“Honestly? Initially, it was because he had a family to support. But now I keep him on because it’s usually a lark to see how he’ll muck it up today. It’s rarely such an inconvenience.”
Judging by Bash’s expression, Benedict rather thought Wayland was the only one who found it a lark.
“Where is Augie?” Wayland asked.
“Calming the missus down in the kitchens. She was fretting that there weren’t enough pastries about an hour ago and pulled on an apron.”
“I should check in with him.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Why on earth not?” Wayland demanded.
“As I said, he’scalming her down.”
“Please tell me my second in command is not sullying my kitchens at present.”
“Wishing I could.”
“And I’m certain my brother plans to violate my linen closet later with his wife. Why is everyone determined to turn my club into a den of iniquity?”
“What was it before?” Benedict asked, trying to keep the mirth from his voice.
Wayland paused for a moment before tipping his glass to Benedict in acknowledgment.
Suddenly, Bash stilled, his gaze fixed on something behind them. He tipped his head. The other men spun around in time to watch all three Wayland ladies step into the club.
Benedict straightened as first the mother entered, wearing a pretty periwinkle gown decorated with silver-and-navy embroidery, then stepped aside for her eldest. Miss Wayland sparkled like a gem in a glittering sapphire gown.
But Benedict had eyes only for the third, his violet.
Dozens of fabric panels layered to form her skirts—turning her into the living embodiment of her favorite bloom. Beyond his pitiful imaginings, she left him struck, unable to move, to speak, to breathe. Even if he had not known her dress from Bella’s teasing, he would have known her.
Eliza shone in the transported gardens as she strolled through, brushing against the delicate blooms with a single finger.
“Stop looking at my daughter like that,” Wayland grumbled beside him. “Both of you.” Benedict met Bash’s equally startled gaze over the bar top. “I’ll send Potter over and then Jules and I must open the dancing.”
Bash cleared his throat as he nodded.
Benedict’s gaze found Eliza; he was captivated by the delight he found etched on her face. His legs ached with the desire to go to her, to be in her orbit, to exist in the same air.
A befuddled-looking gentleman joined Bash behind the bar. The dark-complected dunner passed the confused one a rag with a rote series of instructions. “Do not leave this bar for anything. Pour the drinks they ask for. Hand them the drinks. Spill nothing. Break nothing. Do not try to be clever.”
The other man, Potter, gave him a jaunty salute, causing Bash’s face to fall and his shoulders to slump.
“Come,” Bash said as he caught Benedict’s elbow and hauled him back up the stairs.
“Why am I joining you?”
“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.
