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, Benedictslipped 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 aplink.
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 throughoutthe 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?—”
