Page 8 of Chasing Benedict
Benedict snorted. “No one is that kind.”
“That isn’t true,” Osborne argued. “I left my bed to mix this tincture for you, and I would hope you might do the same for me.”
He might not have before tonight. Benedict suffered enough of his own pain to think of anyone else’s. But the thought of Osborne in his place made him feel a prick of guilt. Yes … yes, he would do the same were it within his power. Osborne had never done him a harsh turn. What did it matter that he stared as if glimpsing a circus attraction? Perhaps he was merely a curious person by nature.
As Osborne continued his task, the tightness in Benedict’s muscles began to ease, and lethargy stole over him. Through heavy-lidded eyes he observed Osborne, startled to realize he thought the boy handsome. Osborne was tall and wide in the shoulders, though a bit thin.
A queer feeling erupted in Benedict’s belly as his gaze locked on Osborne’s chest, and he wondered at the difference between the other lad and himself. He’d grown his first chest hairs at the age of twelve, and they seemed to increase by the dozen each year. He hardly ever noticed Osborne shaving at the washstand, and it seemed he was as smooth beneath his clothes as he was on his face. As he leaned in to reach Benedict’s lower back, his shirt gaped wider, revealing even more of that smooth, unblemished skin.
Benedict swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. He was hot from his scalp to his toes, a sudden restlessness writhing in his belly like a pit of snakes. What the devil was wrong with him? He had seen other boys half-dressed and all but naked over his time at Eton and had never felt the urge to linger. Osborne was made no different than him, lack of body hair notwithstanding. There was nothing fascinating about his chest, his mouth, or the nimble fingers applying the tincture-soaked linen to his back.
Shame flooded Benedict as he forced the unbidden thoughts from his mind. They were backwards and wrong—sinful, just like him. This was the sort of thing that set him apart, and others could see it. His father certainly could, and it was why he’d been trying to crush such oddities out of him.
A warm current of air brushed his ear, and Benedict’s eyes flew open just as Osborne whispered, “All better?”
Osborne was close now … too close. Near enough that Benedict could smell a hint of sandalwood soap and sugar. He ought to put some space between them, his injured back be damned, but Benedict found himself trapped and frozen. Osborne had ridiculously long eyelashes, and with the lamplight just so, they cast shadows on his high cheekbones.
Clearing his throat, Benedict blinked and set his gaze elsewhere. “Yes. Thank you, Osborne.”
The bright, full smile crossing Osborne’s face drew Benedict’s eye right back. He reached out to place a warm hand on Benedict’s bare arm.
“Call me Alex.”
BENEDICT WAS JOLTEDawake by what sounded like the screams of a banshee. Jerking his head from a pile of lumpy pillows, he pried open an eye to find the bleary form of his valet at the bedside. He tried to swallow but felt as if his dry tongue had swollen to twice its normal size. Meanwhile, a woodpecker seemed to have taken up residence inside his skull.
“Blast it, Simmons,” he rasped. “Must you come in here braying like an ass?”
“I spoke no louder than a whisper, sir,” Simmons said drolly, hands folded behind his back.
Benedict blinked, and the outline of his body servant became clear. “Insolence first thing in the morning?”
Humor twinkled in the man’s eyes, but his expression was as neutral as his stark attire. “Never, sir.”
“What the devil do you want?” he snapped, levering up onto his elbows and shaking his head to clear it. “I asked not to be awakened before noon.”
At least, Benedict was certain he had drunkenly slurred that particular order before falling face-down into bed after shedding only his coat.
“It’s fifteen minutes after one in the afternoon, sir,” Simmons replied with an arch of one ruddy eyebrow. “And I would have left you to rest, but thought you’d wish to know … a visitor arrived this morning.”
“Alex,” Benedict ground out as he rolled over to sit up, wincing at the tingle of his blood rushing to his extremities. Of course Alex was here. He had always been annoyingly stubborn and unwilling to accept an answer he did not like. Still, Benedict would have expected at least a day of peace before being forced to face his past again.
“Tell Vautrey I am not at home,” Benedict grumbled, yanking off his shoes and tossing them over the side of the bed.
Simmons bent to pick up the shoes without batting an eyelash, but then stood there holding them and watching Benedict shrug out of his sweat-stained waistcoat. “The visitor isn’t the earl, sir. I wouldn’t have awakened you otherwise, but Ambrose was certain you would wish to know right away.”
“Know what, Simmons?” Benedict snapped, impatience worsening his pounding headache. It was his fault for over-imbibing last night, and he’d only made matters worse by going to that ridiculous melee. He would pay for it when he resumed training with his pugilism master.
“Your father,” Simmons said with pursed lips. “He arrived this morning.”
“Fucking hell,” Benedict groaned, pressing the heel of his hand against his eye. It felt as if the blasted thing would pulse right out of the socket. A slight swelling in the lid told him he’d taken more hits last night than he remembered.
“I expected such a reaction, sir. Will you take breakfast and dress before greeting him?”
Benedict met Simmons’s gaze, noting the slight curve of his valet’s mouth. They seemed to share the same thought, prompting a chuckle from Benedict.
“No, Simmons, I don’t think I will. The viscount will want to see me straightaway, and I have kept him waiting long enough.”
“Of course.”
