Page 41 of Chasing Benedict
Alex chuckled as Ben heaved a sigh, turning his back on Alex and leaving the bed to go wash. Alex took his time following, still snorting and snickering at the ridiculousness of their conversation. They took turns at the washstand and then returned to the bed, clean and drowsy. Pushing aside the soiled counterpane, they flopped beside one another and promptly fell asleep within the cocoon of the lowered bed curtains.
WHENBENEDICT ROSEat dawn the next morning, Alex was still snoring into his pillow. He raced through his morning ablutions, then donned his worn trousers and favorite training shirt. Boots tightly laced, he made his way to the dining room within seconds before Fisher’s arrival. The man had a footman on his heels, the servant carrying a silver tray with a large ale mug perched on it. Benedict’s stomach quivered with dread as he was presented with his pugilists’ gruel—the revolting mixture of salt, water, and raw oats. However much he may hate it, Benedict had to admit its effects were noticeable, resulting in a more svelte form, and increasing his energy. More energy equaled faster reflexes, which was of the utmost importance for men fighting in the heavyweight class.
So, he choked the concoction down without complaint, hoping to convince Fisher to take it easy on him for the first day of training in weeks. He was not as fortunate as he had hoped.
Fisher was in rare form, insisting that Benedict had gotten slow and fat and needed to be whipped into shape. So Fisher had coaxed a groom from the stables as the first light of day sent orange tendrils into the blue void. With the groom driving him alongside Benedict, Fisher yelled obscenities and aspersions on Benedict’s speed. Meanwhile, Benedict ran along the uneven path, searching for the best places to plant his feet as he fought to remain abreast with Fisher’s wagon. He ran Benedict until the sun beat down on them, then pushed him through a gamut of training exercises for flexibility and strength. They returned to the house long enough for Benedict to be served a breakfast of ham, eggs, and soft, buttered bread. He devoured it with enthusiasm, chasing it with black coffee.
From there, they entered the gallery, which was filled with a history of the Vautrey family told in portraits. The equipment Fisher had brought alone was waiting for them. After wrapping his hands, Fisher assisted him in several stretches. At the taut pull of his tendons, Benedict sought distraction in the art, finding they were near the section of portraits depicting Alex’s immediate family. He found the previous earl’s portrait first, the man resembling Alex with his high forehead, a sweep of dark brown hair speckled with gray, and those calf-like brown eyes. The portrait had been done at least ten years ago, before the decline in his health. Beside the earl was Alex’s mother, who had succumbed to grief not long after her husband's death. Alex’s most recent portrait hung beside his mother’s, portraying him in the most surprising way. Unlike his portrait at twenty-one, showing his sense of humor and playful nature, this one characterized him as somber and stoic. His chin was too firm, his mouth too tight, his brow too heavy. Benedict felt a twisting in his gut as he took in the changes. Was this what people saw when they looked at him—the ravages of betrayal, heartbreak, and torture, aging him, dragging down his brow and curling his lips into a sneer?
His attention was stolen by the portrait beside Alex’s, an ethereally beautiful woman in a gilt frame. Benedict ceased to feel the painful stretch of his inner thigh as he studied the woman, who could only be Lady Katherine Osborne, Countess of Vautrey. In juxtaposition to Alex’s dour face, Katherine radiated cheer and kindness. She possessed a head full of flaxen curls, her eyes a pale and riveting blue. A soft smile revealed a dimple in one cheek, and her willowy frame was enhanced by the fluid grace of a gown that matched her eyes.
Being confronted with the specter of the countess reminded Benedict of just where he was and what he’d gotten himself into. In allowing this concession in their arrangement, Benedict had let himself be forced to occupy a space that had been meant for Alex and Katherine. The home of a man and his wife, a place to raise children and fulfill the obligations of their titles. He seethed while Fisher helped him into his practice gloves, as his mind inundated him with unwanted thoughts.
Had Alex at least consummated the union to ensure its legitimacy? When the loneliness and imposition of hiding his true nature had become too much, had Alex found solace in Katherine’s bed? Had he taken pleasure from lying with a woman—more than he had with Benedict?
Benedict threw himself into the sparring session with Fisher with every ounce of his envy and frustration. The old man had gotten soft around the middle and was fond of pastries and pies—yet he kept up with Benedict with the sort of strength and endurance only an old champion could possess. He taunted Benedict over his mistakes, circling him and jabbing with fists like hammers. Despite the other man’s gloves, Benedict felt every blow, absorbing the pain and allowing it to build, using it to keep him alert and reflexive. As he battered at his trainer, Benedict reminded himself that he was as in control of this situation as he had been in the beginning.
Nothing had changed. For the sake of earning the promised twenty-five thousand pounds, he would have to allow Alex to explain himself. Perhaps he could even admit curiosity over the events that had led to him marrying Katherine. Benedict had always assumed cowardice to be the reason. After all, their plans to run away to France together had been enough to frighten even the bravest of men. Benedict’s mistake had been assuming that Alex’s love matched his own, that he was willing to do anything for the desired outcome.
He would not make that mistake again. Alex had proven himself to be romantic and committed, but only up to a certain point. When the time came again to make that frightening leap of faith, he would surely leave Benedict behind again.
As he slumped onto a stool, accepting a drink of water from Fisher, Benedict told himself that there would be no second chance. Being stabbed in the back once had been enough, and he wasn’t keen to repeat the experience.
He sat toweling the sweat from his face and neck, and trying to enjoy the few minutes left of the break Fisher had allowed, when Alex approached from the other end of the gallery. He looked refreshed after the several more hours of sleep he’d had than Benedict, dressed informally in a morning coat and loosely-tied cravat.
“I see the training is going well,” Alex said as he drew near, glancing over the bits of equipment scattered about the floor.
“Well my arse,” Fisher groused, tying off an enormous sack that he’d had a groom fill with oats. He’d have Benedict lifting it over his shoulders and running the length of the gallery sometime today. “He’s slow and distracted. Too much drink these past months, and who the devil knows what’s diverting his mind during sparring.”
“It’s only the first day, old man,” Benedict retorted before swigging the last of his water. “I’ll be my old self in a week or less.”
“Yes, you will,” Fisher agreed. “After a few sweating sessions to leech all that poison out of you.”
Benedict stifled a groan, in no mood to be punished for a poor attitude. Alex watched, amusement lighting up his eyes.
Benedict came to his feet, shaking out his arms and cranking his neck left to right. “I’ll be a few hours more, at least. Haven’t you something to occupy yourself with?”
“Well, I’ve finished answering the correspondence that piled up while I was in London, and met with my steward to discuss estate matters. After a few hours of idleness, I’ve grown bored. I typically take an afternoon ride, but … I’m not feeling up for it today.”
They traded knowing glances, Benedict understanding right off why Alex wouldn’t want to straddle a horse today. It lay on the tip of his tongue to tell Alex that he likely wouldn’t be able to sit a horse for weeks if he had his way, but Fisher’s presence forced him to hold his tongue.
“What do you say we give Fisher a break?” Alex suggested, bending down to pick up Benedict’s spare gloves. “I’ll spar with you.”
Benedict snorted a sarcastic laugh. “Do you have a death wish?”
Shrugging one arm out of his coat, Alex switched the gloves to his other hands to free the opposite arm. “I think you’ll find me to be a worthy opponent. When one lives in the country, one finds various ways to remain active. There is a boxing master in the county who specializes in training gentlemen in the sport.”
Benedict raised his gloves, arching an eyebrow at Alex. “I don’t fight like a gentleman.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. Mr. Fisher, would you be amenable to the idea?”
“Fine by me,” Fisher replied, using his teeth to begin unwinding his gloves. “You’d be in his weight class, and you have an impressive wingspan, which means a long reach. I’d be curious to see how you fare.”
“No,” Benedict interjected. “Leave us alone. I’ll send for you when we’re done.”
Fisher blustered and complained, but a withering glare from Benedict kept him from protesting further. He helped Alex don the sparring gloves, then took his leave, muttering under his breath and shaking his balding head.
“Now then,” Alex said, turning back to Benedict. “Are you ready?
