Alex, still holding the other man’s face against his neck and wringing them both dry amid a chorus of deep, visceral groans. Neither of them moved right away, leaning into each other and simply breathing. Benedict closed his eyes, helpless in the face of the warmth coming over him in the aftermath. He didn’t want to cling to Alex, his chest swelling and his throat burning with suppressed emotion. Despite his insistence that only the physical mattered between them, Benedict was struck with the realization that Alex had been right. Somehow, what they’d done felt like so much more, though he was loath to acknowledge that.
Alex slumped against the door as Benedict slowly peeled himself away, his hand and groin sticky with a mixture of their seed. His heart pounded like a drum. His body was sated, slowly climbing down to steady calm—yet his mind was still awash in turmoil. He could hardly hold onto one thought before another one descended on him. With a whispered curse, he stumbled to the rough bedside table, which was thoughtfully stocked with a basin of water and linens. Benedict offered Alex a wet linen without meeting his gaze, before turning away to clean himself. Ignoring the sounds of Alex shuffling about, Benedict took his time. All the while he told himself that they had only done what their agreement stipulated. He was a courtesan and Alex a paying client like any other. What did it matter that he knew how Benedict liked to be touched and kissed or that they’d come together as if they’d never parted?
Alex was nothing but flesh and a bank draft to him—a means to an end so that he could see his plan through to the end. Cynthia Milbank needed to be dealt with, and then his father. Alex was instrumental only within the framework of those plans. Benedict couldn’t let himself forget that.
“You have to admit,” Alex remarked. “We’re still good together. Always have been.”
Benedict turned to find Alex composed, his clothes straightened and his expression placid—though his color was high and his eyes bright.
Benedict raised an eyebrow. “I’m good with all my lovers. It’s my job, after all.”
He had meant the remark as another barb, a defense against the truths Alex was forcing him to confront. But Alex had the most curious reaction. Instead of growing cross, he simply approached Benedict with a sly grin, reaching out to adjust his rumpled cravat.
“I’m glad your lovers have enjoyed your skilled attentions,” he purred, leaning so close that his lips brushed Benedict’s. “It is good to know you’ve put all the things I taught you to good use.”
With that, he pressed an abrupt, punctuated kiss to Benedict’s lips before turning to exit the room without a look back—leaving Benedict with a hot face and a jaw dropped in stunned disbelief.
Chapter 7
“It would seem the Earl of V’s visit to London is coming to an abrupt end. Apparently, the excitement of London does not compare to the serenity of the Kent countryside. Will he return for the start of the Season? With no countess or heir, the earl must soon set his mind to fulfilling his duty as a peer of the realm. Time will tell, I suppose.”
-The London Gossip, 28 January 1820
Benedict woke the next morning with a splitting headache and a foul disposition. He and Alex had returned hours after midnight, and Benedict spent what was left of the night tossing and turning, his mind refusing to allow him rest. When he wasn’t turning over the events of the evening with Alex in his thoughts, he ruminated over the preparations he’d made for the impending journey to Kent.
On the afternoon that he and Alex had agreed on the terms of their arrangement, Benedict paid a visit to Madame Hershaw’s dress shop in Cavendish Square. Taking care to use a hat and muffler to conceal his identity, he entered through a door off the back alley, coming upon the modiste as she exited her office. The woman burst into tears at the sight of Benedict, blubbering apologies between hiccups and sobs.
“It’s all right,” he crooned, pulling her into his arms and patting her quivering back. “You had no choice. I don’t blame you.”
“That venomous shrew of a woman!” Madame Hershaw wailed, pounding a tiny fist against his chest. “She threatened me and my girls. This shop is our livelihood, Mr. Sterling. We’d all starve without it.”
“I know. Don’t worry about it a moment longer. The Gossip and I