Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Eliza’s tongue bled for how sharply she bit it. Fury seeped from her very being as Benedict advanced into her orbit and pulled her too close.
She allowed him to guide her through the steps in silence, pointedly not considering how natural, how right it felt to be held by Benedict Sinclair. The butterflies in her chest only contrasted this man’s arms from the ones she’d left seconds before.
Determined not to allow him the advantage of eye contact, she kept her gaze firmly fixed on his chest. Unfortunately, that drew her gaze to the singular violet pinned there.
She couldn’t help but wonder when he’d procured it.
He’d probably plucked it from one of her mother’s arrangements that lined the paths on the heavenly side of the gaming hell.
That seemed the sort of thing a liar would do.
“Eliza,” Benedict whispered, the low, graveled note causing a flutter in her belly and a fire in her center.
“It is Miss Eliza, Lord Sinclair,” she corrected, hoping desperately that her voice sounded more unaffected to his ears than it did to hers.
He dipped his head, catching her gaze against her will. “Eliza,” he repeated.
She swallowed, turning her attention to the world that spun around her.
The muted pinks, purples, and whites of the floral heaven swirled with the burning carmine and burnished oranges of the fiery hell.
Around and around she twirled until they blended into a breathtaking eternal torment, or a devilish boundless rapture.
The perfect summation of Benedict Sinclair. One moment utopia, the next damnation.
“Eliza,” he tried a third time.
“Lord Sinclair,” she repeated the formality, desperate for the distance it provided even as he tried to claw it away from her with familiarity. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Dancing with the most exquisite woman here.”
“Be serious.”
“I am entirely serious. From the moment we met, I found myself unable and unwilling to look away.”
She rolled her eyes, meeting his gaze once more. “Are you trying to ruin me again? Is that it? You’ll chase off a perfectly respectable suitor to do so?”
“Perfectly dull.”
“He is offering me a life! What have you given me? Heartache and humiliation.”
“I know you will not accept me, not after what I’ve done.
But, Eliza, there is so much love, tenderness, and passion inside you.
You cannot settle for a perfectly respectable life.
There could be no greater mistake. I know I am the cause of your humiliation and heartbreak.
But please, you cannot let my foolish, hateful choices keep you from a life with someone who inspires that passion.
I could not bear it if I snuffed that out permanently. ”
“You don’t get to make demands of me. My choices are mine, not yours. You broke me. You get no say in how I piece myself back together.”
With that final furious sentiment, she whirled away from him, ripping free from his arms.
She made it only five steps before his footsteps echoed behind her. Her sister’s cutting voice interrupted him. Relief surged through her, limbs loosening. Desperate for a reprieve, for a moment to breathe, she stumbled toward the double doors that led to a stone balcony.
She slammed them behind her before collapsing, elbows first, against the cool, rough balustrade. Her breath hitched, choking her, clawing along her throat. Tears scorched her cheeks. She brushed them away angrily, but they pooled beneath her mask. Two angry tugs ripped it from her face.
The night air sliced into her lungs, sharp and metallic, colder than it ought to be.
“Begging your pardon, Miss. But you looked like you could use a drink,” an unwelcome intruder said, interrupting her sobs.
Wiping away the last of her tears, she turned and found an unfamiliar usher holding a snifter of brandy for her. “Thank you,” she croaked as she took it from him.
Brandy had never been a favorite of hers, but she was desperate for the cordial’s promised reprieve.
She took an eager swallow. An unusual sweetness coated her mouth, heavy and cloying.
A hint of bitterness lingered when she inhaled through her teeth.
It wasn’t unpleasant enough to prevent her from tipping the rest of the glass back.
“Thank you, truly. You ought to let Potter know he’s chosen the wrong maker, though.” She thrust the glass back into the man’s hand.
“Who?” he asked, head tilting to one side as he assessed her.
“Potter, he’s at the bar. This one has nearly gone off.” She clarified, indicating the glass.
“Oh, of course. Anything else I might fetch? For your relief.”
“No, thank you,” she said. Behind him, the door opened again. The jovial clink of ivory chips, winning jeers, and the quartet’s rich melody poured out. Lady Arabella slipped onto the balcony.
The usher used the opportunity to slide toward the door, the dissonance dulling with the click of the latch following his exit.
“Are you alright?” Lady Arabella asked, her expression awash with false concern.
“Of course I’m not alright,” Eliza snapped, weariness dripping off each word. And she was exhausted. Weeks of emotional upheaval and sleeplessness weighed on her spirit and her body. “Why should you care?”
“I— You should not be out here on your own.”
“It’s my father’s club. The only danger to me here is your brother.”
The lady merely shook her head, then stepped forward to rest a hip against the balustrade beside Eliza.
“I know you think him a villain. And in some respects, you are correct—he did set out to deceive you. But even if your father hadn’t sent him away, he wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.”
A hysterical, bitter giggle bubbled up in Eliza’s chest. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am quite serious. You have no idea what he’s endured for his failure.”
“His failure,” Eliza repeated, another paradoxical chortle brewing in her chest. “I rather think he was quite successful in his plan to ruin me. I am ruined. I could never accept him, even if he wished it—which he does not. Still, he’s ruined me for anyone else.
And I am just... so tired. Tired of the back and forth, of fighting with my family, of wishing I could excise him from my heart. I need it to be done.”
Eliza turned and slumped against the stone rail behind her, her legs and shoulders heavy with the weight of her burdens. Her thoughts drifted curiously, morphing and twisting, refusing to hold shape.
“Are you alright?” Bella repeated.
The door clanged open again. The sound was too loud, too bright.
The jeering laughter and discordant music fractured the peace Eliza had found on the balcony.
A masked gentleman stepped out. He held up a cigar by way of explanation, then moved toward the opposite end of the balcony to allow the ladies their privacy.
“I told you—”
“Physically, I mean. You seem peaked.” Bella’s eyes narrowed.
Eliza giggled again, the absurdity of the situation in stark contrast to the heaviness in her heart.
Hands clamped on her shoulders, jerking her upright. Bella’s gaze roved over Eliza, examining her critically. Eliza swayed uneasily in the grasp, the glow of the cigar beyond Bella spinning.
“That man—the one who brought you a drink—did you know him?” Bella shook her.
Eliza batted weakly at her companion’s overzealous grip. “Let me go,” she protested. “My father always hires extra staff for the ball.”
“Oh God,” Bella whispered.
The gentleman suddenly appeared behind Bella’s head. He did the most peculiar thing: He plucked her silver hairpin free from her waves. More astonishing, he then gripped the pin in his fist like a knife.
Bella snapped about, her hand whipping to the back of her head for her missing pin. Her fingers fumbled in its absence. Without Bella’s hands for support, Eliza’s legs forsook her, and she dropped to the stone beneath her.
“Miss Wayland, I’ve heard so much about you,” the man said.
Something about his words made Eliza’s breath catch. When the next came, they were slow and thick.
“And Lady Arabella, it’s been quite some time.”
Eliza’s vision darkened around the edges, tiny speckles creeping in. She urged her legs to cooperate, to stand, but they merely flopped forward uselessly. Her knees bent against her will, the stone balcony tilting sideways beneath her.
It began to dawn on her sluggish mind that her cordial had been laced with something, and that she needed to move, needed to help Bella, but her limbs refused to cooperate.
A scream tried to escape the other woman’s chest, but the man slammed his palm over her mouth.
Eliza’s attempt was more pathetic, a nearly inaudible whine.
The man cursed and yanked his hand from Bella’s mouth, clutching at it. Before she could release a cry, he backhanded her. The lady went flying, her head hitting the stone with a sickening thunk. A red pool bloomed beneath her hair.
Panic welled up within Eliza even as the cordial worked its way through her system. She scrambled back, managing only a few scraping shuffles.
A pair of hands caught her from behind, one arm banding about her chest, the other her neck. She gasped, a final attempt at a scream, but before it could escape, the man applied pressure to her trachea and the sound died in her throat.
Quickly, darkness overtook her vision, and then faded into nothing.