“Boxing? How thrilling. Papa has never allowed us to attend a match.”
Sinclair drew his gaze down her frame before darting back to meet her eyes with a pointed expression. “I can see why. There would be riots.”
“Hardly.”
“Hmm, you don’t understand. The scent of blood, the jeers of the crowd, the ache of fists and bruised flesh—against the fresh scent of a woman, the lilting sound of her voice, the healing of her soft touch. It’s a victory sweeter than any won with fists. A temptation too great for any man to resist.”
Even as her heart thrummed against her ribcage, she retorted, “You speak from experience.”
“My reputation is somewhat exaggerated, though not entirely unearned, if that’s what you’re asking.”
His gaze traced the neckline of her gown with sinful intent. The effort left her voice caught in her chest—trapped by the corset offering up her bosom as a feast for Sinclair’s gaze.
“I have a code, Miss Wayland. There’s only one innocent I’ll seduce.” Something flickered behind his eyes—gone too quickly for her to interpret. Though he said it with such significance that she could almost believe he meant what she suspected. But he could not…a wife?
She shook away the thought, but it settled in her mind, bouncing around even as she tried to banish it. “Do be sure to let me know who to caution.”
His laugh was heady beside her. “Consider yourself on notice, Miss Wayland.”
“You are very familiar.” The tremor in her voice was barely noticeable, even as her heart fluttered.
“I’d like to be… Recently, I’ve wished for the first time that my reputation was a little less earned.”
“Why?” she asked, breathless.
“Your father cares for you a great deal—he wants the best for his daughter. Rakes are rarely considered the best.”
“Oh yes, we’ve said a great deal on the subject of you. Above all, my father wishes for my safety and happiness, and that of my sister.”
“That is good to know. I hope I haven’t caused too much strife.” There was a worried note in his voice and in the curve of his brow.
“No more than Sophie causes on any given Tuesday.”
“But more than you usually do?”
“It would be impossible to cause less,” she said with a laugh.
“Are you a good girl, Miss Eliza?” Sinclair asked, his tone low and full of gravel, as he allowed his elbow to brush against her upper arm again. The gesture was easy, quick enough to be overlooked by their chaperones, but there was nothing accidental in the heat of his gaze.
She didn’t entirely comprehend his meaning, but her body understood there was something sensual in the words. Lust wasn’t a sin Eliza was typically familiar with, but it coiled in her lower belly now.
One corner of his mouth curved into a grin again—as though he knew the effect his words had on her.
“You don’t have to answer. I know you are.”
“I feel as though I ought to reprimand you,” she confided, confusion still swirling through her veins with something darker, richer.
“Please do,” he murmured, voice smooth as whiskey, with the same lingering bite.
Eliza tore her gaze from his to the hedge-lined lane before them, even as the flush heated her cheeks.
“Did I make you uncomfortable? Around you, it seems my mouth runs ahead of my mind.”
“I— No— Yes. Yes, you make me uncomfortable, but not unpleasantly so. Does that make sense? I feel as though it is wrong to admit such things.”
His smile drew her gaze. It was bright, even more so than the sun as it shot glorious beams where it peered between threads of cloud cover.
“If it helps at all, I know precisely what you mean,” he said.
