Staring up at the ceiling, Benedict grinned and decided that if it wasn’t enough, he’d happily pummel every boy in this house. If that was the way to build a reputation as someone to be feared, then so be it. They would never dig deep enough to unearth what it was that made Benedict so unlike them if they feared him. Their avoidance of him and his fists would keep him safe.
Chapter 1
London, 1820
22 years later…
As Lord Alexander Osborne, Earl of Vautrey, descended into the underbelly of a public house known as The White Cock, he couldn’t help but wonder just what he had landed himself in. Upon leaving Kent for London with one singular mission in mind, he never supposed he might find himself slinking into darkened basements reeking of sweat, blood, and ale, filled with the cacophony of men’s roaring voices. He was a peer of the realm, not some rowdy young pup fresh from university. His days of occupying such spaces in search of a thrill were far behind him.
However, his determination couldn’t be assuaged from the matter at hand. Nearly four years ago, he had made the worst mistake of his life and intended to correct it. There was nothing he wouldn’t do, no place he wouldn’t go, no lengths he would avoid to win back the love of his life. If lowering himself to attending illegal bare-knuckle brawls in public house basements brought him closer to his goal, so be it.
Alex shouldered his way through the sea of bodies surrounding the spectacle taking place in the center of the bare, dimly-lit basement. Everyone shifted to allow him through, his height and breadth of shoulders showing a physical advantage over those who dared block his path, and his immaculate mode of dress denoting someone of importance. The crowd represented a hodgepodge of people from every level of the social hierarchy—tradesmen and factory workers standing shoulder-to-shoulder with gentlemen of means. The occasional woman could be found here and there—Haymarket whores and bedraggled laundresses a sharp contrast to the well-dressed ladies clinging to their gentlemen and eying the brawl with wide-eyed fascination.
The White Cock’s position outside London kept them safe from discovery, as well as scrutiny. This was not the orderly tradition of a legitimate pugilist match; this was a melee, plain and simple, with the potential for only one man to come out on top. And anyone who was anyone already knew who that man would be.
Alex spotted said man, his bright blond head standing out like a beacon. Alex’s breath caught in his chest, and despite wishing to be anywhere but here, he was completely captivated. Grime and sweat covered a broad, naked back rippling with powerful muscles, and tufts of unruly, overlong hair swept the thick column of his neck. Sinews in his arms bulged and stretched taut as he threw powerful blows at the opponent before him with massive fists. The clearing amid the crowd was filled with brawling men, each fighting to be the one still on his feet when the dust cleared.
A cheer went up from the crowd when one of the competitors fell beneath the ferocity of the blond beast, out cold. Stumbling past three men grappling with one another for dominance, the beast accepted a small pint offered to him by a man standing on the fringes of the audience. Alex watched in disbelief as half the bottle was drained in a few gulps, then tossed carelessly aside. Sucking in his breath, Alex nearly bellowed a warning just before a stodgy man brought his joined fists down across the blond man’s broad, naked back. With an annoyed snarl he whirled, bringing his knee up between the other man’s legs, then throwing him to his back with a quick uppercut. As the attacker went down, Alex was graced with the full potency of Benedict Sterling.
Hair fallen into his eyes and lips peeled back into a feral sneer, he was alluring in his ferocity, as magnetic as he was frightening. There was so little of the young man Alex had befriended at Eton, though some things about him would never change. He was larger than before, wider through the shoulders with slabs of muscle bulging in his chest. The changes of time made him seem like some otherworldly creature —an avenging archangel breathing fire, smoke, and ash. Alex couldn’t look away, hypnotized by the display of raw power as Ben tore through every man who stepped into his path with powerful right hooks and sharp uppercuts, his knuckles red and raw.
This was the same man who had pummeled every lad at Eton who dared to cross him, who’d learned that the skill of his fists could earn him the money to better his circumstances.
When Alex had been moved into Dame Culpepper’s house in place of Lionel Blackburn, Ben became one of his roommates. It hadn’t taken him long to realize why the change had been made. Lionel was seen sporting a swollen eye and broken nose, and Ben looked no better. What Alex had not expected was to watch Ben beat nearly every other boy under Dame Culpepper’s roof over the subsequent fortnight.
One would think such mercilessness would be enough to warn other boys away, yet Alex had observed an opposite effect. Every lad seemed compelled to test their mettle against Ben, only to be sent limping away with bloodied lips and blackened eyes. Seeing this as an opportunity of sorts, Ben had begun placing bets on his own fights, which prompted others to do the same. By the middle of the following term, Ben had decked out his corner of their room with the comforts afforded by his winnings, and Saturday night fights became regular events.
Ben endured the harsh punishments of the headmaster without flinching. He’d thrown the scathing letters of his father into the fire before continuing as he pleased. He had always struck Alex as such a compelling figure—alone and willing to take on the entire world in a fight.
Alex wanted to believe that nothing had changed—Ben was as determined and independent as ever. Only, anyone who knew Ben well could see how time had altered him. There was an unrelenting hardness to him now, one that had obliterated any trace of vulnerability.
It was all Alex’s fault; he knew that. He had done this to Ben with his cowardice and fear. This drunken man staggering about the basement of a public house as the crowd egged him on was not the one Alex had come to love all those years ago. Yet, he was unshaken in his determination. As long as there was breath in his body, Alex would fight for what he wanted. And what he wanted was Ben, for the rest of his life. The parts of Ben that had called to him in their youth were still there. Alex could see them as clearly as he could Ben’s blue eyes and white-gold hair. It was those things Alex would have to appeal to if he wanted to gain back what he’d lost—Ben’s hidden vulnerability, his courage, his strength.
There was only one problem, and it made itself apparent as Ben delivered a final blow to the last man standing, claiming his victory. As he stood over the poor, unconscious lout at his feet, Ben raised his head and caught Alex’s gaze. The impact of fiery, bright blue eyes stabbed through him like a heated fireplace poker. Those sapphire depths glittered with malice and disdain, and years’ worth of secrets held between them. Alex suppressed a shudder in the face of a truth he could no longer run from.
Alex still loved him as much as ever—had never stopped loving him—yet there was nothing in Ben’s eyes now but hatred.
And rightfully so.
Raising his chin, Alex returned Ben’s stare without flinching. He had weapons of his own in this battle of wills, and didn’t intend to back down.
Ben’s nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched and undulated as if he ground his teeth. A ripple of desire overwhelmed Alex, even now, in this undesirable place. But Ben was here, and that made Alex content to remain, no matter how unwanted he might be. If he had his way, the icy tension between them would soon abate, and the wounds of the past could be healed.