Before that could happen, the next set was called. Benedict wasn’t keen to leave Eliza in herfriend’sclutches, but she’d never forgive him for disappointing Miss Grayson.
“Miss Grayson, shall we?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied with a pleased smile, then placed her hand on his elbow.
“Miss Eliza, if you are not otherwise engaged, would you do me the honor of a dance?” Bellemere asked.
Eliza agreed with a pretty flush. Benedict’s teeth caught the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. That washispretty flush.
Miss Grayson tugged gently on his arm, leading him to the floor as they announced the mazurka.
He found a position near enough to Eliza that he might overhear anything untoward that Bellemere said. It was a foolish hope. He couldn’t hear them before the music started; it would be impossible once the quartet began.
“He’s asking after her health,” Miss Grayson said suddenly and entirely without explanation.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Leo. He’s asking after Lizzie’s health, and the rest of her family.”
“How the devil did you know that?”
“The same way I know what you’re saying now. I read their lips.”
“How…”
“The mouth forms certain movements with each word. Paired with context, I can usually gather most of a conversation. Some people are more difficult to read than others.”
The music began, and Benedict pressed her forward with the hand on her waist—at a perfectly respectable equidistant between bosom and bottom. With only the slightest urging, she found the tempo.
“Have you always been able to…”
“No, in fact, my hearing was perfect until I was six. I contracted the measles. I was quite unwell, you see, lucky to be alive. While I recovered, my hearing never did. Once we determined it was permanent, I attended a special school where I learned to sign.”
“Yes, I’ve seen you speaking with Eliza. Isspeakingthe proper term?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s as good as any other. One of my tutors encouraged me to practice reading lips as well. It’s not my preference—I can miss important pieces. But I get by. And I collect all the best gossip,” she added, whispering—a touch too loud. The effect was rather charming.
“And what have you learned tonight?” he whispered back.
“That you and Lizzie spoke of almost nothing proper at all. But that’s not what you wish to know.”
“Oh, good Lord,” he muttered, a sense of dread sliding through his veins. “Please do not tell your father; he’ll tell her father and then?—”
“I won’t. Not as long as you continue to make her happy.”
“I make her happy?” he asked, absurdly pleased with the notion.
“You do. But that is not what you wish to know. You wish to know what she and Leo are speaking of.”
“Yes, please,” he asked, ignoring the sense of shame that tapped on his shoulder.
“He’s telling her about the improvements being made to the gardens at Bennet Hall.”
“He’s not.”
She pressed her lips together in a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid so. They were already quite nice. And now he’s inviting her to stargaze using his father’s telescope the next time she travels through.”
“He has a damn telescope?”
