Page 20 of Chasing Benedict
“I see you still dress like a man in mourning,” Alex murmured.
When Benedict jerked his head in Alex’s direction, he found him watching the dancers, lips quivering with amusement. Unlike Benedict, he was turned out like a fashion plate. The deep blue of his tailcoat was brightened by a waistcoat in shades of cerulean, plum, and gold, the gilded threads gleaming in the candlelight. His cravat had been dyed a deep yellow that appeared gold when juxtaposed to his waistcoat. His clocked stockings featured a blue stripe up the back of his calf. There wasn’t a hair out of place, and the scent of a fresh shave mixed with that of the peppermint and cinnamon on his breath to create an intoxicating aroma.
Benedict’s fingernails bit into his palms as he tore his gaze away from Alex. It annoyed him to realize that others had taken up where he’d left off, admiring the display of Alex’s wardrobe. Beside him, Benedict’s traditional black and white evening kit was somber and stark.
“I miss dressing you,” Alex went on. “How well you look in shades of purple. It brings out the color of your eyes magnificently. You grumbled and complained over the clothes I selected for you, but you wore them. Because you loved me, or because you secretly knew you looked splendid? Perhaps a bit of both.”
“What the devil do you want, Alex?” Benedict ground out, his palms beginning to ache from the tight clench of his fists.
Alex’s little finger lightly caressing Benedict’s. A crackle of electricity raced over his skin, reminding him of things best forgotten.
“I told you what I want, Ben. You.”
“I wouldn’t recommend holding your breath. You might die and then I really would be in mourning.”
To his surprise, the white flash of Alex’s broad smile lit up the periphery of his vision. “Why, Ben, I’m flattered. I never would have thought you’d care enough to mourn me. I’m touched.”
Benedict ground his teeth rather than reply. Alex was his polar opposite—cool and relaxed, sipping from his champagne flute.
“Will you dance tonight?” Alex asked. “You were always a magnificent dancer. You taught me to waltz, remember? I was abominable at it, and am now barely passable. I suppose your natural grace is what makes you such a skilled pugilist.”
When Benedict offered no response, Alex issued a soft sigh.
“You’re going to have to face me eventually,” he murmured. “I won’t go away just because you growl and gnash your teeth. I am used to it, as you well know.”
“You are wasting your breath and your time,” Benedict snapped.
“I don’t think I am. But, even if I were, I wouldn’t stop. You are that important to me.”
Irritation shot through Benedict. A distraction of this sort was the last thing he wanted. Alex needed to understand that Benedict wouldn’t allow himself to be maneuvered into yet another pointless conversation—one destined to end as their previous ones.
He opened his mouth to say just that, when his attention was snared by the person he’d come to confront. The annoyance of Alex’s presence faded as he narrowed his eyes at Cynthia Milbank. His anger turned from the man at his side to the woman who had taken part in ruining his life.
“I have other matters more pressing than entertaining this foolishness,” Benedict said. “Bugger off.”
“Was that an invitation?”
The quip registered in Benedict’s mind only after he had walked away, and Alex’s laughter followed him across the ballroom. Shrugging it off, he kept his gaze fixed on Cynthia as he tracked her slow progress through the room. She greeted friends and acquaintances with a tight, fixed smile, her movements stiff and controlled. Despite knowing that she was the London Gossip, Benedict couldn’t help but feel slightly shocked at the sight of her. After he’d ended their engagement, the Milbank family vacated London. Because Benedict had been so absorbed in his own problems, he never bothered to notice when they returned. By his calculation, Cynthia had resided in London for at least the past two years, if not more—which perfectly positioned her to launch her scandal sheet and skewer him with her pen.
While Benedict had been busy rebuilding his life and making the Gentleman Courtesans into a lucrative business, Cynthia had infiltrated the spaces of high society. Her seminary school education gave her access to the daughters of men high up on the social ladder. Over time her connections had flourished, and now she was a force to be reckoned with. Benedict’s mistake had been in underestimating her. He wouldn’t be so arrogant again.
He approached Cynthia’s back as she chatted with a group of ladies, the scent of lily-of-the-valley wafting up his nostrils to make him nauseous. Swallowing past the sensation, Benedict pressed on. He couldn’t allow the trauma of past events to affect his actions now. There was too much at stake.
Her grating voice wrapped around him as he hovered, lying in wait and trying to keep hold of everything he’d eaten throughout the day. Laughter floated up from the cluster of ladies, Cynthia’s practiced and false. She was the perfect representation of a woman groomed to claw her way into the beau monde. Her family’s desperation for status, and the viscount’s need to marry Benedict off to anyone who would have him had made their engagement a perfect one—save for the fact that Benedict, even if he were attracted to women in any way, would never desire someone like Cynthia for a bride.
A lull in the conversation provided Benedict an opening. Four heads swiveled toward him, and Benedict offered a polite bow. He kept his gaze on Cynthia, who stared back at him with cold calculation hardening her dark eyes.
She had changed very little, and looked as if she’d stepped right out of Benedict’s memories. How could he have stood in any room with Cynthia and not know she was there? Being face to face with her now made him go cold, as if a sheet of ice coated the surface of his skin.
“I beg your pardon, ladies,” he said in his most cordial tones. “You all look lovely this evening.”
Giggles and flickers of fans were followed by choruses of ‘thank you, Mr. Sterling,’ and ‘you’re too kind.’ Cynthia remained silent, lips compressed.
Benedict grinned, her discomfiture emboldening him. “Miss Milbank, I haven’t seen you in an age. I pray you have been well.”
“Quite well, Mr. Sterling,” she replied. “Thank you.”
“I will admit to crossing the room in the hopes that you had not promised the next dance to anyone else. Please say you haven’t … I’ll be wounded if you are.”
