Page 72 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
If she surrendered them too readily, he would suspect they carried little worth. “I do not believe that would be wise. There’s nothing in there that would interest you. Only dry accounts of the best methods for excavation and such.”
He stared down at her, cold brutality in his gaze. “Get me the damned book.”
“Very well,” she said. Adding a sigh for effect, she took the journal in her hands.
“You had better pray this book has some use. It might just keep you alive.” Lunging for her, he caught her wrist in one powerful hand and dragged her to him. The sour smell of liquor tainted his words. “You’re coming with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Benedict poured a measure of whisky, the finest blend from a well-established Highland distillery and raised the tumbler to his mouth. The Scotch warmed him, easing through the tension that set every nerve on edge. Rubbing the back of his neck, he reclined in a well-used, overstuffed chair in his study. Though decidedly lacking in elegance, the sturdy piece was by far the most comfortable item in the whole damned house. His grandfather had favored the chair, and after his death, Benedict’s father had held on to it, if only to spite his wife. With its faded blue tones, the chair clashed miserably with the forest green draperies and the pale taupe walls. But Benedict did not give a damn.
Setting the glass on a side table, he rubbed his upper arm. As a lad, he’d broken the bone near his shoulder in a fall from a horse. The long-healed break still ached like the very devil on days when moisture filled the air with relentless gray hues and rumbles of thunder overshadowed the noise of the city.
Taking up the tumbler, he helped himself to a hearty draught. If he didn’t have so bloody much ahead of him on this day, he might consider getting himself well and truly foxed. God knew he could use some respite from his thoughts.
He didn’t regret coming back to London. He’d chased Rooney down just in the nick of time. Had he not, Alex probably would not have survived the ugly encounter. The very notion that she could have been harmed sickened him. But he’d protected her. He’d honored his pledge to the professor. Now, she no longer needed him to watch over her. There was no sense in staying in the gloom-ridden city any longer.
So why did he feel like a coward?
Coming to his feet, he moved to the window, swept aside the curtain, and studied the sky. A storm loomed on the horizon. It wouldn’t be long now before it erupted.
How bloody appropriate on this day when he’d walked away from Alexandra. Again.
He turned away from the window. Behind him, the curtain fell back into place. Deep within, he felt a storm brewing, one he had no more power to control than the one blowing in over the Thames.
He longed for Alexandra. He wanted her. Now, more than ever. If he had any sense, he’d pull himself together and put the notion of a life with her out of his mind.
Impulsiveness and raw emotion had little place in his life.
But all that changed whenever he was near her.
One look at Alexandra’s beautiful face, and his self-control had careened out the window like a bat let loose from the bowels of hell. God above, he’d nearly taken her in her study, inches from a stack of dry reference tomes and within arm’s reach of her blasted cat’s ridiculous little bed. When he was in the same room with her, all he could think of was how damned much he wanted to kiss her. Even now, separated by bricks and mortar and distance, his hunger for her had not abated.
Damned shame he knew better than to consider a future with Alexandra—whatever having afuturewith someone even meant. In all his years, he’d seen very few relationships in which the parties actually shared a future, rather than being occupants of the same residence with little else to bind them together. His parents had certainly not made a life together. Not truly. His father’s gambling had spurred his mother’s discontent. Her fears that they’d end up in poverty—that she’d have to turn to her brother for funds—had driven a wedge between them. Perhaps his father and mother had once loved each other. Or perhaps not. Damned if he knew. But he could not remember a time when his mother had looked upon his father without unadulterated contempt.
If he tried to build a life with Alexandra, would she always kiss him with passion? Would she whisper words of love against his ear as they lay in each other’s arms? Or would they eventually settle into a pattern of cynicism and derision as his parents had done? She’d looked upon him with disdain that afternoon. She’d made her feelings clear, her disappointment at the notion of him profiting from his explorations. Not a promising start for a future together. Not at all.
Of course, he couldn’t blame her. He’d spent nearly a decade earning her scorn.
It was too late to change that now. Damnation, he knew what he needed to do.
He had to get the hell out of London. Away from Alexandra—the one woman who held the power to distract him from his objectives.
The doorbell’s chime sounded through the house. Who the bloody hell might that be? The question seemed a growl of irritation.
Colton’s voice reached his ears. He surged to his feet. What in blazes was going on?
Roderick called out to him, but Colton got to him first.
“Where is she?” he demanded, marching up to Benedict.
The expression on Colton’s face made Benedict’s blood run cold. Something was very wrong.
Where is she?
God above, was he referring to Alexandra?
“What the hell do you mean?” Benedict countered.
