Chapter Seven
Bobby
“You are being an absolute bore, you know,” Prince says, placing a fresh drink down in front of Bobby where he’s collapsed
into an armchair in the back corner by the window.
“Yes, well, perhaps it’s this dreary party you’ve thrown,” Bobby says, enjoying the burn of whisky down his throat.
He looks around the room at the motley collection of school friends, heirs, and spares Prince has assembled for the evening.
It’s a slapdash, after-the-fact engagement celebration, and, for reasons unknown to Bobby, Prince is holding it in the back
room of his townhouse, rather than, oh, absolutely anywhere else.
There’s nowhere to hide back here, in Prince’s father’s overlarge sitting room, filled with stuffy chairs and card tables.
In a different situation, Bobby might have found a good book to read among the hundreds of leather tomes that line the walls,
but it’s far too noisy for that.
All of the chaps clustered around the room were a year above Bobby in school. None of their mutual D’Vere crowd is in attendance
either. And of course, Albie isn’t here. He and Uncle Dashiell are working all night, consolidating their research on the
Medical Act. But Albie insisted Bobby attend Prince’s party. One of them had to show up.
“Cheer up,” Prince cajoles. “You’re among friends.”
“Your friends,” Bobby grouses, hoping it sounds playful.
By Prince’s frown, he doesn’t quite succeed. “Do we need to get you laid?” Prince asks.
He barely manages to keep from snorting whisky through his nose. “Hardly likely among this lot,” Bobby coughs out.
Prince looks about the room. “Touché. Then later this week. We’ll give Parker a call. Unless you’d be willing to let Catherine
set you up.”
Bobby looks over at Prince and plunks his glass down onto the side table. “Do you really think your fiancée can solve this
problem?”
“She knows many lovely young ladies,” Prince defends.
“If the object is to get me laid, that is not the way to go about it,” Bobby says.
“Ah, right, their virtue. Well, I’m sure she knows some women outside of the ton too.”
Bobby stares at Prince. It’s not their virtue he’s concerned with, though of course he would never try to take anyone’s. “Prince.”
“She does know an opera singer, I think. Or perhaps she’s a dancer? I can never keep up, active social life and all.”
“I am not interested in an opera singer, or a dancer,” Bobby says, watching as Prince continues to ponder. “Prince,” he says,
waiting until the man meets his eyes. “I am not... like you.”
Prince considers him. “Open to love?”
“Not the way you’ve found it, no, I don’t think,” Bobby says. “Honestly, I’m surprised you have,” he adds softly, glancing
around. They’re in the back corner and no one’s paying them any attention.
He wants to understand how Prince went from frequenting Parker’s club every night to happily engaged.
“I didn’t think I would either, really,” Prince says with a shrug. “But I met Catherine and that was it.”
“And it didn’t matter that she wasn’t... like your other lovers?” Bobby asks, afraid even with their relative seclusion to say it too plainly.
“Not at all,” Prince says easily. “Feels the same. Actually, it feels better. I’ve never loved anyone like I love Catherine.”
“Oh,” Bobby says, forcing a smile.
“It doesn’t matter, to me,” Prince adds, seeming to see through Bobby’s curiosity. “I thought it did, for a while, but Catherine
was the exception. Or maybe I just hadn’t met the right girls before. I don’t know. I feel just as passionate about Catherine
when I’m with her as I ever did with any of the... others.”
Bobby looks down into his drink. Is it just a matter of meeting the right woman? He doesn’t think so. If it were, surely he’d
have felt a stirring in his gut, a tightness, a something , when looking at the most beautiful girls of the season. Surely dancing with them would have felt like more .
He doesn’t know how to ask the question. It feels embarrassing, like laying his heart onto the center of the low table for
Prince to see. And especially given that Prince has seen everything else he has to offer, and clearly it didn’t stir nearly
as much in him as MissLangston does, Bobby’s not sure he could take further scrutiny.
“But that’s just me,” Prince says.
Bobby blinks and looks up from his drink to meet Prince’s knowing gaze. “Sorry?”
“Plenty of chaps have told me they couldn’t do it. Or could only marry a woman with the mutual understanding it would be a
marriage in name only.”
“Oh,” Bobby says, feeling his chest unclench just a little. Perhaps it’s not just him, then.
“Demeroven said as much, actually. Did I tell you he’s coming to the stag night?”
“The stag night?” Bobby asks, feeling the words like a jab to the ribs. Prince asked Demeroven before him?
Prince asked Demeroven to attend his stag night?
“Blast. My apologies, old boy, I guess I took it as a given you’d be there. Just over a month, the twelfth of June, night
before the wedding. Cunningham’s supposed to be planning it with you, actually. Bugger, man, I’m sorry.”
Bobby waves him off, mollified by Prince’s polite horror. “Excellent, Cunningham throws a wonderful shindig. Much better than
this sorry affair. Where is he, anyway?”
“Here they are now,” Prince says, nodding toward the door before he stands and makes his way across the room.
Bobby watches him go. Watches as he greets Cunningham, Demeroven stepping in behind him, all of them jovial and bright. Bobby
downs the rest of his drink. Not only will Demeroven ruin Prince’s party for him, but now he’s here cavorting with Prince
and Cunningham—stealing them from Bobby, more like.
He fiddles with his signet ring. It feels like his limbs might jitter themselves right off his body. He’s not going to let
Demeroven get to him like this. He doesn’t owe the man anything, and Demeroven doesn’t owe him anything either. Clearly, if
his words at the tea party last week were any measure. They don’t have to like each other at all. Nor spend any time together,
Bobby decides.
He stands, determined to find a group of people to talk to, but he hasn’t taken two steps when Cunningham grabs his arm.
“Ah, Mason, excellent. We need a fourth for whist.”
Bobby grimaces, but doesn’t pull out of his hold. It’s one thing for him and Demeroven to behave like cavemen in front of
Beth and Gwen. But he can’t be that rude in front of Prince when he’s invited them both to the stag night.
And so he finds himself seated beside Demeroven at Prince’s small card table, watching Demeroven expertly shuffle the deck. He looks at ease now in an open collar, suspenders, and a loose frock coat. Nothing like the tightly wound prick he traded insults with last week.
Which is a problem, because he looks sodding good like this too. If the man was just atrocious to look at, Bobby might not
feel so twisted up. But those damn blue eyes peer up at him and he feels his chest tighten against his will.
“Are you a better whist player than a badminton player?” Demeroven asks, eyes bright, a smile playing at his lips.
Handsome or not, Bobby’s not quite ready to make nice. “In a fair game, absolutely.”
“Oh, was there dirty badminton at the Steton do? Thought I saw you on the courts,” Cunningham says. “What am I saying? Of
course there was. Your cousin was there, wasn’t she, Mason?”
Bobby looks over at Cunningham. “Lady Gwen?”
“She plays like a demon,” Prince puts in. “Beats the pants off everyone.”
“Actually, MissBertram and I beat Lady Gwen and Mason,” Demeroven says as he begins dealing out the cards.
“Really?” Prince asks, glancing at Bobby in surprise. “No one ever beats Lady Gwen.”
“Honestly, it’s MissBertram you should really be watching out for,” Bobby says. “Demeroven skated by on her prowess.”
“I’d hardly say I skated,” Demeroven says, flipping the final card. “Trump is spades, gentlemen,” he says, gesturing for everyone
to take their cards. “I believe my cousin and I are simply a team well suited.”
“Suited, he’s funny,” Cunningham says.
Bobby turns the first trick, playing his two of diamonds. He tries to ignore Demeroven fidgeting beside him.
“Always was a cutup on the sculls,” Prince says.
“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Bobby says, hearing the snide edge to his voice as Prince plays a five of diamonds on his two.
It bothers him that Prince seems to know only the funny, charming version of Demeroven Bobby’s briefly seen in flashes.
“Yes, well, you are fond of assumptions, aren’t you?” Demeroven replies. “Isn’t he?” he adds to Cunningham.
“I suppose,” Cunningham says, glancing at Prince’s five and then at his own hand.
“Oh, stop stalling and play, Cunningham,” Prince says, exasperated. “He always does this,” he adds for Demeroven’s sake.
It’s why Bobby loves a hand of whist with Cunningham. Gives you enough time for a few sips, and Cunningham’s lethargy always
allows Bobby to recall the suits. Unfortunately, it seems the same goes for Demeroven, who’s lightning fast to lay down a
ten of diamonds on Cunningham’s six of clubs.
“I was thinking we’d make the stag night a pub crawl, complete with hats,” Cunningham says, winking at Prince.
“Hats,” Bobby repeats.
“Gaudy ones,” Cunningham says brightly. “Not quite sure where to get them, but we could even have letters sewn on in honor
of Prince’s stag night.”
“I don’t think we should have any identification on us if it’s to be a pub crawl,” Prince says while Bobby hesitates to lay
down his next card. He has a jack, but has the sneaking suspicion that Demeroven has a king.
“My mother has found a most garish modiste. I’m sure I could persuade her to make them for us if I go in at an off hour,”
Demeroven says.
“Perfect,” Cunningham says.
“When would you have time to visit a modiste for personal ized hats?” Bobby wonders, watching Prince mull over his next hand.
They’re a contemplative batch of card players, and he can tell it’s starting to grate on Demeroven.
“I’ll go when parliament’s in session, at high tea time,” Demeroven says, tossing an ace down on top of Cunningham’s triumphantly
played king. Blast.
“You’re going to skip a parliamentary session for hats?” Bobby asks, indignant.
Demeroven shrugs as he gathers the trick. “There’ll be another.”
“Yes, another,” Cunningham says, glomming on to the last word, as is his habit when he’s not really listening. He grabs his
empty glass. “Prince, help me get the next round.”
Prince holds up a finger to pause their game before following Cunningham back toward the kitchen. Demeroven sighs gustily.
“Why are you here?” Bobby asks, the whisky and his general dour mood leaving his tongue loose and emotions high.
“I beg your pardon?” Demeroven turns to look at him, the two of them sitting close at the far side of the table, pressed up
to the wall.
“You should be at Uncle Dashiell’s tonight with Albie, working. And instead, you’re here, planning hat nonsense.”
This close, he’s scruffier than Bobby realized, like he hasn’t shaved in about a day, his eyes slightly bloodshot. “You seem
to think my entire life has to revolve around preparations for parliamentary sessions, as if most of the lords don’t spend
the entire season drunk or coughing up smoke.”
“And you’re fine with that,” Bobby deduces. “The elder lords don’t care, so why should you? All that power, all that money, all that social capital just thrust under your nose and you’re happy to let it slip through your fingers because it’s too much work?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Demeroven says, his voice a few degrees cooler.
“I know you’re squandering the biggest opportunity—a position most men would kill for. A position your cousin and her mother
almost ended up on the street for. And you’re going to piss it away. Coast by on the title you were handed and make nothing
of yourself.”
Demeroven stares at him, his eyes now wide, face curiously blank. It makes Bobby even angrier. “Don’t act like you don’t understand,”
he hisses. “You’re smarter than that.”
“ You don’t understand,” Demeroven says, glaring at Bobby before something over Bobby’s shoulder catches his eye.
Bobby turns his head, but can’t see anything or anyone, and by the time he’s turned back, Demeroven’s face has settled into
that impenetrable mask again.
“You’ll never have the kind of responsibility that’s been foisted on me, so I suggest you stop telling me how to live my life
as if you have any idea what you’re talking about before you further embarrass yourself, or your family. Excuse me.”
Bobby sits there gaping as Demeroven mechanically stands and walks straight out of the party, like a man possessed by a detached
ghost. Bobby stares after him, rage simmering in his chest. The man keeps getting the last word by fleeing. And still, somehow,
he’s coming out on top every time.
Bobby tosses his cards into the center of the table. He needs a way to forget these wretched weeks. Needs to drown his discontent
until he can barely feel it. Until the image of Demeroven’s wide eyes fades from his mind.
Forget whatever Uncle Dashiell and Beth want from him. He won’t spend more time on a newly titled viscount who’s willing to throw away his power because it’s slightly inconvenient.
Bobby marches determinedly toward the kitchen, where Prince has his valet tending bar. In his haste, he nearly collides with
Lord Raverson in the hallway.
“In a hurry?” Raverson asks.
Bobby tilts on his feet. Perhaps he doesn’t need that third drink after all. “My apologies, Lord Raverson,” Bobby says, hoping
he sounds more composed than he feels. “And no, just headed for the bar, actually. How are you?” he adds, trying to muster
up the polite disinterest a man of Raverson’s station deserves. Though in truth, since his arrival last season, from the little
Bobby’s heard, Raverson’s making rather a name for himself within the community. If the rumors are true, he’s already slept
with a number of Parker’s clientele.
Bobby can’t blame them. Raverson’s striking dark eyes and chiseled jaw would be temptation enough even without the title and
all the money that comes with it. The Raverson estate doesn’t bring in an immense income, but Raverson’s always flush with
cash, talking up investments and dividends each time Bobby’s been within earshot at the club. And now he’s here, and looking
at Bobby with distinct interest.
Bafflingly, Bobby thinks for a moment of Demeroven’s eyes, softer and deeper and more mysterious than the blatant want in
Raverson’s. But he shakes himself. He’s not going to give Demeroven another second’s thought tonight.
“I’m well, I’m well. Saw you were talking to Demeroven earlier. Piece of work, isn’t he?”
Bobby blinks. So much for his mental fortitude. “I... suppose.”
“Hardly worth the effort if you were looking to bark up that particular tree,” Raverson continues.
“I, ah, well...” Bobby stammers, unsure how to react to Raverson so blatantly discussing not just his proclivities, but in reference to Demeroven, of all people.
“I found him... trifling, at best,” Raverson says.
“You did?” Bobby asks, his throat dry, whether from the smoldering look Raverson’s giving him or the shock of Raverson mentioning
his... whatever Demeroven is to him.
Raverson inches closer. “Though it was a few years ago. He could have progressed, gained some more experience.”
His hand lands next to Bobby’s head against the wall Bobby’s suddenly backed into. Raverson smiles at him, dark hair swooshed
across his forehead, eyes glinting, teeth white and bright.
Something dangerous and wild simmers in Bobby’s gut. He knows he should walk away. Raverson’s already exhibited more than
one danger sign, discussing things so openly here in the hallway, and worse, sharing the intimate details of another man.
But at the same time, that edge, and his smile, and his free-spirited openness are appealing.
If Bobby were looking for something to distract him, something to topple headfirst into, well, Raverson just might be it.
“And are you more... experienced?” Bobby hears himself ask, his voice deep and husky.
Raverson smiles slyly, his cheeks dimpling in a devastatingly handsome way. He leans forward, putting his lips close enough
to Bobby’s ear that he can feel his breath. “Experienced enough to notice the bulge in your trousers.”
Bobby slips a little against the wall. “Fuck,” he mutters.
“That is the idea. There’s a closet back this way, if you’re looking for something to do.”
“Or someone?” Bobby asks as Raverson pulls back.
Raverson’s smile stretches. “I like you, Mason.”
Bobby lets out a slightly strangled laugh and finds himself following Raverson down the hall and further into the servants’ quarters. And though he knows it’s reckless, he lets Raverson pull him into the closet—loses himself in the tug and gasp and heat of a clandestine encounter.
He doesn’t think about Demeroven at all, except to note that it’s poetic that a man who found Demeroven a disappointment could
take such pride in melting Bobby into a puddle of want.