It wasn’t the expensive brand her father preferred. Neither was it the cheap swill he provided for those who had lost toomuch in his club to care. The smoky caramel flavor was pleasant enough, but it burned when she swallowed.
Lord Sinclair’s eyes were darker than she recalled when they met hers again. Eliza handed the flask back to him after a single sip, still pinned by his gaze. She watched as his full lips curved around the small opening and he snuck a quick sip. He tipped it back toward her, brow raised in question.
Eliza shook her head, struck as sure fingers tightened the cap and tucked it back into its hiding place.
Here, nestled behind the wall of Lord Sinclair’s shoulders, the disarray of the ballroom quieted. All Eliza could hear was the thrumming of her heart as his gaze broke from hers to trace along the curve of her throat. It shouldn’t be possible to feel his gaze as though it were tangible, as though it were a caress. But, Lord, it felt that way.
For the first time in ages, possibly ever, Eliza wasn’t concerned about her unruly hair or dull complexion. She’d seen a great many things in Lord Sinclair’s eyes during their dance. But judgment hadn’t been one of them. Interest, perhaps even lust, but he seemed… captivated. Byher. And wasn’t that a giddy thought?
“Lizzie?” A deep voice cut through her reverie, an icy downpour on her bubbling warmth.
She peered around Lord Sinclair’s shoulder to find her Uncle Hugh in his most disapproving state. His grey eyes unforgiving and unimpressed.
“Yes, Uncle?” Despite her best efforts, there was a guilty note in the words.
“Your mother has a headache. She wishes to leave.”
“I’ve promised Lord Sinclair another set. Perhaps, if it would not be too much trouble, I could ride home with you.”
“The gentleman will have to accept your regrets.”
“But—”
“Say goodnight, Lizzie.” His tone was stern, like the angry slash of his mouth. She’d known, on an intellectual level, that her uncle could cut an imposing figure; she’d never been on the receiving end of it.
“I suppose I’ll have to claim my second set another time,” Lord Sinclair assured her, not appearing the least affected by her uncle.
“Yes, I?—”
“Perhaps not. Lord Sinclair, was it?” her uncle asked, but there was no question in his tone.
“Indeed…”
“Lord Grayson,” Eliza supplied, brow still furrowed as she parsed her uncle’s comment.
“You may be waiting a long time for that set, Lord Sinclair.”
“But—” she protested again.
“The carriage, Lizzie.”
She sighed and turned back to Lord Sinclair even as she struggled to keep the disappointment from her expression. “Thank you for our dance, my lord.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he assured her, his eyes dark and fixated on hers.
“Now, Lizzie,” Uncle Hugh interjected, breaking the spell.
Eliza kept her head up. She did not trudge toward the doorway, but it was a near thing. Her uncle remained behind, presumably still glaring at Lord Sinclair.
The caramel burn of Lord Sinclair’s chuckle as it trailed after her was even more potent than the scotch.
Chapter Three
“Grayson,”Benedict offered with a nod, leaving the greeting implied.
“Sinclair,” the other man grunted, his steely gaze wary, unimpressed.
Benedict bit back an amused chuckle. This was hardly the first cantankerous relative he’d met, and a disapproving expression was far from the worst he had ever endured.
