“So you admit it?”
“I sought your daughter intentionally, knowing who she was in relation to you, yes.”
Wayland glanced down and poured another glass of Bella’s gin. He tipped it back before swallowing with a grimace.
“And your scheme with Lizzie?”
Benedict sighed, his very breath tamping down the shame that welled up. “It was a bit of seduction, followed by humiliation and ransom.”
“Was?”
Benedict’s hesitation stretched onward, broken only by the crack of a log in the hearth. Finally, he whispered, “I cannot... Not to her.”
“‘Not to her’?” There was an inexplicable understanding—almost knowing—that washed over the man’s face.
Benedict caught his gaze. “You know. You must.”
Wayland’s eyes flicked along his person; what he was looking for, Benedict couldn’t say. Finally, after an unending minute, he shifted back on his heels. “You’re in love with her?”
Love… Benedict’s stomach knotted as the word rattled around in his mind. “I don— I’m not certain I’m capable of it. I...”
Wayland nodded and set aside the bottle with a clank. “No more of that gin. It’s vile.” He plucked the scotch from Benedict’s still-clenched fist. He poured two glasses before tipping his head toward the threadbare settee beside the window.
Benedict remained frozen. His extremities tingled in a numb sort of stupor asthatword refused to abandon him. He was fond of Eliza, cared for her, could even see himself wed to her were he a different—better—man. Butlove?
He must have loved something. Once. His mother, surely, though he couldn’t remember. Bella, probably—though those feelings were entirely opposite of the ones he associated with Eliza. One of the governesses his father had failed to pay, perhaps. Maybe that maid when he’d been too young and too naive, head full of hearts and flowers, only to find her in Father’s bed.
None of it compared to the peace he knew in Eliza’s touch, the heat when her lips met his, the ache in his chest from the knowledge that he would inevitably devastate her.
“Sit,” Wayland commanded, breaking Benedict from his wretched musings.
He stumbled forward and collapsed onto the chair diagonal from the older man before taking the proffered scotch.
“Drink.”
Benedict took a perfunctory sip, not tasting the liquor or noting the burn.
“Women will do that to you,” Wayland murmured, gaze distant. “I know what it is to love someone you cannot have—to feel it down to the bone and know she will never be yours. When I thought hope was lost with Juliet—death would have beenpreferable. I would not wish that agony on my worst enemy. But you know I cannot allow this to continue.”
“I’ve already decided to end it.” Benedict’s stomach rolled at the realization that his first kiss with Eliza tonight was to be their last.
“What will your father—presuming, of course, that this scheme was your father’s idea—do next?”
“I don’t— This plan was the work of a decade. The drink and debt may take him before he forms another.”
“Or…”
Benedict’s head fell back, gaze catching on a crack along the ceiling. Perhaps it was structural. Perhaps it was weakening to such an extent that the entire house would fall upon him. It would be a blessed relief from the swells of wretched conflicting emotion that threatened to drown him.
“Or… desperation may leave him rash. It’s all he’s ever wanted—your humiliation. But he’s a cruel man, not a clever one. And it’s even money whether he’ll strike at you or me—for my failure.”
“And what would that look like?”
“He’ll probably try to rob you. Anything else requires too much forethought, and he’ll be foolhardy with desperation.”
“I meant for you,” Wayland clarified.
Benedict’s throat was knotted too tight for even the scotch to seep through. He made a pathetic attempt to clear it.
