But this—the tightening at the corners of her mother’s eyes—it was the closest she had ever been to directly disagreeing with Papa.
Hope bubbled up in Eliza’s belly, creeping along her spine.
Only to be dashed a moment later.
“Your father loves you, Lizzie. More than anything in this world. He would not have your heart broken without cause. The very thought breaks his own. Nor would I.”
“You do not even know the cause!”
Her mother reached out to tuck a curl behind Eliza’s ear in an irritatingly patronizing gesture. “No, but I know your father. And so do you.”
“Your father never would have approved of Papa. You’ve said so yourself.”
“Eliza!” Mama snapped. “My father is not your father. And I thank God for that every day. My father was more than delighted to sell me to the highest bidder, my happiness and safety be damned. I may not yet know the precise reason your papa finds Lord Sinclair unacceptable, but I doknowit is a damned good reason.”
The curse echoed through Eliza’s ears. She could not recall a single instance of such a word escaping her mother’s lips.
Eliza’s shock must have shown on her face because her mother sighed. “Your grandfather was not a good man. He did not love or care for my mother or stepmother, nor did he care for me. Once it became clear he would have no heir, the gaming table held his only cares. That is the way of it for some. Nothing and no one holds the attention of such a man, save the next wager. Perhaps Lord Sinclair is one of them.”
“But, Mama?—”
“No. I’ll not hear more slander against your father. He loves you. He has your best interests at heart. And he would never, ever hurt you without a sound reason. Lord Sinclair will not be the only man to pay you attention.” Mama dropped an unwelcome kiss to Eliza’s forehead. “Now, I would very much like you to join me for breakfast, but I understand if you wish to break your fast in your room or remain here.”
Wordlessly, Eliza abandoned her mother to the gazebo and strode for the house and the solitude of her chamber. Frustration warred with devastation, each fighting for prominence.
She took no satisfaction from the clang of the door rattling with her fury. The display was childish and dramatic, her stomps reverberating against the steps. She knew she would regret the scene even as she created it, which provided no relief against the ache in her chest. Humiliation burned in hot rivulets down her cheeks, streaming alongside the impotent tears.
The worn cotton of her summer quilt was no comfort as she flopped atop it. Sobs lingered, trapped and silent, in her throat. Her vision of a future, so new, full of hope and love, now dulled and tarnished.
And she did love him. She was certain of it now. The hitch in her lungs and burning in her center could mean nothing less. Each ragged breath was a fresh agony, ripped from her chest.
If Papa had his way, Benedict would never be hers. His lips would trail along some other woman’s jaw. The thought of his voice—low and rough—spoken for someone else twisted in her gut, as sharp as the thorn still lodged in her palm.
And Eliza would stand by the wall on the side of ballroom after ballroom.
Alone forevermore.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The guilt,rage, and anguish churning in Benedict’s gut, swirling with too much scotch, hadn’t lessened in the slightest by sunrise.
It had been the work of but a few moments to pack his meager belongings, leaving him with little by way of occupation, save ruminating on his own hateful musings as the sun rose, its rays spilling along the worn floorboards of his rented room.
With every tick of the clock, he wondered if Wayland had done it yet. Had Eliza’s hopeful eyes dimmed? Or was she still wrapped safely in the bliss of sleep? What falsehood had the man provided on his behalf?
Benedict had been too thorough in his pursuit of Eliza to delude himself with the hope that she might be unaffected. She was too tender, too without guile for him to misconstrue—her affections had been the truest thing he’d ever known.
Eliza was perhaps the only person in his life whose motives he’d never had cause to question. Each touch he’d earned from her had been freely given without ulterior motive. And she had never, not for one second, feigned affection where she felt none.
Had his choices snuffed out that spark of genuine unreservedness? His fate was no less than he deserved, but his heart burned for her—she could not have deserved his hateful choices less.
The queen of guardedness and insincerity, his sister had surprisingly little to say on the subject of his departure when he announced it earlier that morning—not mentioning Wayland’s visit. Instead, she had nodded with a pinched expression. Her sharp steps creaking across the landing outside his tomb.
“—send this. Express, if you please?”
The familiar grunt of the butler would have made Benedict chuckle, were he capable of it at present.
Bella’s perfunctory knock followed. She did not wait for a response before striding inside. She wore a goldenrod-yellow day frock, not her blue traveling dress. Benedict wasn’t entirely certain what determined whether a dress was appropriate for travel, but he’d complained heartily about the modiste bill for that bit of frippery—enough that he remembered the gown well.
