“Yes, the footman is telling anyone who will listen. He does not cover his mouth when he speaks—and he enunciates so he’s quite easy to read. He has placed five shillings on her trying for a divorce.”
“Which one is the stepson?”
Rose tipped her head toward the quartet, where a tall, blond gentleman of no more than twenty stared across the room with longing in his gaze. Eliza supposed he was handsome enough—certainly more so than the geriatric Lord Linden.
“Is he to inherit?”
“No, he’s the younger.”
“The footman is wasting his money,” Eliza posited.
“The season has made a cynic of you. Your parents are one of the most notorious love matches in town. I’d think you would at least acknowledge the concept.”
“The season has made a realist of me. My parents are the exception that proves the rule.”
Sophie’s hand appeared between the two, waving to catch Rose’s attention. “Who is that?” she signed before pointing to someone behind Eliza. “Stop!” she interjected when Eliza made to turn. “Don’t look! We’ll be seen to be ogling.”
“It’s only the back of him,” Rose signed. “He’s speaking with a woman I don’t know. She’s quite pretty. I think?—”
“Forget her. What are they saying?” Sophie asked.
“It’s quite far, and the lighting over there is— I’m not getting much of it. But she’s certain she’s selected the right… something. He’ll need to take his time?”
“Take his time for what? Are they together?” Sophie demanded.
“How should I know? Now she’s saying something is handsome enough that it won’t be a chore. Or someone, I suppose. I wonder if she’s looking for a husband?”
“Is this how you discovered the intelligence concerning Lady Linden? Because I’m much less confident in your gossip now,” Eliza teased, still resisting the urge to turn.
“They were closer,” Rose protested distractedly. She was still watching over Eliza’s shoulder, squinting. “It’s difficult to see allthe way across a ballroom, you know. And people keep passing between us. Now she’s saying that someone is harder?”
It took the girls a beat before they each burst into a fit of giggles. A smile stretched across Eliza’s face, hidden behind her gloved palm.
Suddenly, both Sophie’s and Rose’s laughter died and they straightened, staring at something behind Eliza.
Eliza’s giggles vanished as she turned, only to freeze. She expected to find her mother or perhaps her uncle—having noticed his daughter’s gossip. Instead, her breath caught at the sight before her, heart tripping, racing ahead absent air.
Danger and beauty fought a valiant duel in the gentleman before her. Each was etched in the full, sensual curve of his barely parted lips, in the rich, molten chocolate of his eyes, in the messy, tousled set of his waves, and the strength in his build. Even his nose hinted at peril, crooked with the evidence of past brawls.
Breathless, Lady Arabella skittered to a stop at his side.
“Miss Eliza! I was hoping to introduce you to myimpatientbrother, Benedict, Lord Sinclair.”
Eliza’s palms dampened, clinging to the insides of her gloves; her knees wavered; and her heart—her heart was threatening to beat right out of her chest.
She worried her knees may not cooperate, weak as they were, when she bobbed a curtsy. But she managed it credibly.
The man’s dark eyes danced along her form. They lingered scandalously on the curve of her bosom and the nip of her waist. When his lips slid shut and his throat dipped with a swallow, there was an intention behind his gaze. Delivered to anyone else, Eliza might have read attraction in the movement, but that sentiment came from her foolish heart, not her realistic head.
“Lizzie?” Sophie’s voice cut in.
Eliza’s eyelids slipped shut, and she allowed herself the briefest moment of disappointment. But she forced herself to battle it back. “Lady Arabella, Lord Sinclair, I’d like to introduce my sister, Sophie Wayland, and my cousin, Miss Rose Grayson.” She added her hand signs to the introduction for Rose.
Sophie’s curtsy suffered from no weak knees, though Rose’s might have. Lord Sinclair was an intimidating man, and Rose had seen no more interest than Eliza this season.
Eliza waited, a knot caught in her chest, as Lord Sinclair’s eyes flicked over to her sister and cousin. There was no doubt in her mind his gaze would never turn back to her again once it found Sophie.
“A pleasure, ladies.” His voice was as luxurious as the rest of him, a rich tenor, smooth like the finest aged scotch. It left the same burning warmth in her chest as well—pleasant and uncomfortable. Eliza resisted the urge for a cooling gasp.
