Page 10 of Chasing Benedict
Benedict’s jaw ached from the hard clench of his teeth, his gut roiling with intense wrath. It didn’t matter how far he distanced himself from caring about his father’s opinion; being compared to his eldest brother never stopped putting his teeth on edge. Benedict hadn’t stood a chance of gaining the viscount’s approval when the heir had been living. Esmond’s death had only cemented his place as the favorite, the perfect son, a saint. Francis was just a step beneath him—by no means as perfect as his elder brother but still a Sterling to be respected, worthy.
“I will inherit whether you like it or not,” Benedict reminded him. “And I’ll do it regardless of how I behave or dress or speak.”
The viscount turned to face him, the afternoon light revealing the silver strands interrupting the blond shade of his hair. Those gray strands, as well as the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, were the only hints to the viscount’s age. He was as brawny and robust as ever, and Benedict supposed he could appreciate that he might inherit that same agelessness.
“I have decided to take you in hand,” the viscount said. “Your days of a bachelor’s idle pursuits are at an end. While I am in London, I intend to compile a list of eligible ladies for you to consider. You will choose the one who suits you and pursue her for marriage. Your reputation will not matter in the face of the family fortunes and estate, as well as your status as my heir. A few months of reformed behavior and public courtship should position you nicely as a groom for your future viscountess. You will marry her and do your utmost to sire an heir within one year.”
Benedict’s lips quivered, amusement overtaking his annoyance. He searched his father’s face for any trace of humor, but found none. Of course he found none—the viscount didn’t possess a humorous bone in his entire body.
Shoulders quivering with barely-suppressed laughter, Benedict stared at his father with defiant glee. “No.”
The viscount raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“That’s right. No to your list of ladies, no to your stipulations of marriage and an heir. No to all of it.”
His father rolled his eyes as if dealing with a petulant child. “You intend to be difficult. I expected nothing less, which is why I’ve taken precautions to ensure my directives are followed to the letter.”
Benedict wanted to tell his father to sod off, then quit the room. But, he couldn’t afford to ignore the viscount’s threats without knowing the totality of his plans. His father had taken him unawares once, nearly breaking Benedict in the process. He couldn’t allow that to happen again.
“What precautions?”
Now the viscount was practically overflowing with glee, his eyes glittering with malicious intent. “I paid Dr. Pruett a generous sum to accompany me to London. As of now, he’s been put up in a Mayfair hotel to enjoy the lavish accommodations his own funds cannot afford. However, he can be summoned on a moment’s notice to take you in hand should I deem it necessary. His methods in treating the insane are very effective … as you well know.”
Benedict’s blood ran cold as a dozen memories flooded his mind—being immersed in tubs filled with ice-water, held under until he couldn’t breathe through the pain of a thousand icicles pricking his skin. His skin crawled as if assaulted with leeches, his throat burning with acidic bile as he recalled the taste of purgative potions that had nearly caused him to starve.
He didn’t fear much, but the threat of a mad-doctor was enough to shatter his bravado. The viscount knew this, his expression like the cat who ate the canary as he watched Benedict process his ultimatum.
“That’s right,” he said. “If you cannot be coaxed to the altar, then you can be declared insane. After all, only a madman prefers the attentions of his own sex over those of a woman. Such foul acts are an abomination in the eyes of God. I could have you declared incompetent and disinherited. I would rather see my title go to one of your distant cousins than have it sullied by a twisted, corrupted sodomite!”
Benedict shot to his feet, that word jabbing through his spine like the sharpest of daggers. His knuckles ached when he clenched his fists, but the rest of him was on fire, ready for a fight. Benedict would never forgive himself for the carelessness that had led to the viscount learning his secret. He had been paying for it ever since.
“Call me that again—”
“It’s what you are,” the viscount spat, his disgust clear. “And if it means protecting my legacy, I’ll expose you to the world for the disgusting creature you’ve become.”
Benedict bared his teeth in a feral grin “No one will believe it. You see, part of my damaged reputation is due to my connection to a certain woman. Everyone in London has seen me in her company, and knows I spend several nights a week at her lodgings. I’ve also been seen entertaining whores in public on a frequent basis.”
The viscount scoffed. “They will believe the word of a respected peer over that of a notorious scapegrace.”
“I’m willing to take that bet.”
A tense silence filled the air between them, neither man willing to back down or show weakness. It was the bane of Benedict’s life to know the person he loathed most in the world was also the person he had inherited the majority of his traits from. Not only his looks but an uncompromising stubbornness that could rival that of an ass. His quick temper, his athletic reflexes, the ability to read people and exploit both their weaknesses and their best qualities—all inherited from the man who had made his life a constant torment.
The viscount broke first, turning away and striding toward the door. “I realize that my unexpected arrival has caught you off guard. Defiance is typical of you, so I will excuse your impertinence for now. What you need is time to think and to consider all the ways I could make your life a living hell if you refuse to comply.”
“You will never control me again,” Benedict ground out, staring at his father’s back and wishing the heat of his anger was enough to burn away flesh and bone until he was staring at the empty hollow of his father’s chest.
The viscount glanced at Benedict over his shoulder with a mocking smirk. “You have one week to make your final decision. For your sake, I hope you will choose the right one.”
Benedict remained where he stood once his father had departed, the heavy tread of his footsteps carrying him upstairs. It annoyed him to no end that the viscount would be in residence for the foreseeable future, with Benedict impotent to do anything about it. The house belonged to his father, after all, though he preferred to reside in the country.
He waited until the slam of a door resounded through the house before moving, taking deep, rapid breaths to keep a fit of temper at bay. Just now, he wanted to turn every piece of furniture into kindling, shatter the porcelain and glass across the rug, and pound at the walls until they were riddled with impressions of his knuckles.
But, there was no time for that. His father’s arrival had just thrown all his plans off-balance, adding yet another complication to a problem of epic proportions.
Benedict took the stairs two at a time, determination propelling every step. Experience told him that his father’s threat wasn’t idle, and after years of struggling to bring Benedict to heel, he might finally be ready to play the final card in his deck. That pressing issue was secondary to the real reason Benedict was suddenly in a hurry to leave the house.
He stormed into his room, startling Simmons—whose face appeared from the doorway of the washroom, eyes wide and questioning.
