Objects Of His Obsession (5 page)

Sweat was running down
Benedict’s spine as he stepped back. At that moment Juliana’s golden hair
glinted in the sunlight, and caught by it, he gave her a sideways glance. That
rosebud of a mouth curled into an encouraging, sympathetic smile.

Evander walked across the grass,
took his place. Lifted the bow.

Hit a perfect bulls-eye. One
after the other. Relentless. A machine. Five in a row.

Benedict swallowed, aware that
others had gathered closer to watch.

Evander growled something and
turned his attention from the target.

He gave Benedict an enigmatic
glance. “Go ahead, man. Do your best.”

There was a challenge in that
smooth, cultured voice. And Benedict had the feeling it had nothing to do with
where an arrow landed.

“I shall,” he promised easily.

The first of his shots was
woeful once more. The second perfect. So too the third. The fourth. Benedict
was aware of the murmurs about them. Even more aware of what was riding on this
absurd wager.

If he won, the magnificent,
alluring man he was infatuated by would lose a piece of horseflesh worth a
fortune. If he did not, the man wagering against Evander would lose what was
clearly a promising filly, rough as her breeding may have been.

Either way, Benedict knew he
would not come out the winner.

The sun, clean and clear, yet
without much heat, still made him blink. He tossed his head, throwing the
over-long fringe back from his brown eyes as he narrowed his attention on the
target ahead. Raised, aimed, drew back.

And the arrow hit home
perfectly.

Four out of five to Evander’s
five.

Feeling sick, he turned from
the targets with a heavy feeling as one of the footmen cleared them for the
next round, a polite smattering of applause, comments humming. One or two
side-bets were even being placed amongst the onlookers.

Good God, he thought wearily.
These people truly had more money than sense.

Evander took his place once
more.

Benedict stood off to one side.
And watched as Evander executed three perfect shots, the fourth, landing well
outside. The last, closer but not in.

Benedict scowled. Something was
not right. From a machine to … this? Fair enough, more than, by normal
standards. But Evander, Duke of Casterwell, failed at nothing.

Swallowing, he glanced over at
McCabe. The man had been looking downcast, despite the smile he was forcing.
But at this turn of events he looked decidedly cheered. Damned near ready to
yell with pleasure. Victory not entirely out of his grasp.

Fuck, thought Benedict.

Sands in the desert were much
less treacherous than situations like this.

Wearily, he raised the bow,
took a deep breath and collected his thoughts.

~~***~~

McCabe was slapping him on the
back, damned near knocking the breath out of his lungs. “Well done, man. God’s
blood, I think I will be making you a shareholder in Nautilus. You have
certainly earned it. My, oh my, magnificent show!”

A circle had formed about them,
loudly chattering, congratulating, laughing, all of them well aware of the
value of the horseflesh changing hands.

Juliana came up, caught her
husband’s hand in hers, fixed her massive blue eyes on McCabe. “You’ve said
that in front of witnesses, Checkers,” she said, smiling wickedly, and yet with
steel in her eyes as she used the horse trainer’s nickname. “To Benedict, a
stake in Nautilus. I think ten percent is fair, since you can pay all
veterinary and feed bills and his stake will entail no commitment bar pure
profit.”

Evander’s head bent and he
pressed a kiss against her ivory pale temple, his hard mouth curling in an
indulgent smile. “My wife, the businesswoman. You had best follow her
directives, McCabe. She can be quite the Fury if crossed.”

McCabe was shaking his head as
if he could not quite believe his luck. Nor the way that Benedict had somehow
managed to get five bulls-eyes – one somewhat debatable, and yet not
debated. Conceded without argument.

“Of course,” he said quickly.
“You have my word on it.”

“More than your word, Checkie.
The lawyers will put it in writing as part of the transfer of ownership.”

“Really,” Benedict said
quickly, face flushed at Juliana’s steel. “This really – this really
isn’t necessary. It was all – all just a game. A wager. I should not
profit–”

Juliana gave an inelegant
snort. “You won him the horse, Benedict. Now do not quibble. I am acting as
your agent, and that is that.”

Evander arched his black brows,
stroked her arm. His turquoise eyes were amused. “You heard my wife, Yeats. Do
not quibble.”

Benedict’s mouth shut with a
snap.

Lord, he thought, both shocked
and astonished at this turn of events.

Juliana was indeed formidable.
And yet McCabe was still looking utterly charmed by her beauty, the sweetness
of her manner. Even as she twisted his arm into signing over ten percent of
that damned colt.

Dear God, this was not turning
out as he had expected. Not turning out in anyway whatsoever the way he had
thought it might.

And equally shocking, somehow,
the very real affection in the way Evander had spoken of his wife. Brushed that
kiss against her temple. So loving.

This was madness. Guilt tore
through him. He was behaving contemptibly. And yet it was not yet a game he
could walk away from.

~~***~~

Dinner that night was a rowdy
affair.

Winning wagers were being
celebrated over the first courses, celebration still going as duck was served.
Benedict and McCabe were not the only ones who had profited by his skill with
the bow. Yet he had the suspicion that any winning wager on himself had been
placed as a joke.

He should never have won.

The cook had been instructed to
bake a cake, decorate it with the name of McCabe, Nautilus Prime and himself.
It was exquisite, yet ludicrous.

All laughed, fought over a
piece.

Entertainment that night was
extraordinary. Charades played with skill, especially by the famed society
beauty, Lily Rosso, former mistress of the Prince, turned actress. The composer
amongst their midst played for them. The actress sang, with more skill than
Benedict would have thought. One or two others contributed too. It was
incredible. And the conversation rowdy as it devolved into politics.

Eliza Stark, the firebrand
journalist, sliced and diced all opponents.

“Politics,” Evander declared at
one point, whisky in hand. “Have we nothing better to discuss?”

“Many things better, but none
more important,” Eliza retorted, dark eyes alight.

Evander lifted his shoulders in
a shrug. “There you have me. Frivolous to the bone.”

“You are one of the least
frivolous people I know,” she retorted. “But you should be using your position
in the House of Lords to greater effect. You do merely enough. With your
intellect, you could do much more.”

“Now you flatter me. But one
thing is true enough, I am indeed utterly selfish. A wastrel. Why do any of you
even associate with me?” he said sadly.

Yet not a trace of remorse
lingered in that drawl.

His exquisite, angelic wife
stifled her laughter. And then burst into it. Benedict caught sight of
Evander’s well-schooled face across the room. The turquoise eyes met his. He
rolled them in exasperation.

Benedict found himself biting
back his own laughter.

“You deliberately lost that
wager.”

The words blurted out before
Benedict could stop himself.

Lord, of all the things to say
under these circumstances. He had to have lost his mind. No wonder Evander,
casual now in his evening trousers, barefoot, white linen shirt, sleeves rolled
up his surprisingly muscular forearms, waistcoat, evening jacket obviously
thrown earlier onto a nearby chair, paused as he closed the bedroom door behind
them, locked it, and raised a dark brow.

“Excuse me?”

Benedict swallowed at the bland
mockery in those rare blue eyes. “You deliberately aimed badly. In order to
lose that horse.”

“Now how foolish would that
make me, Yeats? And do I look like a foolish man to you?”

“Why?”

An occupational hazard of the
archaeologist, he realized. Always the question: why? How?

“Why?” Evander repeated idly,
brow raised again as he moved with that sleek, catlike stride into the room,
setting his whisky glass on the mantel. “If I were to do such a thing perhaps I
was simply being a good host … enlivening a dull afternoon for my guests.”

“That was not it. That animal
is worth a fortune.”

“Nautilus may be, but you
should know to talk of money is vulgar. And you are being incredibly vulgar
right at this moment.”

Evander could not have sounded
more the dismissive aristocrat if he had tried. But Benedict, youngest son or
not, was not exactly from the gutter himself and the dismissal simply irked
him.

He had a title. Had been
brought up in much the same atmosphere as Evander, if not with quite the same
staggering level of wealth. But then few in Britain could claim that privilege.

But he did know the rules.
Written and unwritten.

Even so, Benedict paused,
having found his legs had brought him well into the room. As if Evander had
brought him exactly where he wanted him. He halted by the large, broad
fireplace, a sweeping, carved curve of black marble forming the mantel. A small
fire crackling in it, its warmth soothing on what had become an unseasonably chill
night.

Heart thudding against his
ribs, he glanced about himself.

The colors in the room, and as
he could see from a half open door, the adjoining sitting room, were masculine
yet not somber.

Rich silken, damask bronzes and
dark golds. The metallic shades glowing against near-black, ancient paneled
wood walls. The few pieces of furniture centuries old but for the bed, which
was large, broad and unobtrusively modern.

Obviously Evander was no fan of
lumpy mattresses nor beds made for shorter generations.

Benedict’s eyes lingered on
that bed with its deep bronze cover and he damned near jumped as he felt
Evander’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’m glad you decided to come
to me tonight.” There was a husky edge to that bored, lazy drawl. “I didn’t
know that you would.”

Benedict jerked his head around
at that, his honey colored eyes wide as they met stunning turquoise. Giving away
everything, he feared. “Why?” he forced out. “Why would you possibly think
that?”

“You … appeared to enjoy what
happened between us last night but I can sense that you clearly have
reservations.”

The man was damned astute. Yet
if he were truly that astute, he would also have sensed that Benedict could no
more have stayed away from him than thrust his hand into the fire burning in
the grate.

He moistened his lips, aware
that Evander was standing so very close that he caught the clean scent of the
man’s skin, of Evander himself, the muscular lines of his upper body, that
sleek olive skin only emphasized by the fine white linen of his unbuttoned
shirt.

Evander reached out, stroked
the tumbled, sun-streaked hair back from Benedict’s face with his lean fingers,
eased the well-tailored evening jacket from his shoulders. Turned, to throw it
aside, to join Evander’s own on a leather armchair. His fingers went to the
buttons of Benedict’s silk waistcoat. Moments later it joined the jacket.

So strange to have Evander
acting as valet. Or as intimately as the whores he’d once frequented.

The breath was tight in his
lungs as Evander turned him so they were facing. Evander ran his hands up
Benedict’s chest, over every cut, hardened muscle, savoring them before slowing
rubbing his palms over Benedict’s nipples, grazing them against the fine cloth
of his shirt.

Sensation shot like fire from
his nipples to his rapidly hardening cock.

He gasped, eyes closing
briefly.

“How responsive you are,”
Evander said softly.

Benedict swallowed. “You know
what you’re doing,” he said tautly. “Not difficult to be responsive under those
circumstances. As I’m sure your other lovers have made clear.”

Something flickered in those
turquoise eyes and Benedict regretted his blunt reply. But it had been
self-protection. With every moment, every move, he felt his inexperience at
this must be glaringly obvious.

“Hmm,” Evander allowed, without
expression. “I suppose you could say they have.” He ran his palm over one
faintly stubbled cheek before driving his fingers into Benedict’s overlong,
thick hair. “Still, I’m glad that you’re the one here.”