“Your what?” she whispered.
“In my dreams last night, you had violets woven through your curls. And you called meBenedictas I worshipped you.”
“Oh.” It was all she was capable of, her every higher thought consumed with the possibilities of what his worship might entail.
“In in your dreams, what did you call me? Or were you awake?”
“I— It was a dream. Nothing particularly— It wasn’t scandalous. At least not overly so.”
“I want to know your dreams too, Eliza,” he pressed, expression eager.
“It was a kiss—just a kiss.”
He hung on every word, gaze fixed upon hers.
Benedict shook his head and laced his fingers with her gloved ones. “There would be nojustabout a kiss between us.”
“There wouldn’t?”
“No—”
“Lizzie?” Sophie called from the house, shattering the moment. “Mama says it’s time for you to come inside.”
Eliza ripped her hand from Benedict’s as she shot up. Her skirts were in a right state, certainly enough to distract her from the disappointment that flooded her veins at the broken connection.
His expression when she finally braved a glance at him was both sheepish and bemused, but there was frustration, longing in his gaze.
“Are you attending the Macclesfield ball in two days?” she asked, unable to hide the desperate, breathy quality in her voice.
“Saturday? No, I haven’t received an invitation.”
“Oh, but…”
“I could not attend anyway. I’ve plans.”
“Plans?”
His chuckle was warm and self-satisfied. “Nothing fit for a lady.” Benedict turned from her to glance distractedly up at the house’s facade as he guided her through the gardens. “Oh, theylook nice there,” he said, tipping his head up toward the second story room where her bouquet of violets perched in the window.
“I, yes… Thank you,” she fumbled as they slowly made their way back to the house.
Sophie hadn’t done them the courtesy of allowing them a moment to say goodbye. Instead, when they reached the French doors, she was eyeing them both warily and trailed the two of them all the way down the hall to the front entry.
Seeming to read Sophie’s face when they reached the door, Sinclair offered her a formal “Good afternoon, Miss Eliza.”
“Lord Sinclair.”
There was nothing formal about the look he gave her before turning and making his way down the steps into the late-afternoon sun.
A hand caught her elbow and whirled her around. “Lizzie! What on earth has he done with my sensible sister? You’re blushing so hard I cannot see how it will ever fade.”
Eliza ignored the questions, countering with her own. “Did Mama really wish for me to return?”
“She sent me to check on the two of you. She strenuously implied that I was to interrupt anything untoward. But, Lizzie… I’ve never seen you this way. I hardly recognize you.”
I love him. Her head supplied the thought, and her heart gave a nearly painful thump of acknowledgment.I love him. A second time, her new reality settled, a pleasant, warm weight in her chest.I love him.
“I’ve no idea, Sophie,” she said, too distracted for much else.
