“Yes. He’s the only parent I’ve ever had. I know—I’ve known for a long time—he’s not good or kind. But…” Bella’s voice broke on the unfinished sentiment.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Bella shook her head, then straightened her spine and set her glass on the drink tray. “Enough of this blubbering. I need to put the finishing touches on my mask for tomorrow. And you need to at least attempt to sleep.”
“It’s barely five o’clock,” he protested.
“I cannot stand another moment of sentiment, Ben. The very notion goes against my constitution. I will actually expire.”
Benedict chuckled, his smile genuine though it didn’t meet his eyes. “Alright. I’ll leave you to your mask. Goodnight, Bell.” He rose, clasping her on the shoulder before making for his bed—the one that, if he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, still smelled like Eliza.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Eliza fussed at the mirror,coaxing a wayward curl into place. She had commissioned the gown months before she ever met him. Perhaps that was why it seemed wrong now. The innocent Lizzie Wayland, who had detailed to the modiste her precise request, was gone. This… worldly Eliza Wayland had allowed a man to— She shook away the thought. If her thoughts lingered on the orangery for even a heartbeat, she would die of shame. Or lust. It was even odds and depended on the moment.
She smoothed down the violet silk of her skirts. The gown was magnificent—precisely what she had wished for. Dozens of individual petals were cut from the silk and decorated with gold swirling embroidery to catch the light. Layer after layer wrapped around her waist, forming the bell of her skirts. In fact, there were so many, they’d rendered her petticoats obsolete. The neckline was dotted with smaller tulle-and-silk blooms. She wasthe violet; hell, she was the entire garden.
Though she’d never attended herself, her mother had assured her that the dress at their annual masquerade varied widely. Some, particularly disinterested gentlemen, wore only a domino as a nod to the theme. Others dressed to impress in theirfinest gowns and jewels. Most, however, attempted to transform themselves into someone else for the evening.
Her petal skirts and floral bodice would not be out of place. She slipped the accompanying half mask across her cheeks. Small gold line drawings of various blooms were etched into the violet enamel of the mask, which matched the gown.
Wayward curls were tucked back in an unfashionable low knot, with more flowers—from her garden—pinned artfully throughout. She couldn’t bring herself to hand May the violets when she was styling her hair. Instead, those wilted on her dressing table, growing sadder by the moment. Eliza tossed them into the rubbish, laying the violets to rest in a private farewell to the girl she had once been.
Sophie stepped inside, dazzling in a rich sapphire gown of shot silk-taffeta that shifted between the deepest blue to emerald, with a hint of ruby peeking through in the pleats. Hundreds of tiny crystals peppered the bodice and spilled up the hem. They caught the candlelight, throwing tiny rainbows across the room and onto Eliza herself. Her domino was almost plain, a matching deep sapphire demi-mask made of papier-mâché. The simple design ensured that her eyes sparkled like jewels, shaming gemstones by comparison.
“You look lovely, Lizzie! Leo will be beside himself.” She wrapped her arm around Eliza’s shoulder from behind.
Eliza stared at their reflection in the mirror. She noted all the things that always gave her pause. How Sophie’s hair was an inky black, lovingly coaxed into glossy ringlets, while her own was a mousy brown, threatening to escape her pins at the first sign of weakness. Their eyes, too, were a study in contrasts—Sophie’s crystalline blue against Eliza’s quiet brown. And their gowns—Sophie’s bold, radiant, and glittering; Eliza’s a soft, muted violet.
Weeks ago, the contrast would have felled her. Now, something about the way Eliza carried herself, the brightness of her eyes, the warmth in her complexion… She was beautiful. Devastating, in fact.
“You look beautiful too. Dazzling even.”
Sophie turned to fetch Eliza’s matching gloves from the bed, then handed them over to her. A small, shameless part of her hoped Sinclair would dare to attend tonight. He would fall to his knees once more at the sight of her.
She’d had two days to contemplate the events of the orangery. Those two days left her with the same, impossible to counter, conclusion. Their tryst may have begun as a seduction, as another scheme. However, the man who knelt before Eliza in the orangery was as different from the rake she met that first night as this Eliza was to the ones who came before. Each was a fresh bloom—sprung from the same roots yet separate from the blossom that wilted last season.
Benedict Sinclair was at the very least devastatingly attracted to her. And that knowledge was enough to allow her to step out the door and into the waiting carriage with her head held high.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Benedict’s skincrawled with anticipation and dread as he awaited Eliza’s arrival at the transformed gaming hell.
Few guests had arrived, most preferring to be fashionably late. Benedict, Bella, and West were told to wait in Wayland’s office until a few more made an appearance so as not to draw undue attention.
A glass of scotch appeared in front of him. “Take the edge off,” West suggested. Whether the man had the expensive waistcoat and coat hidden in a drawer somewhere or had procured them with less than a day’s notice, he wore the dark fabric, stitched with burnished gold, as though he were born to it.
That afternoon, Bella had thrust a stack of black clothing at Benedict without a word. Dutifully, he’d donned the black fabric, layer after layer, until he was nothing but a phantom, complete with black domino. There was comfort in concealment—in shadows he could be reborn.
Bella had appraised him with a critical eye before pinning a fresh violet onto his lapel. “She is dressing as a violet. I asked her mother during our promenade.”
Benedict swallowed before offering a nod of thanks. He’d then taken a moment to examine his sister. Suddenly, Benedict understood her eagerness to attend. And the modiste bill.
His sister was a phoenix, half-reborn. Hundreds of feathers in impossible arrays of yellows, golds, oranges, and reds trailed up the hem of her gown before melting into midnight black plumes. On her back, a set of matching wings, black at the top before bursting into flames at the tips. Her demi-mask followed the same pattern as her gown and wings.
Now the trio paced the walls of Wayland’s office, growing ever more restless. Benedict’s brief glimpse of the hell earlier was more than enough to impress him. Far from the luxurious but functional gaming floor, Wayland had converted it into dueling worlds.
Rich, glittering bronze fabric, and torches lined the walls at one end of the octagonal room. The firelight cast dancing shadows against the draping—living flames consuming those who dared enter. There, the gaming tables and bar were lined with all manner of sinful temptation.
