Objects Of His Obsession (19 page)

Evander rarely let his own true
physical strength show.

But now he grabbed Benedict by
the shoulders, his fingers like steel and held him back against the door. Benedict
could have fought him, he knew, but could see by the other man’s pallor that he
was truly exhausted and also … that he was no more immune to Evander than Evander
was to Benedict.

It was the one thought that
gave him hope.

Grimly he fought down the
awareness of his hardening cock.

“I don’t want to fuck you
here,” Evander ground out. “Although yes, I do want us to be together again.”
He let out a bark of laughter, eyes blazing blue. “Do you know that of all my
lovers, you are the only one that has been troubled by my married state?”

“Is that so?”

At that sour note Evander pressed
his lips against Benedict’s stiffly held neck. Felt his lips curl into a smile,
the first true smile he’d felt in months, against that prickling, in need of a
shave, skin.

Erotically, Evander caught the
faint scent of coconut from his skin. Soap? Or that lotion he’d produced that last
time, so well timed?

Just the thought hardened his
cock to sheer granite. Not that he’d do anything about it tonight. With Ben, in
any case.

Hell,
he needed more than just one more night anyway
.

Benedict lifted a hand as if he
could not help himself, half turned his head, tormented gaze catching Evander’s,
a hand touching his face. “What the fuck are we going to do, Evander?
Just what the fuck are we going to do?
”

Evander knew exactly what he
meant. And it wasn’t a question of right now,
this
, but… all of it.
Them
.
What lay ahead.

He pressed his mouth against Benedict’s
in a hard, rough, claiming kiss. Drew back the faintest degree, spoke against
those tensed lips. “I promise you, there is a solution. One that does not
involve you compromising those damned principles of yours. But for now, promise
me, that you will spend tonight here. Stay with us, get the rest you need, and
travel back to England with us when we leave.”

Still that steely rebellion in
the honey-brown of those eyes. “I will not fuck you under this roof. Or again, Evander.
I can’t. It goes against everything I believe.”

Evander fought down the
frustration, the rage that tore through him and nodded. This time weary,
himself.

“I would expect nothing less of
you, Yeats.”

That wide mouth half smiled. “Benedict,”
he was corrected.

“Ben.”

Like sunshine, Benedict
suddenly grinned.

And that grin made nothing else
matter.

Nautilus Prime ran second in
his next race, and although McCabe – or Checkers, as Benedict was
learning to call him, was disappointed it wasn’t a win, Evander could see that Benedict
had a wonderful time. Ranulph, Ben’s dullard older brother, was at the meet as
well, with two of his own horses running. And it was so good to see that Benedict’s
share in Nautilus gave him a sense of equality, of some shared ground, with his
bluff brother, one that Evander suspected he’d never had before. And all of
them, a scattering of Benedict’s own friends, Evander and Juliana’s crowd,
Checkers and his, had a brilliant day.

A day that had felt like a
gift.

And for Benedict, quite
clearly, it was all a massive holiday.

Evander had been right, he
knew. Ben had run himself ragged, not just through that last season with Hamer,
but for the last five years.

The man had worked him like a
dog, and from what he’d gathered, given him precious little of the credit he’d
earned.

All that would be changing.

What Evander hadn’t counted on
was that Benedict had a home of his own to go to, in a Georgian row in
Kensington. The place an inheritance from his grandmother.

Foolishly,
arrogantly
, he’d assumed Benedict had no fixed address in London.
Thought he probably stayed with one of his siblings or a friend when back in
the capital.

And Benedict had insisted on moving
back into that damned house once they all arrived in London from Paris.

Foolishly, Evander had imagined
that he would be staying at the Berkeley Square house, simply continuing as
before.

But continuing what? Yes, Benedict
was looking better. Rested. There had been plenty of good food on the table,
visits to galleries, nights spent at the theater. And walks in the Bois,
magnificent, bursting with Spring, with Juliana and the children.

They had adored Benedict.
Especially once Juliana had prompted him to start telling tales of Egypt.

Then the questions had been
ceaseless.

At times he’d almost felt sorry
for the man, until he’d realized that Ben genuinely didn’t mind. That he
genuinely enjoyed their company. And once he’d gotten over his awkwardness with
them, over that ridiculous, unearned guilt, with the fact that they were Evander’s
children, he’d relaxed and told them wild tales of the Sphinx, of the pyramids
and incredible gods and myths.

“When you come to Kent, you’re
going to show us the treasure and explain it, aren’t you?” Charles had
demanded, giving his father a cheeky grin. “Papa doesn’t know good things about
it as you do.”

“That’s because it’s my
profession to, and your father has a hundred things he knows much more about
than me,” Benedict had explained, grinning back.

Charles hunched a shoulder.
“Still, it’s better when you explain.”

Benedict shook his head,
smiling, and shifted lithely up off the carpet he’d been sitting cross-legged
on, most certainly the only of their guests ever to have done so, as he chatted
with the children.

That had been the last real, relaxed
time Evander had seen him at the Berkeley Square house.

The day of his return.

Since then, of course,
socially. But never alone. Casually relaxed.

But relaxed scarcely could
describe Juliana, the Monday after the races.

“Oh dear God,” Juliana greeted Evander,
catching hold of his arm and dragging him into his study.

Evander had just returned from
a business meeting. And he had rarely seen Juliana look this agitated.

“What is it?” he asked
brusquely.

His voice abrupt, rough,
because Juliana was looking truly horrified. She pressed a shaking hand over
her lips. Above it, her azure eyes were very wide. “Dear God, Evander,” she
whispered, in her agitation her language roughening. “Benedict and his good manners.
You lent him that damned top hat for the races. He came back to return it and
while the butler …
hell and damnation
,
I didn’t tell him I wasn’t receiving anyone. So he left Benedict in the hall
for a moment and I guess he … he must have heard something, not realized, and
he–”

Evander was looking at her
flushed cheeks, his turquoise eyes blazing. His well-marked black brows drew
together.

“You were not alone.”

“Nanny Porter had taken the
children to the park for the afternoon. We thought we were completely alone.
And we weren’t intending to
do
anything, were just in my sitting room and…”

“You were alone, you hadn’t
seen each other in too damned long, and the temptation was too much?”

“Yes,” Juliana whispered.

“And Ben walked in on you.”

“Yes.”

They studied each other for a
moment in silence. And then Evander heaved a sigh. “Well, Benedict knew you had
a lover. Now he can be in no doubt about it.”

Abruptly Juliana burst into horrified,
near-hysterical laughter, and then clapped a hand over her rosebud mouth.

She shook her head. “Oh my
darling, you should have seen his face. I have disgusted him beyond all
measure. I truly have.”

Evander pulled her into his
arms, hugged her. “He would never be disgusted by you.”

“You didn’t see his face,” the
words came, sardonic, from the figure standing in the now-open study doorway.
Obviously they’d been followed and Juliana’s wild agitation caught. “And face
it, that man did believe your wife, lover or no lover, was a damned near
angelic being. Dropped from the heavens. I think the flesh and blood reality
may have been one massive shock.”

Evander stared back, absorbing
those cool, all too wise words.

But Ben wasn’t about to judge
Juliana, was he?

No. No, he wouldn’t. And on
some insane surge of protective rage, he knew that if he did, no matter how he deeply
felt about the man, he’d beat him black and blue.

Late Spring, 1899, 122 Dante St, Kensington

Benedict paced about the bright,
pleasant sitting room of the narrow terrace house as if it were a cage.

He didn’t know what to do. Well,
he did. Try and forget what he’d seen. Because … well, he
had
been told. Warned.
Informed
.

It was just that… Oh fuck,
there had been such a massive difference between what he’d imagined – or
actually, gutlessly, tactfully, he didn’t know, not even done that, not speculated,
not even allowed himself to think about
it
– and the reality of Juliana’s affair. Juliana had a lover, and
that had been that. The problem of himself and Evander had focused all of his
attention.

Hands shaking, he went into the
tiny kitchen and decided to make himself some tea. It was drink tea or drink
whisky till he was feeling just numb enough, and tea struck him as the better
idea.

His mind would still be far too
active, of course, but he’d spent enough time numbing his emotions over Evander
with alcohol, and he was just about done with that as a solution.

Sweet Jesus. What he’d seen
had–

How incredibly shocked he’d
been, he thought, angered at himself, tea leaves spilling over the benchtop as
he spooned them into the pot. The water beginning to hiss in the kettle.

And
how incredibly shocked he should not have been.

Talk
about naïve. Stupid.

Lacking
any sophistication about the ways of the world.

On
a massive scale.

Dimly he was aware that there
was a noise in the distance. Absently he brushed at the dry scatter of tea
leaves.

In the glass beyond the window,
birds wheeled.

Dear God, they were all adults.
And he’d reacted like some dumbstruck, provincial oaf–

The noise intensified, and what
had been discreet became demanding.

A ferocious hammering threatening
the front door.

His breath caught. Hard. Even
as he went into the small hallway he knew what was waiting. Knew and dreaded
it. His lungs were tight with it. He drew open the door and Evander, that
beautiful face like thunder, was striding past him and into the sunny sitting
room. As if he owned the place. As if he was incredibly, utterly, furious with
him, Benedict registered.

“What the hell did you say to
Juliana?” Evander spat out, wheeling around on him. He threw his hat to one of
the armchairs and waited, eyes blazing blue, for Benedict to give him an
answer. “Well?” he prompted, at Benedict’s continuing silence.

Benedict swallowed. He had seen
Evander in many moods.

Most of them cool, controlled.
Urbane.

This kind of protective rage,
never
.

And then the kettle whistled
sharp, distant, on the stove in the other room. “I must get that. Take a seat,
Evander. Please.”

In the kitchen, he turned off
the gas, left the kettle on the stove and standing in the middle of the cramped
space, took a deep breath. He’d messed up, and badly. Walked out of that house
when he should have stayed.

Gutless. Always so gutless when
faced with real life. Real humanity. Real people.

He really was much, much better
with the dead. The very, very long dead.

He walked back into the sitting
room, pushing his shirt sleeves up, over his too-brawny forearms as he did so.
It was a nervous gesture of his, he knew. His jacket, tie, waistcoat, discarded
in the bedroom when he’d walked in. Formal clothes still felt constrictive to
him, and that constriction had been the last thing he’d needed. Now he ran a
hand through his already disordered hair and eyed Evander warily.

Evander, who was still standing
in the center of the room. Looking enraged.

“I am so sorry, Evander,” he
said quietly. “Was –
is
,
Juliana alright?”

Black brows jerked together.
“Just what the fuck do you mean by that?”

He shrugged helplessly. “Well,
I … I didn’t say anything to her. Just stumbled out of there. You obviously
know what happened. What I … walked in on. It was so rude of me. Hell, what
must she be thinking? My God, I just feel so–”