Objects Of His Obsession (10 page)

And both ferociously
competitive, even if their pale clothing, appropriate as it may considered to
have been, was still surely hampering their movements in a way that gave any
man playing the game an advantage.

“Amazons,” a familiar voice
behind him said idly, and a shadow fell across him as Evander took a seat at
the small table he sat at, tea to one side. “I would not care to meet either
one of those two ladies across a battlefield.”

Despite the tension the man’s
close vicinity raised in him, Benedict could not help but grin. It was not an
inappropriate sentiment.

He picked up his near-empty
teacup and raised it to his lips, taking a sip of black tea.

“I should tell you the
circumstances of Juliana’s sudden departure.”

Benedict stilled. Shot the
other man an amber glance. “It was clearly a private matter. You are under no
obligation to do so.”

Evander sighed, for once the
mask slipping a degree, and eased back in the carved wooden chair, turquoise
eyes fixed on the white, darting figures before him. His black brows were drawn
together.

“Obligation or no, I … I feel
that I can discuss the matter with you. And for whatever reason, I find the
need to do that. Perhaps because I cannot be there myself. Social obligations
can be a–”

He halted and Benedict stared
at him, frowning. “God, just what was it, Evander?”

How quickly, easily that name
rolled off his tongue. And how good it felt. It would have felt even better but
for the tension etched in that striking, sculpted face.

“You probably don’t realize,
but our children are usually with us. We are somewhat unfashionable in that
regard.” Evander paused, absently traced a pattern on the tabletop with his
fingertip. It was an uncharacteristically abstract gesture, and he continued
thoughtfully, “Even though Charles is now five, Juliana would prefer that he be
tutored at home. He will be twelve before he leaves for Eton. Having survived the
place myself, I did not disagree with her judgment. And so, he, Amandine and
their nanny have been spending the last week with their cousins in the next
county. Until this afternoon, all had been well.”

A sick feeling wrenched at Benedict’s
gut. “What has happened?”

“Charles was trying to prove
–had proved – that he could climb one of the trees faster and
higher than any of their cousins. But he–” Evander paused, mouth
compressing. “He fell. From some height. The boy was, of course, carried into
the house and a doctor sent for immediately. The doctor had seen him before
they sent that message to us, lest we be more alarmed than necessary.”

Benedict stared at him,
marveling at his composure. “And the result–”

Evander’s mouth was tight, but
he gave Benedict his usual clear, unreadable glance. Apparently the shock was
wearing off and his cool composure returning. He reached for the cup a servant
had discreetly set on the table, the tea poured for him from a gleaming pot.

“A broken arm. Not badly, it
will heal well. And the boy already wears it like a trophy, according to the
note Juliana sent back by rider.” Evander grinned, nothing hidden, apparently
suddenly hugely amused at his son’s attitude to his battle injuries. “He’s a
devil. Nothing stops him. He’s lucky he didn’t break his neck. He was knocked
unconscious. The doctor had feared mild concussion, but it looks as if he may
have escaped that. So it’s a broken arm, sprained wrist, scratches and bruises.
He has the luck of the devil.”

Like his father, Benedict
thought, studying Evander as he spoke.

“You are very proud of him.”

“I have every reason to be so.”
Evander, uncharacteristically, ran a hand through his raven hair, ruffling it,
as if freeing himself of the last of his tension. “Any man would be. Both
Charles and Amandine are wonderful children. A tribute to their mother.”

As he spoke he relaxed back in
his chair and gave Benedict a rich blue glance, that look becoming
self-deprecating as he saw the look on the other man’s tanned face.

He held up an elegant hand.
“You have me. I am a doting father, I confess. Irredeemably so.”

“It’s just that you – I
don’t know. You surprise me,” Benedict admitted.

Now Evander did scowl. “Why?”
He lifted a brow. “To be blunt about it, I enjoy fucking men, therefore I
cannot be a good father? Cannot be a man who wants the best for his children?
Cares deeply for them?”

Benedict was taken aback at
that sudden vehemence and shook his head, hair falling across his brow. “No,
nothing of the sort.” And truly, that had not even occurred to him. It would
have been beyond insulting, and completely untrue. He heaved a sigh. “No,
frankly, I thought you would be … as many are, my brothers included, too busy
with their own affairs to give too much attention to their offspring. They love
them, I am sure, but–”

He shrugged expressively and Evander’s
expression softened. “But their children are scarcely a priority in their
lives, beyond holding the family name. My apologies. It’s just that, well...
You made your attitude to our dealings last night very clear, and I foolishly
thought you were also passing judgment on my fitness as a father.”

Now Benedict was staring at his
one-time lover, blinking back that shock, forced himself to keep his expression
in check.

Just what conclusion had
Evander come to about Benedict’s reaction to his … initiation?

Something told him that it was
entirely erroneous.

How oddly Evander had phrased
it.
His attitude to their dealings of
last night?

And yet, given that Benedict
had decided, that morning, that it could go no further, perhaps it was just as
well to allow that door to remain shut. That misreading to remain. And yet …
and yet, the more he grew to know the man, the more he admired him. And wanted
him as a lover. Wanted him in his life.

And not for just one night. Or
two.

He hungered desperately,
obsession only fed, not checked, for the man.

However wrong that was. And
however impossible.

In the morning a procession of
carriages took the guests to the railway station. To Benedict’s surprise, he
was not entirely alone with the Casterwells. Lily Rosso would be staying
another few days.

As she lingered at the
breakfast table, crumbling a roll between her elegant fingers, multiple trademark
rubies flashing there, she pulled a face.

She’d come down to breakfast
late, a notebook and folder under her arm. The others had eaten earlier, with a
train schedule dictating their morning.

“I’m afraid I am quite hiding
out here,” she explained to Benedict, grimacing. She glanced up, her famous
green cats eyes glittering as Juliana entered the room, the last of the
carriages having been seen off. Hand to her lips, she confided to him, “I have
been very naughty and playing off one beau against another. Never could make up
my mind, especially since one is a gentleman who seems to own half of … what
was it called, Juliana? Texas?”

Juliana snorted, beginning on
the kedgeree she had not had time to get to in the mad scramble of guests,
goodbyes and luggage.

“Texas. Of which he does,
possibly, own half. And your other beau… Mines in the north?”

Lily shuddered theatrically.
“So much less exotic. And yet he does linger and will not take the hint.” She
swallowed a piece of bread and shrugged. “In any case, England is no longer big
enough for me. The formation of my own theatrical company is near done. I will
be taking it on tour in the States.”

“You have all the instincts of
a born entrepreneur and businesswoman.”

It was Evander, pausing for a
moment, studying the buffet of food kept warm in silver chafing dishes on the
sideboard.

Lily arched her brows. “Your
business advice and contacts were invaluable.”

“I was only too happy to help.”

He stood, piling a plate with
scrambled eggs and bacon. Benedict tried not to let his eyes linger on that
tall, powerful frame too long. To give himself away.

But it was so difficult. Dinner
last night had been torture. Engaging in conversation, in games of cards, and
then later, billiards and port had been damned near intolerable.

The evening had been swamped by
memories of the night before.

But it had not ended the same
way. With him discreetly, well after the others had retired for the evening,
finding his way through the maze of corridors to Evander and … what had felt
madly like his destiny.

And a kind of pleasure he had
not even begun to dream could exist.

Lily sighed, rose to her feet
and strolled over to Juliana. Hands on her shoulders, she bent and said close
against her ear, “You are a blessed woman indeed, my dear. You have the most
handsome man in London and the most intelligent.”

To Benedict’s surprise, Juliana
flushed. Evander shot the women a quick glance, taking in the pale hands still
on Juliana’s shoulders. Massaging them a fraction. He arched a brow at Lily and
at that glance she shrugged, moved back, retrieved a triangle of toast. He took
his seat at the table. “Remind my wife of my virtues more frequently, Lily, and
I will start advising you on the best stocks and shares to invest your earnings
in as well.”

“With that incentive, I shall
not fail to do so.”

There was a wicked mischief in
her green eyes. Evander met it until she glanced away.

He looked over at his wife.
“Word arrived that all is well, by the way. No need to worry.”

Standing, nibbling on her
toast, Lily arched a brow. “How very mysterious.”

“Truly, it is nothing that
would interest you.”

He returned his attention to
Juliana. She gave him a smile, color still high across her exquisite cheekbones.
Watching them, Benedict thought of what Evander had told him yesterday, but had
clearly decided to share with no other guests. And how relieved Juliana had
looked at the news he had just passed on.

Doubtless they would be
discussing it once alone.

Evander had paid him a deep
compliment, he realized afresh, sharing that information with him. His emotions
with him. For they, Benedict sensed, would always be the last thing Casterwell
shared with anyone.

Except, perhaps, his wife.

~~***~~

“You know that I cannot stay
the full week,” Benedict muttered.

Evander was leaning back
against one of the intermittent breaks in the stretches of mullioned windows.
Backlit, his face was difficult to read in the light streaming past him.

His arms were folded, his long,
lean frame casual, one ankle crossed over another.

“Is that so?” he said in that
lazy, indifferent drawl, watching Benedict at work. “Why is that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Benedict prayed that the quiet
desperation that had been building in him was not apparent in his voice. But it
had to be. He turned back to the contents of the glass case he had been
examining.

He was not Casterwell, master
of controlled emotions and controlling others. Which was why he had to get the
hell out of this house.

“You said that you would take a
near week here. Work on the inventory. Assess. Make your recommendations.”

Benedict very carefully replaced
the tiny, precious object he had been examining in the case and closed the lid
with an extreme care.

“I’m afraid I cannot,” he
murmured. He scribbled something, something that later he would be incapable of
making out, in his notebook and pushed it aside. Sighing, he turned and caught
the gasp in his throat as he found Evander standing a scant foot from him. The
man must have moved like the panther he so well resembled. “Casterwell, I–”

“Evander, dammit,” the other
man growled. His large, elegant hand came up and curled about Benedict’s sun
browned throat. “I find I prefer the sound of my name when it’s said in your
voice. But not Casterwell. That makes me feel as if I am at White’s, surrounded
by fools and about to listen to some piece of idiocy. And nothing you say is
ever idiotic, Benedict.”

Heart pounding like a hammer, Benedict
swallowed. He felt fierce, excited. Out of control. Too heated, too hot inside
the tight cage of his skin. Not wanting this and yet wanting it with every
fiber of his body.

And loving what this
jewel-eyed, raven haired man was telling him. The commanding, yet not choking
grip, he had on his throat. On him. Oh God, how arousing, how completely
arousing that dominant grip was.

Let alone what he had just been
told.

Nothing
he said was ever idiotic…

A compliment from anyone, male
or female. But from a man such as Evander St John, that was something that he …
valued more he cared to think on.

That he found more erotic than
he could comprehend.

Perhaps because he sensed that whether
or not Evander valued looks, he did value intellect. And Benedict knew that he
was no prize. Tall enough, but big boned, no fat on him under the tough, hard
worked, muscle. Nose broken.