“I find that difficult to believe.”
“You could not see yourself in that club—thrashing me so thoroughly and so smug about it. The thrill of victory written across your face…”
Something about the way his dark gaze roamed her face finally struck Eliza. Sinclair thought she was beautiful. Not pretty, not nearly as handsome as Sophie. He found her—Eliza—beautiful. Her chest ached, realizing her most secret, if shameful, wish.
“Ah, you’ve finally discovered it.”
“What?” she asked, heart fluttering like a butterfly’s wings.
“Yes, you are exquisite. It’s a shame you didn’t know it until now. But I’m a selfish man, and so I’m glad of it. You certainly would’ve been stolen away before I had my chance if you had known.” Sinclair’s delivery leaned performative, and Eliza found herself a touch disappointed in the wake of her understanding.
She brushed the disenchantment aside. They did not know each other well enough to abandon artifice entirely. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
Sinclair stopped and turned to her, then waited until she faced him. “Play coy. But now you know the truth—I can see it in your eyes.” His gaze trapped hers. Everything in his expression softened. “Beautiful,” he asserted with a nod. Any pretense vanished with the nearly tender look in his eyes.
He shook his head before turning back to the path. “On the left ahead, there’s a pretty little tunnel created by tree branches. Are you tiring? Or would you like to join me?”
“I am well.”
“And your mother?”
Eliza had forgotten her mother’s presence entirely. She turned back to spot her mother and Lady Arabella trailing them about ten paces behind, appearing none the worse for wear.
“Take me to your trees, my lord.”
“As my lady commands.”
“I’m quite fond of flowers. A little less familiar trees,” she volunteered.
“Yes? Do you have a favorite?”
“I’m partial to sweet violets. But I’m not overly particular.”
He mouthed the wordssweet violetsbefore confirming, “The little purple ones?”
“Yes, the purple ones,” she said, feeling a smile unfurl at the sight of his earnest eagerness.
Sinclair stopped in his tracks, his countenance a touch befuddled before he shook away whatever thought had overtaken him. “Is that your favorite color as well, the purple?”
“I don’t know that I have a favorite color.”
“Surely you must. That silver shade you wore the night of the ball?”
“I believe that was calledgrey, my lord.Pewterat its most interesting.”
“Thatwas not grey. I begged Bella to make the acquaintance of the lady in silver, and she knew precisely whom I spoke of. This gown, then. Green?”
“Teal,” she laughed. “I am truly not particular—oh…”
Arranged in parallel lines along the path, the trees hung over the pavement, branches entwined above it. Any tree would be lovely in such a configuration, but these…
“I know…” he whispered low beside her.
Deep rose flowers lined every single branch, leaving nothing untouched. They tangled together above the trail, allowing only the smallest patches of sun to peek through in random flecks. The gentle breeze rustled; the tiny petals dropped like pink snow.
She left his side, stepping toward the blooms to examine them closer. Hundreds of bees danced between the blush buds, their tiny, fuzzy bodies laden with pollen. With gentle fingers, she reached out to lift a branch to her nose for a sniff.
It confirmed her suspicion—not the almond, vanilla, and greenery scent indicative of the cherry tree, but not quite the honeysuckle, rose, and fresh laudanum aroma she’d read described the Judas tree,Cercis siliquastrum.
