Objects Of His Obsession (4 page)

The orgasm hit him so hard he
damned near screamed, his guttural cry echoing around the room, hips jerkily
slamming his cock into that fist. Finally he slumped back against the case,
gasping as if he’d just run a marathon.

“Christ,” he muttered under his
breath, panting, bathed in a wash of heat and fresh sweat, opening his eyes
just in time to see Evander wiping his creamy seed off his skin with an
immaculate linen handkerchief before lifting that hand to his lips and licking
a streak of semen from his fingers with his tongue, glowing blue eyes meeting
his wryly.

“You look positively done in,
Yeats.”

Ah yes. Back to that offhand,
aristocratic manner. Benedict returned it in kind, wide lips forcing themselves
into a faint, dismissive smile, his hands going to his trousers before Evander
brushed them aside.

Hell, did the man realize just
how thin his ability to fake any control in this situation was? Just how out of
his depth he truly felt?

Benedict prayed not even as
Evander slid him back inside his clothing, rearranged it, fastened it.

As if nothing had happened.

Until his turquoise eyes
glanced up and he looked steadily into Benedict’s darkened gaze, his own
enigmatic.

“Tomorrow evening, then, Yeats.
You and I, my rooms. They are situated such that no-one else would have cause
to be near that area of this pile. So no fear of being seen.”

Evander blinked rapidly,
shocked. Said the first thing that came into his mind. “But your wife–”

For he knew from some comment
that the two had adjoining suites of rooms. A common practice amongst their
class. And a convenient one. But still–

Evander gave him an amused
smile as if he were being deliciously naïve. One well marked black brow lifted.
He ran his thumb over Benedict’s full lower lip, and that contact revived every
tingling nerve ending.

“My wife will not be in her
chambers. She will retire to her lover’s room until near dawn, as she does most
nights. And you will come to my chambers, and I too will have a lover … if only
for the night … and perhaps the night after that, and the next.”

Benedict stared at him
speechlessly. He didn’t know what shocked him more, that stark, sexual
proposition, or the knowledge that the exquisite, angelic Duchess of Casterwell
had a lover amongst their throng whom she enjoyed most nights.

Just who the hell was that
lover?

Benedict had never heard one
shred of gossip about Juliana St John.

Or perhaps he just hadn’t been
listening for it?

His eyes searched the
beautiful, tough male face before him. He longed – oh Christ, how he
longed, to say yes–

Evander gave a brief, wry
laugh. Rubbed a palm against the stubble on Benedict’s jaw and slapped him on
his black-clad shoulder before turning away and strolling towards the high,
broad double doors.

He opened one a degree and
turned to shoot Benedict a mocking, blue eyed glance. “You’re not used to these
games, are you, man? You’ve spent too damned long amongst the sand and dead
things. Come to my rooms tomorrow night and spend some time amongst the living.
It would appear you have a talent for it.”

Just when had that damned
obsession started … but Benedict knew. He was midway through his second year at
Oxford, and he been making his way across the quad at Magdalen. It had been a
beautiful day, but he, as ever, had been distracted.

A small knot of youths had been
strolling towards him, one scarcely hiding a bottle of wine beneath his coat.

And one, their leader, clearly,
was the most striking man Benedict had ever seen.

It was summer. He was wearing a
light colored suit, the bright light licking a raven’s wing sheen into his
thick, waving hair. As they strolled towards Benedict, his own arms full of
books, the beautiful youth’s hands were thrust casually into his trouser pockets.
Evander had glanced up. Turquoise blue eyes had blazed, briefly, in that lean,
olive skinned face. Those eyes had held Benedict’s arrested honey-brown ones,
Evander’s beautifully molded cleft chin lifting a degree as he gripped Benedict
with that blazing blue stare.

And then they’d passed one
another and the moment was gone.

Benedict would come to see
Evander here and there. The man was already, in his first year, a star in the
firmament of the college. Benedict heard that academically the man was brilliant,
if lazy, which had stunned his tutors, expecting the only son of a duke to have
better things to do than be interested in books. But he was also a sensualist.
Hedonist. Apparently knew every gaming hell to be found, kept a string of
mistresses. Threw drunken gatherings in his rooms that others crowded to.

And every story Benedict heard
only fed his appetite for more.

He wanted to be drawn into that
circle around the glittering star that was Evander.

And he had been, briefly.

Before Evander, his one true
obsession had been archaeology. Had been since he was eight and his grandfather
had given him two small shabti figurines and a heart scarab, both ancient
Egyptian grave goods, plundered God knows when, part of his grandfathers small
collection of ancient artifacts. A collection that had fascinated Benedict for
years. And given him, ultimately, his true obsession in life.

That true obsession that had
been his sole one until that blazing, blue eyed stare in the quad.

And his obsession with that
moment damned near drove out all else.

It was then that he truly began
to suspect that he was, indeed, one who preferred men.

Because hard as he fought it,
he could not get Evander St John out of his mind. Or his dreams, which were
becoming increasingly erotic. Troubling. It had been a huge relief to leave
during the break and go assist on his first dig in Egypt.

~~***~~

Both the men and women were
playing at archery.

The day had indeed turned out
sunny, as one would expect for any social occasion arranged by the Duke and Duchess
of Casterwell. Sunny, yet not too warm.

Benedict lounged back on the
smooth, well-tended grass, weight back on his elbows as he watched the others,
battered panama jammed on his head.

A relic of his Egyptian life,
he didn’t know why he’d brought it here. Force of habit, he supposed. The thing
had become almost a lucky charm to him. And a touchstone of all he truly loved.
His passion for all things of the ancient world.

By twelve his passion for
archaeology was so extreme he spent every moment he could, when the family were
in London, taking himself to the British Museum. His obsession had given him a
self-possession that bypassed any adult argument.

Not quite what his father had
been expecting – the army, the church, or at a pinch, the law would have
done – but then, in many ways, he thought wryly, hell, sadly, he had
never been what his father had expected. Nor his mother and siblings.

And yet they accepted his
quirks. Loved him dearly.

Although he knew damned well
that even imagining they’d accept his true sexual orientation was a fool’s game.
If they knew what had happened last night, and the dark, erotic rush of
pleasure that swept over his nerve endings and stiffened his prick every time
he allowed himself to think on it, they would surely cut him dead.

He would no longer exist to
them.

It was the way of the world.

Yet it caused a
near–physical pain in the region of his heart.

And then he looked across the
green lawns as Evander leant over to mutter a comment into his wife’s ear,
raven black head bent to golden one, and felt a terrible sickness and guilt
wash through him.

Even as he stared Juliana
turned and called out to him, her cheeks flushed, blue eyes glowing, “Benedict!
Do come and join us. We are attempting to find someone here who can beat my
husband at this, but it seems no luck.”

“Yes,” one of the other men
called. “Come on, get up and make an effort!”

Inwardly he groaned. He felt
ridiculously awkward around Evander now and doubly so around the man’s wife.
Dammit, not only was she exquisitely beautiful, she was truly a sweet and most
intelligent woman.

Before last night Benedict had
enjoyed his conversations with her. She was curious about the world,
insightful. And had a dry wit.

The perfect foil for Evander,
and he for her.

Infidelity was an accepted part
of life amongst their class, once a woman had produced the requisite heir and a
spare for her husband, but even though the Casterwells had a son and daughter,
not two sons, it seemed her duty had been done.

Truly, Benedict did not know
what to make of Evander’s casual, accepting claim that his wife had a lover.
Maybe it was simply a sense of fair play towards the beautiful Juliana, for God
knew, the man damned well had everything and yet still took more, even that
which society would condemn ... And Benedict himself was aiding him in that …
indeed loving that very fact.

A fact which shamed him even
while, like an opium addict, he could not stop himself.

He could only tell himself that
Juliana had her own lover, which was of little ease to his conscience.

He rose to his feet
reluctantly, plucking the panama from his head and dropping it to the ground as
he came over. Evander flashed him that mocking grin, teeth very white against
his pale olive skin. “You’re throwing your lot in with them to declare war on
me? I’m feeling distinctly outnumbered.”

His wife brushed an
affectionate kiss against his cheek. “Why complain? You always win, darling.”

“I’m not bad at archery,”
Benedict said easily, reaching the others and brushing a few grass leaves off
his jacket sleeve. “I may give your husband a run for his money yet.”

Juliana burst into a ripple of
laughter and eyed Evander provocatively. “Wonderful. Perhaps we truly shall see
the mighty topple.”

“Ha!” one of the other men, a
famous composer, laughed. “I’d like to see it happen, but I doubt it.”

“Maybe we should put a wager on
it,” Evander growled.

“Indeed?” A thickset, short and
soberly dressed man stepped forward, eyeing the two men with a quick interest.
Like many of the Casterwell’s guests, he was not here by dint of a title but by
the lure of his accomplishments. His accent gave that away. A well known horse
owner and trainer, he’d had a number of winners at Ascot that had been
discussed at dinner last night. His brown eyes moved, assessing, over
Benedict’s square jawed, clean-shaven face with the same air he probably used
when assessing horseflesh. “You’re good enough for me to wager my money on,
Yeats?”

Benedict swallowed. This had
moved from being a lazy afternoon activity to something far more serious. “I am
good enough, but I would not like you to lose money on my abilities.”

“Or I could win on them,” the
man snorted.

Evander’s turquoise eyes mocked
Benedict, glanced over at the horse trainer. “You liked that colt I purchased
at auction, did you not, McCabe?”

“Indeed I did. Would have
beaten you for him, but the bidding became too rich for my blood. Don’t like to
throw that much money at untried animals, no matter how good their bloodlines.”

That hard, well-cut mouth
curled. “Well, I liked the look of that little chestnut filly you were showing
me the other week.”

McCabe snorted. “She’s rough as
all hell, and her sire isn’t worth a farthing. I bought her only because I
liked the dam, and the price was right.”

“Then it won’t disturb you to
wager her, up against Nautilus Prime.”

The other man shook his head.
“Are you a madman, Casterwell? Nautilus cost you a fortune. Yes, I’d love to
own him, but frankly, I’d feel–”

“Yes or no?”

McCabe’s eyebrows rose and he
shook his head. “This is a ridiculous wager. Madness. That colt of yours is
worth a fortune. My filly, next to nothing.”

Evander’s smile was slow and
lazy, his deep voice indifferent as he shrugged, drawled utterly outrageously,
“Tell me, McCabe. What else are we going to do on a Sunday afternoon?”

~~***~~

This had all become far too
serious. Too much depended on it. And yet, at university, archery and boxing
had been Benedict’s sports of choice when he needed to relax. He had kept up
both. Rugby he’d dropped after having his nose well broken. Benedict had not
lied. He was damned good. But for a man to wager a horse on it – and for
Casterwell to wager horseflesh that had cost some hellish sum of money–

“We play by our own rules
here,” Juliana told him, azure eyes gleeful. “As you’ve seen. The best of ten.”

At Evander’s suggestion he
tested himself on several shots. There were a row of targets set up for them
both. He hit the bulls-eye only once. Failed miserably on the first try.

The breath hissed from between
McCabe’s teeth.