In answer, Eliza placed her hand in the crook and allowed him to escort her to the floor. In the center of the polished and shined wood, he slipped his hand around Eliza Wayland’s waist for the second time. During their first dance, he’d been too on edge to appreciate the sensual line.
Eliza’s everyday gowns, and that silvery confection she’d worn the night they met, were modest, without intent to entice inherent in the cut or fabric.This though.The softest, finest gauzy silk bloomed in layers from her waist, glittering with fine golden embroidered flowers along each hem. Layer after layer of delicate embroidery sparkled in the candlelight. And across the bust, thousands of tiny buds burst open along the neckline.
But worse still, when Benedict’s hand caught hers, bringing her into his chest, he was gifted with the most exquisite torture known to man. Eliza’s were the most perfect breasts that God ever contrived to create. And they spilled from her neckline in supple offering. Benedict had an uninterrupted view of that flawless, creamy flesh.
“My lord?” Eliza’s soft inquiry broke through the haze crowding his mind at the sight of her curves. And curved she was. Her waist was beautifully arched under his hand, and the littlest of his fingers could sense the rounding of what was certainly a truly spectacular derriere.
The repetitive taps from the conductor had Benedict straightening his spine and meeting his partner’s gaze. “Apologies, Miss Eliza, I find myself… overcome.”
Fortunately, Benedict was familiar with this dance from his university days, and his feet knew the rhythm even if his mind was elsewhere.
“Overcome?” she asked, meeting each of his steps with one of her own.
A thousand truly rakish responses flew through his mind. At last he settled on the least scandalous option. “You’re beautiful. It’s incredibly distracting.”
“I am?” she asked, genuine astonishment written in the circle of her parted lips and widened eyes.
“Surely I’ve told you so before.”
“Well, yes. But you’ve never seemed quite so…”
“Overwrought?” he supplied.
She nodded, her curls brushing her cheeks.
“You’ve never worn this dress,” he said, allowing his gaze to dip toward her bust with a pointed expression.
Eliza flushed prettily but did not scold him. He accepted that as tacit permission to draw her the slightest bit closer.
“Bold, sir,” she retorted.
“The reward is proportional to the risk.” And it was. Her botanical scent enveloped him, banishing the honey-sweet candles. Benedict found himself in a spring garden. There was honeysuckle. He recalled that from his bouquet that morning, as well as something fresh, and the luscious, sensual note of violets. He thought he might be able to taste the sun on her skin.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she breathed him in. He couldn’t help but wonder what he smelled of to her. Was it as smooth and sensual as her floral essence? Did it comfort her? Excite her?
When her dark lashes drifted open, he met her gaze with a crooked grin. She shook her head. “We simply must discusssomethingproper. I’ll need to report it to my mama.”
“You said you garden. What do you grow? I must admit, I found myself entirely overwhelmed by the variety at the florist.”
“Oh, a little of everything,” she replied, eyes bright. “Roses, of course, tulips as well, but also irises, lilies of all types, lavender, gardenia, and jasmine. I have hydrangeas, camellias—like theones you sent—and other shades, and forsythia. And more, of course.”
The excitement, the passion with which she spoke… Glittering in her golden gown, eyes gleaming, and face aglow—she was… effulgent. Benedict wanted to live forever in this moment; dancing with a beautiful woman, breathing in her scent, basking in her light.Thiswould be the moment he returned to.
“Be— my lord?”
“Benedict,” he urged, suddenly desperate to hear it from her mouth. “Please.”
She swallowed before those impossibly full lips parted and she sighed. “Benedict.”
“Eliza,” he said, then exhaled, hiding a smile as her lashes slipped shut for a moment. “Or do you prefer Lizzie?”
“Eliza,” she said, “just Eliza, if you please. Do you prefer Benedict? Or Ben, perhaps?”
“I do, please. You may call me whatever you wish. Benedict, Ben— I’d prefer you not use Bennie as my sister does when she is seeking to vex me, but I’m sure it would sound lovely from your lips. Or any other moniker that strikes you.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” she insisted, breathless.
“Ah, but you could in my dreams.”
