Objects Of His Obsession (17 page)

The bare facts of which Evander
himself had just confirmed. She’d run away from a violent marriage, leaving
behind her only child. Not that she could have done much else. The law would
never have been on her side.

And yet clearly mother and son
had been long reunited.

Awkwardly Benedict nodded. It
was all, this evening’s events, revelations, and now this, too much to process.

Evander smiled, still, as if he
understood his confusion and strolled through the house to the front door, Benedict
following awkwardly. As if Evander was the one at home here and not he.

Evander paused and smiled.
“Think on what I’ve said, Ben. That’s all. I ask nothing more of you than
that.”

Numb, Benedict watched as Evander
unlocked the door, stepped out into the cool Cairo night, looking, he realized,
completely at ease, assured that no ill would come to him.

And Benedict could not imagine
that it would. In Evander’s world, everything ran smoothly. Sooner or later,
everything bent to his will.

And yet, what different
varieties of hell had he lived through to reach that point? That control? And
how much, still, was hidden beneath the glittering, assured surface?

And closing the door as the
last of the man’s quiet footsteps echoed back down the street to him, he fought
down the raging emotions tearing at him.

He’d thought that he was
getting over Evander. Or at least finding some way to live a life without him
in it. Walk away from the … Goddamn it,
love
,
he felt for the man. That at some unimaginable point, somewhere,
somehow
, he’d find another. But no.

Tonight,
this
, Evander’s truths, given in that calm, commanding voice had
torn the half-healed surface off every wound he’d thought healing.

No, of course there was no way
of getting over Evander. Or of learning to live without him. Not without
damaging some part of his soul. Of course not. That belief had been pure
insanity.

Complete and total insanity.

Spring, 1899, Paris

The Duke of Casterwell leant
back against the leather upholstery of the hansom cab, the railway station and
its crush of humanity rapidly left behind, that sharp flow of French still in
his ears, his black brows drawn together in a scowl he would never have
permitted himself in public.

Damn.

He had handled that badly.

The thought had been hammering
at the back of his skull during the whole of the trip back from Cairo. Through
paperwork he’d forced himself to read, some of it dry as dust, contracts he was
pleased he had a team of lawyers to comb through as he was certain that for
once, he had missed one or two cleverly placed fishhooks in the fine print.

Usually he greatly enjoyed
business. Artists had paint, canvas. Musicians a piano, a violin.

He had … speculation. New
technologies. Engineering. Railways. Gold mines. Silver, copper. Mines rich in
diamonds and other precious stones. Oil. Sheep and cattle stations in Australia.
And most of those things his own acquisitions, interests, bought once he’d
taken control of his inheritance.

He’d inherited a massive
fortune that not even his father’s smug disregard had managed to diminish. The
man had, at least, had the sense to have handed over much of the estate
management to a team of advisors too terrified of him to either attempt to
steal from him or to do a bad job.

But Evander … even in his teens
he’d taken an interest in the financial world. In the estate itself, and the
many properties owned by the family.

A fact he had kept hidden from
his father, knowing that such knowledge would only be used to belittle him in
some manner later.

And so the mines, the multiple
London properties, the thousands of rich acres with their tenant farmers, the
plantations in the Indies … all of it had provided the base upon which he had
built.

Juliana had teased him, early
on, that he had a restless energy that not even the devil could still. They’d
been in their first year of marriage then, she pregnant, and he with much to prove,
knowing that the gossips had discounted their marriage, were slandering
Juliana, and dismissing himself as a lightweight.

On every count he was
determined to prove them wrong. As was Juliana.

And they had done so.

He had poured that restless
energy into building a financial empire that none could dispute. And Juliana,
once she had given birth to Charles and begun the family they both wanted so
badly, had, by his side, been a formidable partner in conquering the London
social scene. One which he had complete contempt for. As had Juliana.

And yet their children would
have to mix in that jungle. They may as well be on the top of its heap. And between
the automatic respect the dukedom would gain them, and their financial backing,
they would be protected.

And yet, it had all gone so
very, very wrong.

Thank Christ Juliana, at least,
had found her happiness. Her true love. And hard-fought causes, with her
charity work, which truly did do good. And their children and the life they
gave them, the joy they both gained from them, were an endless source of pride
to him.

But … as for himself.

What was the use of being
considered some kind of financial genius, the master of all and anything he
chose to survey – for Evander was wryly aware of his reputation, as
foolish and utterly misguided as it was – if he could control nothing in
his own private life? And his wife, he thought with some amusement, could
scarcely be considered under his control. She was his equal partner. Not his
employee. Nor possession.

Which left …

Lord Benedict Yeats. The man
who had owned Evander from that first glance.

The man had been a mass of
contradictions that Evander, surrounded by the usual pack of idiots he’d run
with in his first year at Oxford, had been hit with like a punch to the gut from
that first instant.

Without realizing it, as he shifted
with the movement of the hansom, the corners of his mouth twitched and he
spread his long, elegant fingers out across his dark silk waistcoat, the item somber
yet supremely tailored. Yes, from that first glimpse of Benedict he had been
gut-punched. And then Benedict had continued that process with that last night
at Harkenstorn House. The man had damned well physically assaulted him, or
attempted to.

But that had been what had
attracted him. Oh, not the violence, which was scarcely characteristic of Benedict
in any case.

But the contradictions.

Evander had looked up, across
that sunny Oxford quad, and seen a rough, carelessly dressed athlete. Clearly a
rugby player or amateur pugilist. Maybe not as tall as himself, but big boned,
shoulders heavy with muscle. And a strong face, jaw squared off. Once straight
nose clearly broken at some point.

And then those long lashed honey-brown
eyes had lifted to his, and for the first time, Evander had found himself
thoroughly intrigued by that brand of rough, raw-edged masculinity.

Except that once he managed to
tear his eyes away from the silent, unconscious appeal in those eyes, he’d
noticed the man had an armful of books and papers that he was scarcely managing,
and ink stains on the strong, blunt fingers gripping them.

Goddamn it if the man wasn’t
some rugby bore but a swot.

Brains and brawn.

And from the intelligence in
the man’s face, he had plenty of both. And then those long lashed warm eyes had
glanced away and a deep flush had colored his powerful throat.

Strength and … vulnerability.

Evander had not survived
seventeen years with a man such as his father without learning to read others
at a glance. And he read Lord Benedict Yeats thoroughly and greedily.

And in that instant, as they
passed one another, Benedict alone, Evander with his crowd of pleasure seeking,
idiot friends, he’d lost himself. He was no virgin, either with women or men,
but Lord Benedict Yeats … he didn’t merely want to fuck him. He wanted him in
his life. Surrounded by lightweights, he
needed
him in his life, he realized in that flash.

Almost all that knew him
thought he operated on cool intellect and calculation.

In fact, he always worked on
gut instinct. His emotions.

Intellect could be used later
to justify any decision.

But his gut was never wrong.

And something in that strong
boned, so masculine face, in those striking, vulnerable amber eyes, had caught
at him. The need in them? That flare of shock, scarcely hidden, as he’d reacted
to Evander in a way that had clearly stunned him.

Evander was no naïve fool. He well
knew he could seduce with a look. The outer shell he presented to the world was
a lure. A glittering instrument.

But he hadn’t wanted to merely
seduce Yeats.

Seduction was simple and short
term.

No, he’d
needed
that innate strength Evander sensed. His steadiness.
His honesty
. His clear independence. And
yet he’d sensed his stunning, appalling loneliness.

One that the man was probably
not even aware of. One that he himself was raw with.

He wanted to soothe that man’s
loneliness. He wanted to be the cause of it disappearing forever.

But Benedict behind them now,
and the empty quad ahead echoing with his friend’s drunken laughter, he’d known
that now was scarcely the time.

But it
would
come. He knew that. That time would come, and when it did, he
would seize it.

Staring out through the grimy
hansoms window at a Parisian twilight years later, Evander saw his own face
reflected in the glass and the grimace it wore.

Ah yes, that time had come,
alright. His gut hadn’t steered him wrong on that one.

But he’d fucked it up. He’d
fucked it up royally.

~~***~~

Juliana walked, with the
briefest of knocks, into his study. He was sitting at his desk, the heavily
fringed, brocade curtains closed over the windows, electric light blazing in
the room, staring blindly down at the same contracts he’d brought into the
house from the hansom.

Followed by his usual minimal
amount of luggage, which a footman had brought in with a practiced efficiency.

And needing quiet before the
insane bustle of sound and activity erupted that his return would bring.

Juliana came up behind him as
he sat, wrapped her silk clad arms about him, diamonds glittering at her
wrists, and enveloped him in a cloud of the Guerlain perfume he knew she
favored.

It was one of citrus and
lavender, yet dark, very erotic. Something else prickling in the warmth of it.
Very Juliana. Strong, no soft rosewater scents for her.

He felt her press her chin
against the top of his head, envelope him in her deceptive, hidden strength.
“How did it go?” she murmured.

Evander sighed. He tipped his
head back, eyes closed, and she massaged his shoulders. “Badly,” he muttered. “Very
badly. I handled it foolishly. Probably pushed him away rather than reassured
him that it could all work out.”

She sighed. “Silly man. Both of
you. I told you I should have come with you.”

“Yes, I can see that would have
worked. The children here, driving their nanny mad and the tutor left tearing
his hair out. Not to mention Elsa arriving and being incredibly put out if neither
of us was here to greet her. How did that go, by the way?”

Juliana was used to Evander
referring to his mother by her Christian name. She rolled her eyes. “Good. If
you follow your mother’s example you will be a terror with an eye for the
pleasures of the flesh well into your fifties and beyond.”

“Glad to hear it.” Evander
stroked one lavender silk clad arm. “And you? How do you fare?”

“Well enough,” Juliana said
briskly. “Although unfortunately … well, my own plans didn’t work out. You’ll
have to keep me entertained once your mother leaves.”

Evander frowned. Juliana’s
lover had been due to join them in Paris once his mother left. It had become a
twice yearly ritual.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked,
concerned.

“No. A hush hush assignment in London
that could not be turned down. All very exciting, if frustrating.” She
abandoned massaging his shoulders to wrap him once more in her arms, chin
resting on the top of his head again, as if drawing strength from him now. “It
looks as if both of us have hit bumps in the road of true love. Although yours
far more serious than mine. Which we shall have to correct. When is sweet Benedict
due to be out of Hamer’s clutches?”

Evander made some noise
suspiciously like a growl. “The dig season finishes in April, but Ben is so
conscientious I doubt he will leave immediately.”