You’re the Problem, It’s You (Mischief & Matchmaking #2)

Chapter One

April 1858

Bobby

They haven’t invented a liquor strong enough to counteract the absolute banality of an opening-night ball. Bobby Mason stares

down into his drink, listening to his brother, Albie, and their friend Lord Cunningham recite a list of debutantes at a rapid-fire

pace, all the names swirling into a light buzz. Bobby’s not sure how Albie has managed to keep track of this many girls, living

up north all year. Perhaps this is what Meredith discusses when they’re spending long, loving evenings together.

Guilt overtakes him. He shouldn’t think ill of his new sister-in-law, stuck in the country and unable to travel because she’s

expecting and poorly. If he’s being honest, Albie’s always the one bringing up engagement gossip, not Meredith. Meredith’s

a delight. This unending conversation is a pain.

“But I wouldn’t put any money on the Steton-Johnson merger,” Cunningham says, his slightly nasal voice cutting into Bobby’s

brooding.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Albie says, chuckling as Cunningham rolls his eyes. “Lady Annabeth goes after what she wants. She

already had ten scions last I checked.”

“Damn, already?” Bobby grumbles as he looks down at his own Spot-the-Scion card. He’s only managed to spot seven society sons, four of whom include himself, Albie, Cunningham, and his cousin Gwen’s partner Beth’s cousin Lord James Demeroven.

Bobby glances at Demeroven and finds him staring down into his own glass, narrow shoulders high. Cunningham’s apparently betrothed

to a nice girl up in the country, so he has no need to make a match this season—the poor lucky sod. But Demeroven, with his

new title, will need to think about settling down. Bobby is sure Beth’s terrible uncle is eager for Demeroven to pop out an

heir.

Of course, that’s not a unique perspective in this room. Bobby looks out at the sea of debutantes, mothers, and eligible scions

in the immaculate ballroom. It’s all swirls of soft pastels, tails, and glittering jewels.

Oh, and there’s Mr.Yokely, Lord Yokely’s younger brother. “Eight,” Bobby mumbles. He fishes the small pencil Gwen passed

him earlier out of his pocket to mark his Spot-the-Scion card. He’s doing pretty well for having spent the first hour dancing

with Beth—another ten eligible sons spotted and he might have a chance at winning.

“You got another?” Albie asks, leaning up to see his card. Bobby’s got inches on his older brother now. It’s still strange

to be able to look down at Albie’s light brown hair.

“Not much else to do,” Bobby offers with a shrug. He does so love his cousin and Beth for coming up with something to keep them occupied.

He really should be trying harder. Beth said that betting rights and gains at the Ascot races would go to the winner of their society sons tournament this year. He’s not sure if that prize is just among the extended family, as they are, or if it includes Beth and Gwen’s young lady friends too. If so, he’s doomed. He can never remember enough of the various heirs to fill out a whole card, and they’ve added the spares this year too. At least the girls get twirled around the room, giving them a better vantage point to scope out the myriad progeny of the ton.

He notices Albie marking something down on his card. “How many do you have?”

“Fifteen,” Albie says, brown eyes twinkling.

Bobby groans. “Demeroven, how are you doing?” he asks, wanting to feel at least a little better about his terrible way with

faces and names.

Demeroven looks up, his piercing blue eyes darting about to figure out who addressed him. He looks so uncomfortable. “Um,

four?”

“Just us, then?” Albie asks, not unkindly.

“Yes,” Demeroven says, sheepish.

“Well, that won’t do,” Cunningham says, his round cheeks dimpling with a slightly evil smirk. “We’ll have to get both of you

lads dancing, then, won’t we?”

“Oh no. No, no,” Bobby says, trying to back away. Albie grabs him about the shoulders, laughing at his expense. “I don’t dance.”

“You danced with Beth,” Albie counters.

“Beth is different,” he says hastily. “She doesn’t step on my toes.”

“I’m sure there are any number of lovely young ladies who can manage a simple waltz without injuring you,” Albie says, his

grip tightening. “What about—”

“Demeroven’s the one who should dance,” Bobby says desperately, wincing as Demeroven’s head snaps up, a lock of sandy-brown

hair falling into those harried blue eyes. “He’s new. He needs to meet new people.”

“I couldn’t, really. I’m sure there must be— Oh, Lord Havenfort,” Demeroven says, turning with a relieved smile as Bobby and Albie’s uncle approaches them. Bobby thinks he hears Demeroven add a muttered “Thank Christ.”

“Gentlemen,” Uncle Dashiell greets, smiling down at all of them. Dashiell Frederic Bertram, Earl of Havenfort, is almost a

head taller than most of the men in the room and, with his striking blond hair and features, draws every eye his way everywhere

he goes.

Honestly, if Bobby’s cousin Gwen wanted to find a husband, she wouldn’t have trouble. She got all of her looks from her father—statuesque, blond, and instantly captivating.

Now, if Bobby could only spot her and her partner, Beth, in the crowd...

“Bobby, would you mind terribly if I stole Albert, James, and Lord Cunningham away? There are several members of our party

I’d like you all to meet,” Uncle Dashiell says.

And how can Bobby do anything but nod and smile, watching as his only protection, such as they were, is shepherded away to

more important matters? He supposes it wouldn’t occur to any of them to invite him along. He’s of no political import, after

all. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be interested.

Bobby sighs and swigs the rest of his drink, staring out at the ball. Albie’s running the estate. Albie’s taking their late

father’s seat in parliament. Albie’s doing everything important. All that’s left for Bobby is the social season. He’s meant

to be making a good impression for the family name, but he’d rather be absolutely anywhere else.

He turns and strides back to the drink station to slug back another whisky. But the burn of the alcohol against his tongue

turns his stomach and he only drinks half the dram before placing it back on the table. The doctor wasn’t positive it was

the drink that killed their father, but it certainly didn’t help.

The thought curdles in Bobby’s throat and he turns to search some more for Beth and Gwen. He doesn’t want to think about his wretched father tonight. Nor the mess he left for Albie to clean up.

He just wants to hide away with his cousin and Beth. Let himself be buoyed by their happiness. Neither Gwen nor Beth needs

to think about finding a husband. Uncle Dashiell and his new aunt Cordelia, Beth’s mother, have made it quite clear they’d

be happy to have Beth and Gwen under their roof, protected and insulated against the ton forever. Two young women, in love,

hiding in plain sight.

If only his father hadn’t been such an absolute brute, perhaps Bobby could have arranged something similar. Ignoring the fact

that he hasn’t yet found a man he’d ever consider settling down with, of course.

But now it’s no longer a possibility. His father is dead. And he’s one carriage accident away from being the reigning Viscount

Mason. He needs another drink, sod what the doctors said about his father.

He turns to make for the drinks table again, but finds his path blocked by a deluge of satin and skirts. Lady... Chiswith

(he thinks) and her daughter have snuck up on him and now stand between him and the sweet relief of alcohol.

“Your father was such a lovely man, Mr. Mason. I know I speak for my husband as well in extending our deepest condolences,”

Lady Chiswith says, her narrow face crinkled in sympathy that makes Bobby itch.

His father was so far in the opposite direction of “a lovely man” that it’s almost comical. “Thank you,” he manages, looking

briefly to Lady Chiswith’s daughter, who’s fanning herself with a blue feather monstrosity.

“MissChiswith would be more than happy to take your mind off your tragic loss, if you feel as though you have enough strength

for dancing,” Lady Chiswith says.

Bobby notices Lady Chiswith’s daughter paling in mortification. He can relate. No need to put them both through misery. “I’m afraid I haven’t the strength,” Bobby says seriously, trying to project Albie’s pleasant, polite smile at the woman. He’s sure it doesn’t come off half so well on his face. “Another time,” he adds, looking at the daughter.

Her shoulders relax and he silently pats himself on the back. He bows and quickly retreats, striding across the room as if

he has somewhere to be. But even with that dance dodged, he sees hungry maternal eyes tracking him from every cluster of attendees.

Like he’s a piece of fresh meat. Which he supposes he is, though he’s hardly a prize.

The second son of a lightly disgraced gambler with an alcohol problem—surely there’s someone better for the many daughters

at the ball tonight. But the wandering, watchful eyes say otherwise, and, oh dear, he needs to find the safety of his cousin

and Beth, now.

He searches for a flash of blond but can’t see Gwen anywhere. Beth’s far too short to find from this far away. He about-faces

again, considering heading out to the small terrace, before he nearly bumps into Demeroven.

The shorter man hovers just outside the hall to the velvet-lined parlor, where many of the gentlemen and parliamentarians

have set up camp for the night, far from the fray. Demeroven should still be inside. Bobby can just see Uncle Dashiell’s head

in the chamber beyond.

Instead, Demeroven has nearly pressed himself back against the wall, blocking Bobby’s more furtive path out to the terrace.

And though he’s not Beth or Gwen, Demeroven is still better than the roving mothers.

“All a little much?” he asks, focusing on Demeroven’s discomfort instead of living in his own.

Demeroven’s head snaps up, those wide blue eyes staring up at him like he’s just appeared out of thin air. “Oh, um, a tad,” he says, his voice stiff.

Bobby nods toward his side and Demeroven moves jerkily so Bobby can slip into the gap between him and the pillar that mostly

blocks them from the rest of the room. Together they watch the swirling dancers. It’s a little quieter here and Bobby lets

himself relax.

He’s been wracking his brain, but he doesn’t remember meeting Demeroven at Oxford, though they were only a year apart. He

thinks he would remember if they’d been introduced. It would be hard to forget Demeroven’s striking gaze, patrician nose,

and the sharp line of his jaw. Though perhaps he’s clenching his teeth?

“Anything good on the agenda, you think?” Bobby asks, gesturing back toward the clustered parliamentarians, hoping to put

him at ease.

Demeroven glances at him before staring back at the floor. “Not really.”

Bobby waits, but the man doesn’t elaborate. “I thought the Medical Act sounded interesting,” Bobby tries again. Anything but

talk of marriage.

Demeroven just shrugs. “It’s all a lot of chatter, really.”

Bobby stares at him, surprised. “My brother says the briefing Uncle Dashiell gave him was rather interesting.”

“I guess,” Demeroven says, looking unconvinced.

Bobby clicks his tongue. If he were about to sit in parliament for the first time, he wouldn’t be dismissing all the upcoming

bills as prattle, but... he’s sure there’s a weight of responsibility that might make it all seem onerous.

He’d rather sit through a hundred boring sessions in the Lords than dance, but fine.

“You know, the Matrimonial Causes Act last year has had a dramatic effect already. Did you see Lady Ashmond earlier? She seems to be much happier as a divorcée.”

“Good for her,” Demeroven says.

Bobby blows out a breath. This is Beth’s cousin. He has to extend him some grace.

“Well, I hope you find an act that piques your interest,” Bobby says, forcing lightness into his voice. “I’d hate to think

you’d be bored to tears all season.”

Demeroven toys with his cuff links, eyes fixed toward the floor. “Every time anyone brings up a point that’s remotely interesting,

somehow the conversation turns to the events for the season and the racing bets. Endless talk of racing bets. How men who

make our laws can be so enthralled with mindless, vulgar gambling, I’ll never know,” he says in a rush.

The man is certainly making it difficult. “Surely there must be something of interest. I hear the games of whist at the club

get rather competitive,” Bobby says.

“I don’t gamble,” Demeroven reiterates.

“You don’t have to gamble to play whist,” Bobby replies, trying not to take it personally. “Uncle Dashiell says you were good

at maths. You must like cards.”

Demeroven shrugs again, shoulders slightly hunched. “I’m decent at whist, but I won’t abide playing for money, not with them,

anyway.”

Bobby watches the way his glance shifts back to the parlor, disdain on his otherwise handsome face. That won’t do. “You’ll

have to get better at pretending.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There’s no way you’ll survive at the clubs with that attitude. Find something, low-stakes games, darts—anything—to make you seem approachable, or you’ll be marked for the season.” Demeroven’s shoulders stiffen and Bobby winces as he tightens his jaw again. “I only meant... Well, you’ll need to find a way to survive at the clubs is all. Connections are important. I could suggest a few clubs that are less... lordly, if you like.”

He starts to say more, but the flat look Demeroven turns his way sours the words in his throat. He was only trying to help , for God’s sake, no need to look at him as if he’s dirt on the man’s shoe.

Still struggling for any way to keep the conversation going, Bobby turns at a touch to his elbow. He wilts in relief to find

Beth at his side, smiling up at him while Gwen offers her hand to Demeroven.

Demeroven nods stiffly at them. “Lady Gwen, Miss Bertram.”

Bobby nearly pushes the man into his cousin’s arms, watching Demeroven sedately escort Gwen onto the floor. They make a striking

couple once they get moving, his lithe build and her tall, stately frame, twirling gracefully. It seems unfair that Demeroven

should be both that attractive and a good dancer, especially when Gwen’s always complaining that Bobby’s dancing skills pale

in comparison to Albie’s. He has gotten better over the last year; she just refuses to acknowledge it.

“You two getting along?” Beth asks, sidling into Demeroven’s empty space.

Bobby looks down at her, rolling his eyes at her eagerness. Always wanting them all to get along, to be happy—dreadfully loving

of her. But he can’t resist her big brown doe eyes. And with her rich brown hair falling in ringlets from her braided bun,

she’s almost angelic.

“He’s... fine,” Bobby lies, looking back at the dance floor. Can’t miss Gwen, her blond hair styled in much the same way,

a head taller than most of the girls, and inches taller than Demeroven, for that matter.

“Do you think you could invite him to visit the clubs with you?” Beth asks.

Bobby turns back to her, eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Well, he doesn’t know anyone. And I remember how lonely I was in the first few weeks of the season. It would be nice for

you to introduce him to a few people, help him make friends.”

Bobby bites his tongue against the honest retort—that most of his friends have up and gotten married, the poor lads. Cunningham

is still about, and Prince, somewhere, though he thinks he’s heard that Prince has gotten engaged too.

“I’m not sure he’d like the clubs I attend,” Bobby says instead. It’s enormously true, but feels safer than baring his own

lonely soul.

It’s not that Beth wouldn’t understand, but she has Gwen. A constant friend, a live-in companion—the love of her blasted life.

And he’s just... second fiddle to his brother, who barely has any time for him anymore.

“I’m sure he’d find them interesting,” Beth counters. “Please? I’d hate to see him fall in with the wrong crowd.”

Bobby sighs. Albie would tell him to do it—help ensure that Demeroven votes with the liberals, sympathetic to Uncle Dashiell’s

positions. Help erase the stain of the previous Viscount Demeroven—Beth’s late, horrible father. A new voice for a new generation.

And if even Beth—who has every reason to resent Demeroven for coming of age, inheriting her late father’s estate, and nearly

leaving her and her mother destitute last season—can find it in her heart to help him, how can Bobby refuse?

He spins the new gold signet ring Meredith got him, engraved with his initials, around on his finger and watches Gwen and Demeroven continue dancing into another set. He supposes showing Demeroven the town wouldn’t be the worst way to spend a season. He’s handsome and learned, even if he seems to be a dour, reticent chap. Bobby has always liked a challenge.

“What do I get if I do this for you?” he asks, looking back at Beth.

“The pride of a job well done and a possibly enduring friendship aren’t enough?” Bobby narrows his eyes and she laughs. “How

about my undying gratitude?”

Bobby huffs, pretending at greater exasperation just to see her eyebrows crease. He so loves riling her up. Almost as fun

as getting Gwen angry.

“Fine.”

“Oh, thank you!” Beth says brightly, wrapping her arm through his. “God, doesn’t she look beautiful?”

He watches her watch Gwen, her eyes wide, a small smile on her face. Doting, in love, besotted.

Gwen’s not the most graceful of the dancers, but there’s something in the confident way she carries herself—and maybe a little

in the way Demeroven is an actually adequate partner. “She does,” he agrees. “And so do you.”

“Oh, don’t bother—Gwen has been laying it on all night.”

“Yes, what a hardship, to be beloved,” he says.

She laughs and squeezes his arm. “Shall we find you someone to sing your praises too?”

Bobby fights a shudder. “No, no, turning Lord Demeroven into the toast of the ton is more than enough of a project this season,

I think.”

Beth hums, giving her attention back to the dancers.

It’s not making laws, or making a difference, but shaping Lord Demeroven into a moderately respectable lord is something , at least.