“Lord Sinclair,” she replied, proper in their mixed company.
“For you,” he said, presenting her with the bouquet. “Bella helped with the ribbon. I hope it’s to your liking.”
“Is that the best you can manage, Sinclair?” the other man called out.
Sinclair allowed her to see his eye roll before he turned to face the man. “And which is yours?”
The man gestured to an oversized bouquet of greenery and roses that Christopher moved to the mantel before Sophie’s current suitor entered the room.
Not a single arrangement Sophie received had considered her taste in the selection—this one was no different. Sophie detested roses. Benedict’s bouquet wasn’t an ostentatious display of wealth aimed at intimidating other suitors. It was a gift forher.
“That makes sense. You’d need to compensate somehow,” Benedict retorted.
A giggle caught in Eliza’s throat, threatening to erupt into a full fit. If the way Sophie’s lip was trapped between her teeth was any indication, she, too, struggled to contain herself. No one could feign an expression of serenity the way her mother could, but there was a twinkle in her eyes when she met Eliza’s over her embroidery.
“I’ve nothing for which I’d need to compensate,” the gentleman forced between gritted teeth.
“Of course not,” Benedict replied with false sincerity. “Miss Eliza, I hoped we might take a turn about the garden. If your mother would agree?”
Her mother offered him an unimpressed expression but acquiesced as long as they remained in view of the morning room windows. She was probably hoping to avoid fisticuffs—her father would definitely be put off by more fisticuffs, even if he would’ve appreciated the barb.
Eliza tipped her head toward the door, then led Benedict down the hall before handing her bouquet to a passing maid to be placed in her bedroom. She took Benedict through themusic room, which opened onto a small terrace. The latch on the French doors was a little stiff, but Eliza flicked it open with a bit of force before turning the handle and inhaling the fresh air.
She made to take a step before Benedict’s hand caught hers. “Ten seconds,” he whispered, steeling a glance at the still open music room entrance. “Give me ten seconds,” he repeated.
“For what?”
Benedict’s gaze was heated as he brought her hand up to his full lips. Her heart fluttered at the thought of his lips brushing her knuckles. But he never met expectations. Instead, he placed a kiss on herbarepalm.
Breath was beyond her. The feel of his lips—the very ones she dreamed about—on her flesh, trapped that air in her chest. His dark eyes held hers, overwhelmed by sensation. He must have known that she still had a few wits that hadn’t abandoned her yet, because he raised her hand an inch or two to press his lips to her fluttering pulse.
Her gasp echoed in the room, and his expression ignited before he released her hand with obvious reluctance. He turned to check the open door once more.
“My ten seconds are up. I worry that any further generosity on your part will end with me on my arse on your front step.”
Eliza’s laugh was breathless even as she allowed him to urge her outside. There, Benedict shut the door behind her and placed her arm in his as he guided her into the yard.
His attention left her face, turning forward. He froze, struck at her cultivated floral beds. “All these are yours? You planted them?” he asked, a hint of awe in his tone.
“The smaller ones. Some of the bigger roses have been here for years, long before I was born—though they were half dead before I tended to them.”
“You breathed new life into them?” His eyes found hers, astonishment written in their dark depths.
“I merely helped them along,” she insisted. “I loved them, by the way—the flowers. They were perfect.”
“I am glad you did not find them wanting. I should not have goaded Gilbert like that over his arrangement.”
“Was that his name?”
“Yes,” he replied with an indulgent smile. “Now, tell me all about your flowers.”
She turned to the nearest bed, where roses lined the brick wall beneath the large study window. A riot of pinks, reds, oranges, yellows, and whites erupted in elegant bursts.
“Roses,” she said, gesturing with one hand.
“Astonishing,” he teased.
She pointed to the larger bushes toward the center of the bed with creamy pink blooms. “These were my grandmother’s.”
