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The beer arrived quickly. Ranelaw took a deep draft to wash the dust from his throat and tilted his head back against the dark wooden paneling behind him. He wished to hell his thoughts didn’t immediately run to Antonia.
After last night, how could she leave? If she’d attained such a pitch of desire that she gave herself to him, surely she was as much victim to this attraction as he. He’d considered the act a beginning. She obviously believed it was an ending.
Well, he had news for her.
He’d taken his time so far, given her leeway to choose without undue compulsion. By bolting, she changed the game. That and the incomparable pleasure he’d found in her arms.
He’d have her again. Soon.
He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a man slumped over a table across the room. A well-dressed traveler, like Ranelaw, drinking alone.
Something about the shape of his head and his dark curls struck Ranelaw as familiar. The last thing he wanted was a coze with some acquaintance. He was about to glance away when it was too late. The man turned his head and stared straight at Ranelaw.
Johnny Benton. . .
Good God, what a turn-up for the books. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard even a whisper about the coxcomb.
During his short career at Eton, Benton had been a year below him. The season Ranelaw came down from Oxford, Benton had been the toast of the ton. He’d fancied himself a poet. More beautiful than Byron, although sadly nothing like as talented, Benton had broken hearts all over Town and probably beyond. He’d been considered the handsomest man in England. Potteries had struck medallions of his profile. A portrait at the Royal Academy had set off riots. Ranelaw vaguely remembered the fellow hying for the Continent in the footsteps of Byron and Shelley.
Pretending he didn’t recognize the puppy, Ranelaw stared down into his ale. Unfortunately his distinctive coloring meant nobody could mistake his identity.
“Gresham? It is you, isn’t it? By Jove, I don’t believe my eyes.”
With a sinking sensation in his gut, Ranelaw found Benton hovering at his elbow, clutching a brandy and eager as a hound welcoming its master home.
“It’s Ranelaw now,” he said coldly. At school, he’d been known as the Earl of Gresham, one of his father’s junior titles. Calling him Gresham proved how out of touch Benton was.
Benton frowned. “The pater passed on, did he? My condolences.”
“Eight years ago,” Ranelaw said with a lack of emotion he didn’t have to feign.
“I’ve been in Italy.” Without invitation, Benton sat opposite Ranelaw. “Only back a week ago.”
He’d clearly left his manners in Tuscany or wherever he’d been skulking. Ranelaw leaned back, took a mouthful of ale, and observed the fellow.
He seemed . . . less.
He was still too pretty for a man, with his ruffled black locks and Roman profile. But there was a soft edge to his features as if over the years, he’d enjoyed too much food and wine and easy Italian living. The flashing dark eyes, celebrated by society papers and not a few poetesses, were dull and sunken.
Ranelaw wondered briefly if the man fell victim to opium or drink. It must be a good decade since he’d encountered the milksop, but Benton seemed to have aged at least twenty years.
“Going home, are you?” Ranelaw frowned. “Your people are in Devon, aren’t they?”
“Yes. I’m on my way south now.” With an unreadable expression, Benton brooded into his brandy. Fleetingly he looked like the poetical swain who had conquered society ten years ago. “I had . . . business in Northumberland.”
A difficult silence fell. What the devil was the matter with the blockhead? He acted as if his dog had just died.
“Do you want another drink?” Ranelaw asked reluctantly as the maid slid a full plate in front of him.
Benton continued to contemplate his empty glass. “Bring the bottle.”
The girl sent Benton the same flirtatious glance she’d cast Ranelaw. But Benton didn’t even look up as he spoke. She flounced off and returned to slam a full bottle of brandy on the table. Benton refilled his glass with a shaking hand. In his hurry, he slopped some on the table.
Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Ranelaw began to eat. The sooner he got out of here, the better. Benton showed no sign of moving on and was proving even worse company than anticipated. The fellow emptied his glass and filled it again, still with that prodigal clumsiness.
“You’re drunk, man,” Ranelaw said softly.
Benton shook his head and to Ranelaw’s horror, a tear oozed down his cheek. “Not yet. But I will be.” Before Ranelaw could think of anything to say, Benton fixed a bleary gaze on him. “Do you believe in the one?”
