“Of course I am,” Bella chirped. “I always am.”
His answering chuckle was involuntary.
“Now, I think a promenade. You should write to Miss Wayland. I’ll join you and distract any chaperones with prying ears. It will be a lovely outing.” Bella snapped her book shut, rising before meeting his gaze. “I am sorry it has to be you,” she added, softer.
“Good night, Bella.”
Benedict listened as her gentle footsteps trailed up the creaking stairs.
It had seemed such a simple mission, almost noble even, when his father laid it out all those years ago. He’d never expected it to feel so… tawdry. Since arriving in London, Benedict felt untethered, twitchy. Except once, two nights before, when Eliza’s hand found his shoulder and his met her waist. And again at the club, when his knee met hers under the table. At her touch, the angry rolling waves inside his mind quieted, and he was moored, safe inside his own skin.
Surely it should be the opposite. Her touch should sicken him. Action, after years of impotence, should have provided a sense of triumph or left anticipation coursing through his veins.
But Eliza was charming. Quick and confident and so unbelievably responsive. Even demurely hiding from his gaze, she’d reacted to every breath, word, touch. A study in contradiction, she flushed prettily for him even as she delivered her riposte.
Benedict would never, could never, admit it, but he had hung on every word, every motion, every blush. His attraction was clear, though unexpected and unwanted. Fortunately, there were worse problems to have. An inclination would make seduction much easier.
The plan remained unchanged: ruin Eliza Wayland, hold her for ransom, restore Blackwood, avenge his father.
Sinclairs stayed the course.
Chapter Eight
Sophie wasin a right state over their father’s treatment of Bash. Eliza felt no small amount of guilt for her part in his plight.
She prided herself on her ability to read people at the card table. But the distraction of Sinclair on her right blinded her to the threat on her left. And her desire to impress the viscount, had her thrashing Hughes more thoroughly than she otherwise would have.
Papa returned home later than usual and, after receiving Sophie’s litany of complaints with more forbearance than usual, banned both girls from the club for the foreseeable future.
Eliza didn’t particularly mind. While she was as confident at the table as Sophie, she took less enjoyment from it. After that pronouncement, and the subsequent additional complaints that Sophie laid at his feet, he finally lost patience and sent her stomping to her room. Mama trailed after her to peace keep.
At last, it was Eliza’s turn.
“Papa?”
Her father sighed, and Eliza’s heart settled into her stomach. It must have crossed her face because he patted the setteecushion beside him before he moved her mother’s delicately embroidered cushion.
“I’m not saying no,” he began.
“But…”
He caught her hand in his, squeezing gently. “There’s something about him I don’t trust.”
An ache bloomed in her chest, but she pushed past it. “What?”
Her father’s eyes drifted shut, and she knew the answer.
“You do not know. You cannot explain,” she supplied.
“Petal…”
She bit the inside of her lip as she closed her eyes, trapping the hurt and anger inside. It settled there, knotting in her throat, clawing its way up even as she tried to swallow it.
“Is it so hard to believe that anyone could want me with pure intentions?” Her voice broke partway through the sentence, but her eyes remained dry, and of that she was proud.
“Lizzie, no. Of course, that’s not?—”
“You say that, but you offer no other reason for your suspicion. Sophie’s suitors receive no such scrutiny.”
