“Lord Sinclair,” she croaked along with a weak-kneed curtsy.
He backed one, two, three steps still facing her before he turned and offered his arm to Lady Arabella as they set off.
“Well, Lizzie?” her mother asked.
“He’s…” Eliza pressed her lips together, helpless to describe it.
“Oh dear,” her mother murmured. “That wonderful?”
Eliza nodded, cheeks aching with the force of her smile.
Chapter Nine
“That went well, I think,”Bella opined as their companions retreated from view. “She looked positively smitten.”
Benedict felt unequal to conversation. He felt unequal to almost everything, in truth. What was Eliza Wayland doing to him? What power did her wild curls and bemused smile have over him?
He hadn’t meant to say… almost all of that. But every single word had been the absolute truth.
“Benedict?”
“Yes, it went well,” he forced out.
“What on earth did you say to her to leave her so flushed?”
“I don’t recall,” he lied. Those words were for Eliza only. Bella would twist them into something ugly.
“Well, whatever it is you’ve said to her, do not stop. She’ll dragyouto Gretna if your romance continues to progress at this pace.”
He swallowed the knot in his throat before grunting in reply.
“Her mother assured me they will attend the Clark ball Wednesday night. You should ask for the first two sets with your bouquet tomorrow,” she suggested, then grabbed his arm andtucked her own inside it. “I’ll write to Father this evening, tell him of your progress.”
“It’s too fast. We’ve met only three times.”
“Andyou’ve secured permission to court her. Her mother is supportive, as long as you continue to be respectful—or as respectful as you can manage. He’ll be pleased.”
“Just… please do not write him yet.” Benedict could not have explained his reluctance to update his father. His sister was assuredly correct; his father would be pleased. But the thought of his father knowing the details of his pursuit of Eliza left his skin crawling.
“Alright,” Bella said, lingering on the word. She was content to fill the rest of their walk with intelligence she’d gleaned from Eliza’s mother. Benedict could not focus on her words; nor could he ignore her penetrating gaze where it bored into the side of his head.
“I’ll leave you here,” he said when they finally arrived at the house. “I need to see West before the match, and it seems I’ll be otherwise occupied on Saturday.”
“Very well,” she replied, a hint of suspicion in her gaze.
The revolting scent of sweat,tobacco, and blood filled Benedict’s nostrils as soon as he entered the saloon. The stench stood in sharp contrast to the soft florals of his morning with Eliza—violets.
Fist met flesh inside the ring centered in the room. Two men Benedict didn’t recognize sparred. Off in a quiet corner, West’s tawny head bobbed, a heavy bag swinging in front of him in time with the movements of his shoulders.
As Benedict approached, Miles Weston caught the bag, sensing his presence.
“Ben!” he called as he turned. “It’s good to see you.”
“West.” Benedict caught the other man’s wrapped hand in his own.
“I heard the strangest rumor only this morning,” the shorter man supplied.
Benedict raised a brow.
