“Good. I would object strenuously to a match with him were he not impressed by you.”
“Sinclair hit the man.”
“I heard that as well.”
“Hughes— He insulted me, and Sinclair punched him.” Eliza clarified, studying her mother from the corner of her eye for a reaction.
“Of that, I wholeheartedly approve. And remind me to remove Hughes from the masquerade guest list.”
“I would have expected you to disapprove.”
A little smile bloomed across her mother’s lips. “Your father has been in too many scrapes for me to disapprove. It would be the definition of hypocritical.”
Eliza and her mother crossed the lane into the park and there, perched on a wrought iron bench, were Sinclair and his sister.
Sinclair was striking in a candlelit ballroom; he was distracting, cast in the shadows of the gaming hell. In the sunlight, he was breathtaking. The sharp lines of his face played against the softness in his gaze and the swell of his lips. A provocative contrast that left Eliza dizzy.
“Lord, no wonder you’re smitten,” her mother whispered.
The Sinclair siblings rose at their approach, and Eliza felt that too-familiar fluttering in her stomach when he bowed with a significant look.
“Miss Wayland,” he murmured in that low baritone that seemed to reverberate along her spine.
“Lord Sinclair.”
After greeting the other members of their party, they set off down the path. Eliza and Sinclair were trailed by the soft notes of Lady Arabella and Eliza’s mother.
“Miss Wayland, you’re looking well after your ordeal the other day,” he said.
“It is not so uncommon an occurrence, our visits to the club ending in bloodshed—though usually it’s in retaliation for something Sophie did.”
“Never for something you’ve done?” There was a teasing note in his voice. His raised brow emphasized the crooked slant of his nose.
“You must have seen it yesterday. She takes outward pleasure in her wins.”
“And you do not find pleasure in your wins?” He leaned into her side. The rough edge of the wordpleasureglided along her body like a promise of more.
Eliza swallowed. “I do. I particularly enjoyed my latest victory.” Her voice was steady, a source of pride.
Sinclair’s lips curved in a closed-mouth smile as he hummed. A hint of a dimple appeared on his right cheek. How had she failed to notice that before?
“I enjoyed your victory as well.”
“You did?”
“I enjoy any sport or game played against a worthy opponent. But when that opponent is a beautiful woman… flushed with the thrill of victory… Well, the sting of loss is lessened.”
Sinclair’s elbow brushed against hers—holding her parasol steady—as it swung past, too slow to have been anything but deliberate.
Her lips pursed in an expression she intended to be stern. The way his dimple deepened led her to believe her reprimand was less than effective.
“And you, I trust you’re well? After your fisticuffs?”
A huff escaped him. “Fisticuffs and I are old friends.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been known to step into the ring on occasion.”
