Page 64 of Taming of the Rake
By the time he reached home, Benedict felt worlds better. Physical activity had always given him solace, and it was easier to remember that when his mind was not addled by drink. His trainer would give him an earful over his sluggishness once he began preparing for his next match, but Benedict would work hard to undo the destruction of treating his body like a rubbish bin for the past month. He would restrict his diet and do away with rich foods drenched in heavy sauces—which tasted wonderful and brought him comfort, but were hell on his speed and agility. He would shun strong drink and return to his morning runs and afternoon sparring sessions. He would pull himself up and press on, as he had always done.
The solemn face of his butler greeted him when he stepped into the entrance hall, shivering and blowing into the cradle of his freezing hands.
“Your pardon, sir, but you have a visitor.”
Following the servant’s gaze to the closed door of his study, Benedict scowled. “This time of night? No … I don’t want to see anyone. Send them away.”
“I’m sorry, but the gentleman seemed most insistent. He made it clear he would not leave unless …”
Benedict raised one eyebrow and pinned the butler with a pointed look, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Unlesswhat?”
The man cleared his throat and averted his gaze, face flushing. “He said … and these were his words, sir, you should know … um … he said that if you wanted him to leave, you could come into that room and eject him bodily yourself.”
Annoyance shot through Benedict, bringing the feeling back to his fingers as he imagined pummeling this faceless intruder into a bloody pulp. With the way he’d been feeling lately, he would relish such a task.
“I see. You are dismissed. I will handle this myself.” It wasn’t until he was halfway to the door that he had a sudden thought and paused, looking back at the butler—who remained where Benedict had left him. “Who did you say the gentleman was?”
“I didn’t, sir, I apologize. It is His Lordship, the Earl of Vautrey.”
All the heat of his fury melted away, to be replaced by a stunned iciness that seized him from the inside out. For about half a minute Benedict could not breathe, could hardly see as the world around him tilted and spun far too fast. He shook his head and took a breath, certain he hadn’t heard the butler correctly. But the man had followed Benedict’s order to make himself scarce, and couldn’t be asked to repeat the name.
His ears rang as he turned back to the door, then began to roar with the pounding of his own blood, rushing hot and fast through his veins. He oughtn’t be surprised; Vautrey had been made an earl by his father’s death, which meant he wouldn’t have been able to go on hiding in Kent forever. His parliamentary duties and social obligations would demand he return to London at some point. And because Benedict preferred London, it stood to reason they would have to come face to face eventually. He had hoped that by the time they came to this, his fury over the other man’s betrayal would have diminished. Benedict took his time entering the room, certain he would be tempted to rearrange the structure of Vautrey’s face on first sight.
As it happened, the earl’s face wasn’t the first thing Benedict encountered. It was his back, encased in a black coat, and a head full of thick, shiny brown hair. He stood staring out a window at the moonlit walkway leading to the courtyard off the back of the house. There wasn’t much of interest out there, yet the man took his time turning to face him.
Time had done very little to change him, and when Benedict first caught sight of his face he lost the urge to bash it with his fists. Because that face reminded him of the boy who had befriended him at Eton. The boy who had dragged him off the lads he’d pounded into the dirt for calling him foul, hurtful names. The boy whose friendship had made him feel a little less alone in a world where it seemed no one else was like him. As it had turned out, there were many others like him, and Lord Alexander Osborn, Earl of Vautrey had opened his eyes to that fact.
Then, he’d gutted Benedict and left him to die. Metaphorically, of course.
“Hello, Ben,” he said, voice low but clear and firm. No hesitation, no uncertainty … just Alex as Benedict had always known him—sure of himself and filling the room with an undeniable presence.
The door rattled in the frame when Benedict slammed it. He kept the entire length of the room between them, knowing he could not be trusted to hold on to his self-control otherwise. The firelight cast its glow over Alexander from the hearth, illuminating patrician features and dark brows that shadowed his eyes.
“What … the bloody fuck … areyoudoing here?”The words came out clipped, between harsh breaths as he struggled to contain the overflow of emotion welling up from his middle. Rage, fury, sadness, confusion and pain. It was a toxic combination, poisoning him, killing him by degrees.
Alexander moved away from the window at a sedate walk, his fingers running along the surface of Benedict’s desk as he took in his surroundings with a curious eye. The man stood an inch taller than Ben, making him a veritable giant, but Benedict outweighed him by a stone and a half, carrying more bulk across his shoulders and chest. He dressed like a fashion plate and never had a hair out of place, but no one would call Alex a fop—at least, not to his face.
He paused, rhythmically rapping his knuckles against the edge of Ben’s desk and staring down at his polished boots. “I should think that was obvious. Surely you’ve heard the news. Katherine, she … died.”
A muscle in Benedict’s cheek jerked in reaction to that statement, and the urge to tear the room down around them surged within in once again. “So I have heard. You have my most sincere condolences, though I fail to understand why her death would bring you to my doorstep.”
A small smile curved the corner of Alex’s lips, making a dimple appear in his cheek. “Oh, Ben … you were never any good at hiding your emotions.”
“I’ve changed. You’d know that if you hadn’t run off to Kent with your blushingbride.”
“Ben—”
“What did you expect?” Benedict snapped. “That I would have spent the past three years sobbing into my brandy and wishing to have back what was lost?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you hoped to be welcomed back into my life as if you didn’t betray me?”
“That isn’t it, either.”
Benedict hadn’t realized he had begun closing the distance between them, until he was close enough to reach out and touch Alex—which he did. His arm shot out, one fist closing around the lapel of the other man’s coat. Alex stumbled, but righted himself and did nothing to be free of Ben’s grasp. He merely stared at Benedict with mournful eyes the color of cognac and sighed.
“I knew you wouldn’t have forgiven me, but I had hoped we might talk. You don’t even have to listen to me. You can berate me and call me every horrible name you can think of, and I will sit and listen. I just … when I had settled my affairs in Kent, I found myself wandering around this cold, empty house and … I had to come. Even knowing you hate me, even realizing I have no right to intrude on your life.”
