West’s answering nod was slow and paired with a sip of his own. “You want her.”
“I— Yes. I want her like I’ve never wanted anything. She’s turned me into a fool, hanging on her every word, telling her things I’ve no business telling her. She makes me feel safe. What I’m doing— It will affirm her every single insecurity. She’s trusting me with her heart, while I?—”
“Mean to shatter it?”
“Aye. I’m a wretched, cruel thing. But what choice do I have?”
“What if you didn’t?”
“What if I didn’t what?”
“Ruin Eliza, or whatever fool thing you have planned. What if you simply didn’t?”
West’s words rang in his ears, over and over.What if I didn’t?
The barkeep appeared before them with a question in his brow. West signaled for another round with two fingers.
“Brackla, if you don’t mind?” Benedict asked before finishing the dregs of his ale.
“You’re paying?” West asked with a sarcastic note.
“You won last week.”
“Purse was only a hundred.”
“And how manygiftsdid you receive in addition to the purse?”
West gave him a one-sided smirk and a raised brow.
“You’re buying my scotch. And possibly paying for my keep.”
“You and Bella, you’re not in danger of being thrown out?” West asked, an unexpected hint of sincerity in his tone.
“Bella is in very great danger of the modiste refusing to stitch another hem. But the roof, sagging though it may be, will remainover our heads.” Benedict nodded gratefully at the barkeep with the delivery of his scotch.
“Good, good.”
“If she even attempted to exercise restraint at the modiste, she would have sufficient funds for the rest of the season.”
“Your sister is not the sort to economize by nature. And she’s been forced to do so her entire life.”
He took a heavy swig of his drink. “True, Bella was born without a practical bone in her body.”
“She’s never seen a season. Buy her the pretty frock.”
“It’s not one pretty frock; it’s a morning frock, and a promenade frock, and a dancing frock. There’s probably one tucked away in her wardrobe dedicated solely to the eating of soup.” With the reminder of the absurd modiste bill, Benedict finished his drink and nodded to the bartender.
“How do you suppose a frock dedicated to eating soup would look? And is it eating? Or do you drink soup?”
“It’s eating. You use a utensil.” The bartender returned with another glass of scotch. “Speaking of drink, finish yours. You’re behind.”
West pressed his lips together in an indulgent sort of half-hearted smile before he tipped the last of his Worthington’s back.
Benedict used the opportunity to enjoy a hearty sip of his fresh scotch. Weston seemed content to linger in their momentary lapse. Benedict’s newest and dearest friend, the barkeep—whose name he ought to learn—anticipated his next request far in advance and brought both another ale and scotch. Delightful fellow, that one. He was probably named something affable, Bert or Ned, perhaps.
Suddenly, and entirely without permission, the question that refused to leave his mind, escaped from his lips. “Do you really believe Father lost a fair game?”
“Yes,” West said simply, as if that wasn’t a blasphemous statement. As though it were an undeniable fact. The sky was blue, Bella was a shrew, and Ambrose lied about his loss for decades.
