“Fen violets don’t even have a scent.”
Benedict frowned, remembering the moment he breathed in the delicate perfume that morning in the greenhouse. The breath that transported him to Eliza’s arms. He shook his head.
“Smells like you,” he repeated.
“I promise you, it doesn’t.” Her smile was indulgent, though.
He caught her waist and tugged her closer, though the chair back remained between them. Nothing on earth could have stopped him from trailing his nose along the skin of her throat. There, faint, nearly choked out by the cloying scent of ash, was the airy, powder scent of violets, of Eliza.
“Precisely the same.”
The giggle that escaped her, still a little ragged, brought a smile to his lips. “If you insist,” she conceded. “Now, I need to finish with your back. Are you ready?”
Was he prepared for the agonizing burn of alcohol on his broken skin? Not remotely. Was he desperate for Eliza’s soft hands on him? Always. He nodded and turned, offering her his back.
The gin sloshed in the bottle as she poured some onto a clean rag. The familiar scent of resin and pine never made it to his nostrils though—perhaps Eliza was right, and the smoke was affecting his sense of smell. Well, he wouldn’t lament that, not for the gin, at least.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured before she pressed the rag to his torn flesh. Benedict caught his lip between his teeth to trap the hiss of pain.
Eliza worked fast, but with her usual gentle touch.
“So,” she began, attempting to distract him. “Is West the sort of man who appreciates a wildflower? Or does that violet belong to someone else?”
Benedict’s shoulders fell. It wasn’t as though he was trying to hide it from her. It was only that the desperation with which he’d cared for and clung to that flower was perhaps a little unhinged. “Whoever it is, they did a beautiful job of caring for it.”
“Effie,” he grunted.
“And was it always Effie’s?”
“You know it wasn’t.”
Eliza rewarded his honesty with another kiss on the top of his shoulder. “Why do you have a violet, Benedict?” Her little hand slid around to his chest, chest making its way to the other shoulder.
Benedict dropped his lips to the crease of her elbow, pressing them there, breathing in the scent that may only linger in his mind.
“Because it was the closest thing I could have to you,” he mumbled into her soft, filthy flesh. The words spilled out before he could stop them.
Instead of a reproach, her hand continued its journey, tracing up his neck to cup his cheek. She turned his head to face her. Benedict’s gaze caught hers, searching for something, for any evidence that she wanted this, a future together, the way he did.
Eliza’s dark gaze flicked to his lips, drawing Benedict to her like a fish on a hook. His eyes fluttered shut as he closed the gap, less than a breath between them.
Her fingers found his lips and pressed the tips there. Benedict blinked his eyes open, confusion and heartache setting in. Her other hand, still on his cheek, kept him in place when he tried to back away.
“You don’t want to kiss me right now.”
“Oh, I very much do.”
“I promise you don’t—it has been a very long few days and I’ve had no access to tooth powder.”
“I don’t care, Eliza,” he growled.
“But I do. I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.”
He wanted to argue, to beg, to tell her he’d take her in any state she offered.
Benedict grumbled, pressing his forehead to hers before an idea came to him. “Stay right there. Don’t move, don’t even breathe.” He rose, only briefly mourning the loss of her touch. In his eagerness, he tripped up the stairs to the elder Weston’s bedroom. There, he located the basin the Westons used for washing up. A quick search revealed a jar of tooth powder.
Successful, he stumbled back down the stairs, clutching his bounty. He opened the jar and thrust it in her direction.
