Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Toby
Another day, another ceremonial event. After our time in the wilderness, all the traditions I’ve accepted for years feel trivial and meaningless.
This time, it’s the Lord Mayor’s Banquet.
It’s held every year to celebrate the newly elected Lord Mayor of the City of London, a ceremonial position that dates back centuries.
The banquet is a glittering affair, filled with dignitaries, politicians, and business leaders, all dressed to the nines and ready to schmooze.
We are the leaders, dining in splendor while out in the city of almost ten million there are people who are hungry and cold.
I now know intimately what it’s like to be hungry and cold. And I will do everything I can to prevent my constituents from experiencing that.
The opulent Guildhall is always the venue for the Lord Mayor’s Banquet. It is situated on the north bank of the Thames, which has, for two millennia, had to absorb the filth of humanity. It’s quite a contrast to the pristine streams and lakes in Finland.
Long banquet tables fill the entire hall. I’m seated next to Prince Callum and Oliver, which I’m sure involved Oliver pulling some strings, but I don’t complain. At least with Oliver and Callum, I can be real. I’m exhausted from keeping up the facade that everything is fine and dandy.
Because everything is not fine and dandy with me right now.
This world that used to be so familiar to me now feels so strange. The chatting people, the extravagant floral arrangements, the clink of champagne flutes toasting to prosperity—it all feels hollow.
As if some essential part of me is missing.
I’m trying to keep my distance from Harry. I managed to restrain myself from reaching out to him after the Paul revelation, but it took all my self-control. I’ve constantly had to remind myself why this thing with Harry can’t continue.
I send a glance at Harry now. Is he as conflicted about this as I am?
But, of course, Harry looks completely composed. He’s even more impeccably handsome than normal in a black tailcoat and high-waisted black trousers, sitting with his father and mother and some members of the House of Lords.
It’s a reminder of exactly who Harry is. He’s the leader of the Conservative Party, but he’s also part of the aristocracy. He represents everything I’ve spent my career fighting against.
Luckily, it appears Callum has recently been reading about the history of Guildhall, so I can manage to keep my gaze away from Harry and focus on his interesting facts.
I’ve been here for so many events over the years but had no idea that it has been the center of the City of London’s governance since the twelfth century, and beneath the Guildhall yard lies the remains of London’s Roman amphitheater.
“And, of course, Guildhall was also the site of the trial of Lady Jane Grey, often known as the Nine Days Queen,” Callum tells me.
All Callum is doing is reinforcing how much I’ve forgotten since my History A-Levels.
“She was only Queen for nine days?” I ask.
“Yes. She succeeded her cousin Edward VI. He’d designated her his heir to try to prevent his half-sister Mary Tudor from ascending the throne because she was Catholic,” Callum says.
He takes a sip of wine, his gaze sweeping across the grand hall as if imagining the trial that took place here centuries ago.
“I feel kind of sorry for Jane, actually. She was forced to accept the throne by her conspiring father and father-in-law, knowing that most of the country supported Mary Tudor as the true heir. And sure enough, Mary amassed support and marched into London to depose Jane. Jane was tried for high treason here and then executed at the Tower of London when she was only sixteen.”
I blink at the brutal ending of Callum’s story. It’s a good reminder of how British politics have always been ruthless.
After dinner is finished, it’s time for the speeches.
The Lord Mayor speaks first about London and the global importance of our city.
Then, the prime minister stands to speak, talking about the need for resilience and adaptability in an ever-changing world.
Despite her polished delivery, Rosalia doesn’t have the same charisma and charm Oliver always had when giving a speech.
Oliver, who gave all this up for Callum.
Applause breaks out once the prime minister finishes speaking.
“Do you miss this?” I ask Oliver in an undertone.
“Sometimes,” he says. Then he glances over at Callum, who is reading the notes he jotted down on a napkin while the Lord Mayor and the prime minister spoke, and it’s impossible to miss the affection in Oliver’s eyes.
“But I couldn’t have both, and there has never been a single day I’ve regretted my choice. ”
Even though I’ve been restrained so far tonight, I can’t help glancing at Harry, my gaze snaring on him.
Could I make a similar decision? Give up politics for Harry like Oliver gave it up for Callum?
But even if I gave up politics, Harry and I still couldn’t be together. And would there be enough of me left for Harry to love if I gave up my career?
But the fact that the thought entered my head at all disturbs me. Who says Harry loves me?
Like he senses my eyes on him, Harry jerks his head up to my gaze.
Our gazes lock together, and an electric current surges through my body. The bustling banquet hall fades, and it’s just the two of us locked in a silent conversation.
For the first time this evening, my feeling of disorientation fades. Harry’s gaze anchors me.
Emotions well inside me, tightening my chest to the point I can’t breathe.
Oh my God, I miss him so much.
I would almost give up everything, all the trappings of civilization, food security, my guarantee of personal safety, if it meant I could be back in a remote cabin with him.
Crazily, it’s talking to him I miss the most. Along with that feeling I’d gotten used to, that idea I had someone else on my team, someone I could always rely on.
Now I’m back to being a lone wolf. And I don’t like it at all.
Harry and I stare at each other for an inordinate amount of time before he quirks one eyebrow infinitesimally.
I know exactly what that look means, and my face, my whole body, flushes in response.
I don’t know what he’s got planned, but if it means I get to talk to him, touch him, then I’m totally on board. Despite all my logic, all my vows, if Harry wants me, there is no way I can deny him.
I give him a barely-there eyebrow raise in response.
Harry stands, pushing his chair back neatly from his table, and begins to make his way towards an exit.
I wait for a heartbeat. Two. Three. Then I’m standing, placing my napkin down gently on the table.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, I’m just going to find the loo,” I say.
My heart pounds as I navigate through the throng of guests, politely nodding and smiling at acquaintances. I try to keep my steps measured and unhurried despite the anticipation thrumming through my veins.
Harry’s walking a few feet in front of me, his tailcoat accentuating the broad expanse of his shoulders and the trim lines of his waist. His strides are confident and purposeful as if he knows exactly where he’s going and what he wants.
The elegance of his movements belies the tension I know simmers just beneath the surface.
It thrills me to know the pent-up passion underneath his public propriety.
I follow at a discreet pace behind him.
Guildhall is a complex place of hallways and hidden alcoves. As I follow Harry deeper into the depths of the building, the sounds of the banquet fade away.
“Mr. Matheson?” It’s Harry’s new bodyguard, a burly man with a stern expression and a no-nonsense attitude. He eyes me suspiciously, clearly not thrilled about the prospect of his charge slipping away from the main event with a political rival.
“Mr. Webley and I need to engage in a brief, confidential conversation,” Harry says in his aloof tone. “I would be most grateful if you could prevent anyone from disturbing us.”
His bodyguard nods.
My heart thuds as I follow Harry into the library. It’s a beautiful hall in its own right, with columns and high vaulted ceilings.
Harry leads me to a column where an ornate screen will shield us in case anyone else stumbles in here.
“Toby,” he says.
I can’t help the smile on my face. “Harry.”
He moves forward, and I catch a whiff of his aftershave before he kisses me.
The kiss starts off sweet and gentle, more of a hello than anything. But then it deepens so quickly my head spins. Harry and I have always been like sparks and paracord, and it appears nothing will ever change that.
The kiss turns frantic, a clash of teeth and tongues. I pour every ounce of my longing and frustration into the kiss, all the words unspoken between us, the complete and utter agony I feel about the fact we can’t be together.
Harry finally wrenches his mouth from mine.
“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” he says, his breath hot against my skin, even as his hands continue to roam over my body as if he can’t bear to not touch me.
“I know,” I agree as I kiss down his neck, the gentle, soft butterfly kisses I know melt him into a pile of goo.
“Toby,” he moans.
“What? I’m agreeing with you for once. You should be relishing the novelty.”
“Your actions and your words seem in slight contradiction to each other,” he pants. “Which I guess is typical for a Labour politician.”
It’s time to stop him from being able to speak. And I know my favorite way to render Harry Matheson inarticulate.
I drop to my knees, then look up to check it’s all right. Harry cups my face with his hand, and I take that as permission to tug on his trousers.