“Cannot say that I have. But what has that?—”
“You’d take one look at it and chuck it away as plain. Which is why marcasite adorns your cufflinks.” Thesmackof a cue ball was followed by thethunk-thumpof a ball landing in the pocket.
Beside her, Sophie’s eyes widened. Desperate to keep her head, to prevent her heart from running away altogether, Eliza reminded herself that Henry was right there. Benedict could not possibly agree with Philips with her cousin beside him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you mistake glitter for worth. And you’ve never learned the difference.” Another ball sank with a decisivethunk. “And if you ever refer to Eliza asunfortunateagain, you’ll learn why I earned the moniker.”
“You can crawl back to whatever damp hovel you came out of, Sinclair.”
“Cheers,” Benedict said.
Sophie snatched her by the wrist and urged her along to the ballroom. “Eliza!” she whispered—too loud.
“Henry was there— He had to?—”
“Henry was where?” Her cousin’s voice came from behind her.
Eliza spun around. “You are not in the billiards room?”
“Clearly not. Sinclair proved to be a very distracted opponent indeed. But I had a set with Emma. Why?”
“No reason,” Sophie answered for her. “But I suddenly find myself with an open set. I do not suppose you’d be willing to fill it?” She thrust her wrist out.
Henry stared at the dance card, puzzled. “They’re all full.”
“I will not be dancing with Mr. Philips tonight or ever again.”
“Alright… But if he calls me out, you’ll need to be my second.”
“Deal,” she said with a laugh.
Eliza, too lost in her own thoughts, struggled to follow their banter. She remained undone by Benedict’s words. He’d defendedher. And with no promise of recognition or hope of reward. Her heart was too full—threatening to burst with sheer delight.
Before she could collapse in a giddy heap, Leo arrived to claim his second set. Then the gentleman Georgie had danced with earlier requested a dance. By the time the final set arrived, Eliza was breathless and dizzy with joy.
“You’re not too tired for our dance, I hope.”
Eliza whirled around to face him. Her toes slipped on the soft kid leather of her slippers, but Benedict’s hands found her shoulder to steady her. “Careful.”
“How was your drink?” she asked, trying to keep the knowing smile from her face.
“Humiliating. Your cousin thrashed me at billiards. The scotch was not near fine enough to endure the shame. How did you occupy your time?”
“Sophie and I talked. And then I danced with Leo again and Mr. Deveraux.”
A dark look crossed Benedict’s face. “Not the waltz, I hope?”
“No, the cotillion and lancers. They’ve saved the waltz for last.”
“Good,” he nodded, firm and decisive. “I will have to amend my request for our next ball. Your waltzes are mine.”
“They are?”
“Yes, I’ve claimed them. All of them.” He reached for her hand and set it in the crook of his elbow before tapping it as if to assure himself. “I’ve never hated gloves so much as these,” he added conversationally.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked with a laugh as he led them toward the floor.
