Eliza spentthe night after her visit with Rose hardening her heart to Benedict Sinclair. She reexamined their every interaction with new, critical eyes: his decisive approach, his artful and deliberate phrasing, his tenacious pursuit. Every moment had been artfully orchestrated to result in the greatest possible humiliation.
Of course they had.
Because her mother and father were right from the beginning. No one could possibly be interested in Eliza for her own merit; she had nothing to tempt a man, nothing to entice, save her fortune. She was Sophie’s younger, plainer, duller sister and nothing more.
Eliza had thought herself in love with Sinclair, eager to accept a proposal whenever he thought to deliver it. And the entire time, he’d been laughing at her. If there was a greater fool in all of England, Eliza could not imagine such a pitiful creature.
But that man deserved no more of her sorrow. She was determined to stop acting a fool over him. The next morning, she donned in her steel-grey dress dotted with little purple flowers at the hem. It was a more cheerful statement than she felt, but ifshe pretended she was fine for long enough, it would become the truth.
Desperate to claw herself back to a semblance of normalcy, she fled down to the garden at first light. The morning was irritatingly fine. The sun, at its low angle, kissed the dewdrops on her rose petals. They glinted at her like diamonds. Blinding her.
Instead of the peace and comfort her flowers usually provided, they were too bright, the thorns too sharp, the weeds too overwhelming. Her neglect these last few days had left them in disarray.
After the roses’ thorns caught her sleeve a fourth time, she abandoned them for the violets—in desperate need of weeding. But once she had settled next to her beloved purple flowers, her heart gave a spasm, an ache as longing bloomed before her head recognized her position. In this precise spot, Benedict had tucked a flower in her hair—the moment she had fallen in love with him.
Except she didn’t love him, couldn’t. Because Benedict Sinclair was a stranger and a liar.
She stood, brushed off her skirts, and strode for the breakfast room. Another equally unpleasant task awaited her there.
Eliza walked into the room feeling every bit of the discomfort she was due after her prolonged absence. The table’s three occupants froze.
A protracted standoff followed before her mother, ever the peacemaker, rose to call for another plate to be brought.
Wordlessly, Eliza took her seat across from Sophie. She hated herself just the smallest bit for the sting she felt at the sight of her beautiful sister. Even now, still wearing a dressing gown with her hair spilling out of her night braid, she was more beautiful than Eliza could ever hope to be.
Eliza rather thought that might be one of the more painful aspects of Sinclair’s betrayal—she would miss the moments when shefeltbeautiful, worthy of the affections of such a man.
“Lizzie,” Sophie offered, more tentatively than Eliza could ever recall her acting. “You look well.”
“You too,” Eliza croaked. “And you, Papa, Mama.”
Her mother’s gaze softened on her where she stood behind Sophie waiting for a servant.She knew. Eliza swallowed, shaking her head carefully. If she were forced totalkabout her heartbreak… she would certainly break her vow to never again cry over a man.
Her father’s gaze bored into the side of her head as he studied her, but he said nothing.
“I thought I might go to Hudson’s today,” she announced.
“If you wish,” Mama said as she returned to her spot at the end of the table. “Sophie?”
“I suppose, since Papastillwill not allow me back in the club.”
“Preparations are underway for the masquerade already. Bash is unavailable to supervise you,” he said.
“I hardly need supervision.”
“Yes, you do. Constant, in fact,” he retorted.
“Potter could supervise me,” she suggested.
“Potter couldn’t supervise a rock.”
“Fine. Lizzie, do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Eliza agreed smoothly. Now that she had resolved to never think or speak of Benedict Sinclair again, she was desperate for some other occupation. A trip to the bakery would have to suffice.
“Bring me back a few of the raspberry ones?” Papa asked her, voice tentative and expression hesitant.
“Yes,” she said, equally uncertain.
