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.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Benedict recalledlittle of the three days that followed his whipping, too nauseated and disoriented to discern reality from fiction.
In his hazy, half-asleep state, he heard Eliza. She whispered soft words of love and concern as she tenderly traced the lashes across his spine. At other moments, she spoke with such disgust and venom, laying her ruination and his betrayal at his feet.
Sometimes it was his father who visited him in those shaky, too-hot hours. He’d had nothing but vitriol for Benedict. When Bella appeared, she offered him nothing but reminders of his hateful duty.
When he woke on the third day, back still throbbing, the elder Weston was gently applying honey to his wounds. The sweet caramel scent drew him immediately back to London, to his shabby bedroom, to Eliza’s lips on his.
“Now I’m in agony and sticky,” Benedict griped, pushing away the memory, as the cloying scent rapidly mixed with the copper tang of his own dried blood to form a revolting bouquet.
“We barely staved off infection. You’ll be sticky and grateful for it.”
“Perhaps in a few days. Once I’ve stopped bleeding.”
“Lad…” Weston murmured, his gaze catching Benedict’s with a seriousness he’d rarely experienced from the man. “He— I’ve never seen the likes of this. You’re a right mess, you are.”
“I asked for it,” Benedict muttered, hissing when he attempted to shrug a shoulder.
“What sort of fool notion is that?”
“I wouldn’t fetch the whip when he asked for it. I should have known he wouldn’t let that lie.”
“That’s hardly the same as asking.”
“It’s… It’s who he is. I challenged him. He had to make the point.”
“Like hell he did. But I suppose you’re right. It was inevitable.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a fool, God’s truth. Figured he’d beat you half to hell before you’d leave him. Or Miss Bella. Couldn’t leave either of you.”
“So you stayed to…”
“Fix you right up. I reckon you can leave now—leave him to rot. Once you’re healed up, that is.”
Benedict wasn’t entirely certain this wasn’t another hallucination. But he was so touched by the sentiment, he could hardly bring himself to care. “Weston, I don’t?—”
“Not for you to fret over, lad. Just try not to die. Now, can you manage a drink of broth?”
Benedict nodded, and Weston rose and turned toward the door. Benedict took a moment in his absence to examine his surroundings. He vaguely recalled this to be West’s room during their youth. A little table stood beside the bed and a chair by the fire, but few other decorations appeared in the space, bathed in the afternoon light from the window.
Someone, presumably Alice, had set a pile of clothing that Benedict recognized as his own on the chair.
Weston returned, tempting him away from the prospect of clean clothing with a bowl of broth. The man handed it off carefully before leaving Benedict to his supper.
Two daysmore saw Benedict recovered enough to be irritable. His back throbbed when he moved from the now scabbed-over lashes, and he ached from laying on his belly too long. The edges of the wounds had begun to itch something terrible. He’d slept poorly—more wretched nightmares of his father. And he hungered for something other than broth.
A perfunctory knock sounded on his doorframe. Weston loomed in the doorway. “Effie mended this,” he said, then set Benedict’s pot on the bedside table with athunk. “A small miracle—your little flower is on the mend too.”
Benedict groaned as he pressed up onto his elbows to see his perfect violet, a little banged up and missing a petal or two, but well. Effie must have pieced the broken pot together and replanted it.
