Chapter 37 #2
“Because you’re about three seconds from laying Miss Lizzie out on the bar.”
Benedict thought he would have had more couth than that. Though she had brought him to his knees in an orangery not two days before, so perhaps the man had a point.
“You can help me surveil.”
It was rather a more practical choice than the one Benedict had planned, which was to stare longingly at Eliza all night, wishing he were a better man for her.
He was pleased to discover that his view of Eliza was unobstructed from the gallery. She smiled as she gestured amiably to a girl in a deep blue-green dress with roses trailing up from the hem.
“Do you love her then?” Bash asked, interrupting Benedict’s reverie.
“I’m not certain I’m capable of love. But she’s the closest I’ve ever come.”
Bash nodded, gaze still on the floor below.
“Lizzie is a good one. I figured she’d be snapped right up in her first season—was sad for her when she didn’t have much luck those first weeks.
Soph’s been a pain in my arse from the day I was dropped here.
I don’t know why I thought society might knock a lick of propriety into her.
But there she is, rewarded for behaving like a brazen fool. ”
Benedict’s gaze found the sparkling sapphire jewel below. Sophie Wayland was twirling a loose curl between her finger and thumb while the daft dandy in front of her practically drooled.
“Don’t worry about Linden. He’s generally kept occupied with his stepmother.”
Bash shook his head. “She threw him over for the gardener’s daughter last week.”
“How do you know that?”
The darker man shot him a long-suffering look.
It took Benedict a moment to connect the man’s profession with his source of gossip. “Right, gaming hell.”
“Besides, if it’s not him, it’ll be one of the other beetle-headed louts down there clamoring for her attention.” He paused for a moment before turning to Benedict. “No offense.”
“I’ve called myself far worse in recent days.”
Bash hummed in acknowledgment. His gaze slid over the entire floor below before catching on Sophie once more. A picture was beginning to form, and sympathy welled in Benedict for the man. At least Benedict’s fate was of his own making. But it seemed Bash’s might be dictated by society.
“These damned masks. Can’t see enough of anyone to find this Draycott.”
Benedict’s gaze caught on a gentleman moving quickly toward Eliza. His heart stumbled ahead too fast to catch his breath.
“That one,” Benedict pointed at the dark-haired man in powder blue, covered in stars.
Bash straightened for a moment, eyes narrowing on the man before relaxing back against the railing.
“Bellemere, he’s a friend of the family.
And harmless. His parents will be about somewhere.
The earl is beastly tall, scarred to hell too.
The countess is…” he made a crude gesture with both hands. “Don’t get distracted.”
“I’ve seen a fine pair of bubbies before.” Eliza’s…
“Well, your eyes keep catching on Miss Lizzie’s. Thought it might be an affliction.”
Damn. Benedict had thought he was more subtle than that.
“Is he kissing her hand? Why is he doing that?”
“Why does anyone kiss a pretty girl’s hand?”
“And he’s signing her dance card too?”
“I’m given to understand that is the process by which a man secures a dance with a lady he wishes to know better...” Bash’s gaze focused on something by the gaming tables. “That usher, I don’t recognize him.”
Benedict tried to see which man Bash was looking at, but he could only see the back of the man’s head. “Did Wayland hire additional staff for the event?”
“Yes, but he dismissed them after you spoke. You stay here. Keep looking for Draycott. I need to get a closer look. Mayhap someone forgot to tell him he was fired, but…”
“Go,” Benedict said, his gaze returning to his violet.
Benedict’s attention was diverted by another lady in a deep purple gown.
She’d donned a halo held aloft by a pair of horns rising from her blonde curls.
But there was a great fuss as she tried desperately to direct another woman—dressed as lord only knew what—who was wearing a celestial headdress with actual candles atop it.
With every step, cries of distress rose around the woman when little dribbles of wax fell from her crown onto other patrons.
He watched with amusement as Wayland made his way over to the duo.
He caught the lady in purple’s attention from a few feet away, gesturing at her to put the candles out.
Whatever her response, Wayland sighed, pinching his brow.
His wife reached the woman in the elaborate diadem and somehow, thankfully, Lady Juliet convinced her to set the headdress on a table as a centerpiece.
The purple lady mouthed something, presumably her thanks, when the eccentric woman’s back was turned.
Benedict turned back to Bash, but the man was looking around, searching, from the spot where the mystery usher had once been.
Benedict cursed under his breath and cast his gaze around the floor for the missing man.
The enforcer caught his eye once more with a questioning brow.
Benedict shook his head. Bash tipped his head toward a back room. Benedict nodded in response.
He blinked hard, trying to focus on the crowd below, but his gaze kept snapping back to Eliza, magnetic and ungovernable.
The couples were taking their places for the first dance. His teeth clenched as the first strains of the waltz echoed throughout the hell. Bellemere’s hand dipped low to frame Eliza’s waist, the other grasping her free one.
He was already moving before the first note hit the air.
His eyes clung to Eliza, following her, anticipating her next steps as the couple spun in and out of view.
His feet took him down the stairs and to the edge of the dance floor, where the bright, floral scent of heaven teased its way into the acrid burning oil of the lamps in the hell.
Again and again, Bellemere spun his Eliza, the petals of her dress splaying out with every turn, a loose curl from her artful arrangement teasing her neck.
With each step, Bellemere brought Eliza closer to Benedict.
He could no more have stopped himself from stepping forward than he could have stopped the sun from rising in the morning. Bellemere stopped short, preventing an inevitable collision. Benedict’s voice was hoarse with an unnatural, covetous rasp as he asked, “Might I interrupt?”
Eliza stepped from Bellemere’s arms. The man met his gaze, recognition falling over the features Benedict could make out from beneath the powder blue mask. His attention flicked down to Eliza.
She was flushed beneath her floral mask, her lips parted in precisely the same way they had been in the orangery.
Whatever Bellemere read in Eliza’s expression, his lips pursed, and he offered her a bow. “Perhaps another time, then,” he said as he pulled away with evident reluctance.
Silently, Eliza turned to Benedict, her frame rod-straight and her eyes alight.
Savoring the moment, Benedict set his hand on her waist. It belonged there, as though it had been longing for the sumptuous feel of her curves every moment they were kept from them.
His other hand found her gloved one, and he stepped into her.