Benedict sighed, propping his face against his palm atop the bar. “She’s just… fascinating. Brilliant, so intelligent, and her wit is so sharp, cutting— I can barely keep up. But once you get beneath that, she’s… sweet. No one is sweet to me, Miles, not ever. But she looks at me with these big brown eyes as though I’m her hero. Can you imagine me, a hero? And her body… Her frocks, the ones for soup consumption and the like, they’re so buttoned up, but last night…” Benedict’s voice abandoned him as visions of Eliza’s delectable curves consumed him.
West knocked on the bar, drawing his attention back from the fantasies that refused to leave. “I’m plenty sweet to you.”
“You just told me I was becoming something monstrous.”
“Before you transformed though; that’s very sweet. And I’m paying for a truly obscene amount of scotch.”
Benedict chuckled. “I don’t even remember how many I’ve had.”
“At least five, but I suspect the last four were half water.”
“What? No, Bertie would never!” Benedict protested.
“Who the devil is Bertie?”
“The barkeep!”
West’s brow furrowed. “His name is Sam. He’s worked here longer than I’ve been alive. Where did Bertie come from?”
“I dunno, he seems like a Bertie.”
West merely shook his head. “The tab?” he asked the barkeep. “I cannot stomach another soused sonnet. He’s not even gotten to her eyes yet. Too distracted by the teats.”
“Lady trouble?” Bertie—a much better name than Sam—asked as Benedict protested, “You don’t get to talk about her teats! Show some respect.”
“Bubbies?” West asked with a cheeky grin and a crude gesture.
“Not that either. She’s a lady.”
“Right,” West agreed. Benedict thought there was a hint of placation beneath the word, but his hearing was dulled by drink. “Just the tab,” West repeated to Bertie. “And I’m not paying full price for the watered-down ones.”
Bertie gave him a little wave of acknowledgment as he wandered off to the till.
“Did he admit to?—”
“Yes,” West said with a chuckle.
Bertie held up four fingers, and West dropped the corresponding coins on the bar. Then he grabbed Benedict’s hand and hauled him to stand.
“Her bosom is truly spectacular,” Benedict mused. “But her arse…”
“No, I don’t need to hear any more about her arse. It’s all I’ll be able to think of if I meet her, and then you’ll be in a temper when I cannot help but look.”
“You’re not allowed to look!”
“I know! That’s why you cannot wax poetical about Miss Wayland’s arse. I’m only a mortal. I cannot be expected to have knowledge of an impeccable bottom and not peek. Now”—Westslumped Benedict’s arm over his shoulder—“let us attempt to find a hack that won’t charge extra if you cast up your accounts inside.”
“No, no. I want to walk.”
West’s head hinged back, and he looked askance at the sky . As though some deity were prepared to help manage his foxed devil of a friend.
“You’re looking the wrong way,” Benedict said. “No one up there will help you.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. I want to walk. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“But—”
