—nearly recovering the time they’d lost in the fog.
Benedict had never known impotence such as he had in these last hours.
Aching in body, head, and heart as they warred among each other for prominence.
He knew they could not possibly go faster, that he could not outpace a team of fresh horses on foot.
He could do nothing for Eliza if his wounds tore from assisting the team at every change.
And his assistance was more of a hinderance than help.
But that knowledge was an agony all its own.
The few hours he was delayed would not likely be the ones that Eliza was— No, he’d forced himself to stop that thought miles ago.
Ruminating on the fate bearing down on Eliza solved nothing.
She would be fine. He would foil his father’s plan before any harm came to her.
His father had sent men ahead days before Benedict learned of the plan.
But that didn’t signify that they’d found an opportunity to— The bit of bread and cheese he’d forced down wrenched uncomfortably in his stomach.
She was safe and warm and tucked away in her bed.
She had to be. Anything else was unthinkable.
Their pace had slowed considerably after the last coaching in, with London traffic blocking the pavement in the crisp evening.
Mile after mile, moving no faster than a walk, had Benedict ready to tear the curtains from the wall.
When they finally came to a complete stop half a mile from Eliza’s home, Benedict spilled out of the carriage.
He paid the man, demanding that his belongings be delivered to his home.
His injured body was too weak to run. He knew that. But he managed a hasty clip to the edge of Grosvenor’s Square. The people waiting in the line of carriages must surely have thought him half mad—or entirely mad. He hardly cared.
He rounded the corner and smacked into a man whose scarred cheek flashed in the lamplight before Benedict rushed past without apology.
At last, he came upon the familiar door on Brook Street.
Perfunctory candles illuminated the bay window, but there was no motion within.
Careful to stifle his ragged breath, Benedict slipped through the familiar wrought iron gate.
His heart thrummed with every padded step through the moonlit garden.
A deep inhale brought him a measure of peace—this place, these flowers… The very essence of Eliza grew here.
First, he found himself staring up at her darkened window.
The house could not have been so calm if she had been hurt.
Wayland loved her too much to rest while she was in distress.
Reassuring himself with this fact, he located a pebble and tossed it toward the window.
His angry flesh protested the motion, rippling in agony.
Still, his aim was true, and the pebble landed on the black glass with a plink.
When he saw no movement, he threw another, better able to ignore the pain when he could anticipate it, brace for it.
By the time he threw the third, he realized that this was the entirety of his plan. If she was not home, or if she was hurt… Wayland had banned him from the city. And he rather doubted any of the man’s dunners would ask questions before they did… whatever it was enforcers did to men like him.
As the fourth pebble made contact with the window, a warm glow bloomed within her bedchamber. His heart skipped.
The glare brightened, sharpening. A flame appeared as the gauzy curtains were pulled back.
A bouquet of roses was centered in the pane before he caught another whisper of movement behind them. And then he caught sight of her profile, silhouetted in the candlelight.
Relief flooded through him. Eliza was here, and whole, and safe. He staggered under the new lightness, unused to moving without the burden of his terror.
She froze when she made him out, her silhouette stilling. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought her gaze met his.
The curtain slipped between them, dulling her light again. Benedict waited, breath caught as the candle moved throughout the room before disappearing entirely. His body thrummed with the relief of her nearness.
A moment, two, three passed. Benedict waited what felt an eternity before realization crashed over him.
Eliza wasn’t coming.
She knew he was there, and she had no intention of seeing him.
Madness possessed him, and he threw another pebble, and another, one after another in an unrelenting stream, uncaring of who he might awaken.
Suddenly, the doors, so familiar to him, flung open, clanging against the wall.
“What the devil do you mean by coming here?” she demanded—ethereal, a vengeful angel arrived to smite him, all lace and silk and wild, riotous curls.
“Eliza…”
“Miss Wayland!”
He blinked stupidly, swallowing. “Miss Wayland, I—”
“Have you not sufficiently betrayed and humiliated me? Have you not done enough?”
His heart ripped open as understanding crashed over him, the slices deeper and more painful than any on his back. He drew a ragged breath, his extremities weak and trembling.
“Your father told you?”
“Of course not.” Her hair whipped around her, the strands taking on a life of their own in her fury. “No one tells me anything. Poor, pathetic Eliza cannot know what an easy mark she is. She would never recover from the shame. No, Rose overheard, and I deduced the rest.”
“I cannot begin to—”
“What could you possibly have to say? Have you more pretty lies to deliver?”
“No, I came to—”
“You cannot suppose me so pathetic as to fall for you a second time. Even you cannot think so little of me.”
“No!” he gasped. “I think you were the best thing to ever happen to me. And losing you will be the worst.”
“Another pretty lie. Are you capable of anything else?”
“Eliza—”
“Miss Wayland,” she repeated. “It is Miss Wayland to you. You have no right to speak to me with such familiarity.”
“I know, I know I’ve no right. I know what I’ve done is unforgivable—”
“Why me? I know why, but I need you to say it.”
His throat was tight. For a moment, he worried it would close entirely and he’d expire right there at her feet. It would have been preferable to the agony of receiving her rage. But he could not lie to her, not now, not ever again.
“You were the easier target,” he whispered, shame overwhelming him.
“But I was wrong. I was so wrong. You became so much more than that. You’re everything.
Mere moments in your presence and I was addicted.
I never dared to dream of… anything at all.
But now, all my dreams are of you. Eliza, I think I’m in—”
A sob broke from her chest, the sound piercing his own.
Eliza’s hand found her mouth as she squeezed her eyes shut. Instinctively, he reached for her shoulder—to hold her, to comfort her.
“Don’t touch me!” She pulled back, recoiling from his touch.
God, that sight was an agony greater than any he’d ever known.
A copper tang welled in his mouth. “Whatever feelings you believe you have are a lie. You aren’t capable of love.
Cruelty and betrayal—those are where your talents lay. It is all you’re good for.”
“I— Yes.”
“Leave! Leave and never return. There is nothing you could say, nothing you could do that would induce me to behave again in such a selfish, foolish manner as I have. I’ve found someone else, someone who will not lie to me, disgrace me. You have no more power here.”
“Who—” his voice broke on the word. Suddenly, the roses on her windowsill made horrific sense.
“Why should that matter? A better man than you. It is not a difficult standard to meet. There are few men as wretched and cruel as you.”
He nodded, unable to trust his body not to betray him.
“Leave,” she repeated.
“Eli—Miss Wayland,” he quickly corrected. “You’re in danger. That is why I came—no other reason. My father is—”
“Oh, I am in danger? So I must trust you to help me? I do not believe you. You do not know what truth is.”
“Please, you must listen. I’ll leave and never return, but I could not bear it if you were hurt because—”
“I am hurt. I am hurt because of you. You hurt me. Your presence here at this moment is hurting me. The only thing you could possibly do to lessen my pain is to leave.”
“Lizzie?” a soft voice pierced their shared bubble of agony. Sophie stepped outside, then hurried to wrap her arms around her sister.
Eliza’s frame shook silently against her sister’s shoulders. And Benedict, though he wouldn’t have thought it possible, sensed his heart break still further.
Sophie’s gaze met his, hatred written across them. “It’s time for you to leave, Lord Sinclair. Before I call for a footman.”
“Please, she’s in danger. You must believe me.”
“If that is the case, we will take care of her. But right now, I’m quite certain the only danger here is you.”
Eliza’s soft sniffles burned in his ears.
“Leave. I won’t ask again.”
“Take care of her?” he asked, pathetic desperation welling over him, drowning him.
Sophie nodded, shushing her sister before guiding her back into the house. She shut the door behind them and turned the lock with a pointed click.
And then Benedict heard the most heart-wrenching sound in the world: not one but a series of muffled sobs—a torment no man could be expected to endure. The woman he adored, in anguish. And he was helpless to comfort her. Worse still, every single tear was his to own, each sound his to claim.
Benedict had thought he’d known self-loathing, but it was not possible for a man to hate himself more than he did as he listened to each sob.