“No one died. It’s Benedict,” she whimpered. “Papa has forbidden me from seeing him.”
“Oh, Lizzie.” Sophie raked her fingers through Eliza’s hair. “I am so, so sorry. Did he say why?”
“Gaming debts—but I cannot believe that. Papa did not even know him.”
“What cause would Papa have to lie about such a thing?”
“I don’t know. But nothing makes sense. Last night, I?—”
“What?” Sophie asked, far too loud. She yanked Eliza around by the shoulders to face her. “Did you sneak out last night, Eliza Wayland?”
“Why does it matter? I’ll never see him again anyway,” she moaned.
“Did he— Are you— Is there a chance you might be?—”
A huff escaped Eliza. “Last night was only a kiss.”
Sophie, who ought never be underestimated, caught her careful wording. “Lastnight? And other nights?”
“A little more than kissing,” Eliza admitted, her cheeks heating at the memories of Benedict’s touch. “Sophie, I love him. Heseesme in a way no one else ever has. In his arms, I’m never overlooked. To him, I’m interesting, even when I prattle on about my plants. And I know he can be roguish, but he’s different with me, softer.”
“You love him?” There was an unfamiliar note in Sophie’s voice, and Eliza couldn’t identify it.
“I do.”
“Papa cannot know that, surely. He would not be so cruel as to separate you for something as easily rectified as gaming debts—he holds nearly all of them anyway. If we merely ex?—”
“Papa was adamant, Sophie. He even ordered Benedict from the city.”
“He could not do such a thing! He doesn’t have the power.”
“Not legally, but he has more than enough influence and far too many employees. He could easily make any man’s life a misery. I?—”
“But surely Lord Sinclair will not be so easily able to give you up.”
Hope, no matter how improbable, bubbled up desperately into Eliza’s chest. “Perhaps...”
“I’m certain of it. He is probably busy rectifying Papa’s complaint as we speak, or searching for evidence to prove it is all a misunderstanding. He loves you. I’ve seen it in his eyes when he watches you. He will come for you. Perhaps this very night.”
“Oh, do not give me false hope. I could not bear it if you were wrong.”
“You shall see,” Sophie assured her.
That hope sustained Eliza that first night as she waited, gaze fixed on her dying bouquet before the window. Sophie stayed with her and stirred occasionally beside her, but all else remained quiet.
The next morning, Sophie left to break her fast, but Eliza could not think of food. By supper on the second day, her sister coaxed her to have a few spoonfuls of porridge—her throat too raw to swallow anything more and her belly too devastated to house it.
With each passing night, when no pebble clinked against her window, and each passing day with no knock on her door, Eliza’s hope dimmed. Too furious with her mother and father to beartheir company, she kept to her rooms even for meals and saw no one but Sophie.
“If only we could speak to him. I’m certain we could reassure Papa of his intentions,” Sophie asserted on the sixth day of Eliza’s broken heart. “Something is preventing him from coming, Lizzie. I know it.”
With that assertion, Sophie dropped a kiss on Eliza’s forehead. “Are you certain you will not join us at the theater?”
“No, thank you. I’ve a headache.”
“Alright. I’ll miss you.”
“Have fun,” Eliza said, even as a nagging thought started taking hold.
