Chapter Eleven
Bobby
Bobby cracks his neck, overwarm and slightly sweaty. There on the inner green of the Ascot racetrack, the sun beats down on
crowds of merry spectators. It’s a sea of hoopskirts, linens, and top hats. This year they’re pressed up to the whitewashed
fence and he feels more claustrophobia than excitement. He squints across the track toward the royal Ascot enclosure and spots
Raverson right away. Hard to miss the man—inches taller than most—but still the sight sends a shiver up his spine.
He goes to spin his signet ring and clenches his fist. He hadn’t realized it was gone until Demeroven told him Raverson had
it. Now he feels its absence keenly, and whatever attraction Bobby felt for Raverson has been replaced with a pulsing, shameful
hatred that has him fidgeting. As much as he wants to pretend Demeroven’s tirade the other night was out of line, Bobby knows
he’s to blame. He entangled himself with the wrong man, and now the whole family will pay the price.
Finally, he has a true purpose for the season, and he wants nothing to do with it. How is he supposed to prevent Raverson
from revealing his secrets? How is he supposed to protect his cousin and Beth? How is he supposed to stand tall, knowing Raverson’s
seen him at his most vulnerable, and has turned that vulnerability into a weapon?
“Miss Wilson wins every game of whist. There’s no way Mrs. Stelm has been, what, holding out for a year?” Beth asks, indignant.
Demeroven sighs beside him and Bobby rolls his shoulders. He loves his cousin and Beth, he really does, but even without his
other preoccupations, they’re a bit much today.
“She’s playing the long game,” Gwen returns. “Lulling them into a false sense of security.”
“And Mrs.Gilpe?” Albie asks, leaning around Beth where they’re all pressed up to the fence.
“Has never been able to beat Mrs.Stelm at whist as long as I’ve known her,” Gwen insists.
Bobby hasn’t figured out quite what to say to Demeroven, even on the slow carriage ride to Ascot. It’s just the five of them;
Uncle Dashiell and Aunt Cordelia stayed in town. Aunt Cordelia is too far along to come with them, and Uncle Dashiell far
too anxious to leave her. Bobby hasn’t spoken with his uncle since... Raverson, but he sent him to Ascot, so that’s something.
Humiliation and shame ripple through him at the thought and Bobby shakes himself, trying to pay attention to the conversation.
“What if it’s in fact Mrs.Gilpe who’s been playing the long game, waiting for the right bet to take you for all you’re worth
and run off with Mrs.Stelm?” Albie goads.
“For my entire life?” Gwen asks. “Oh, now, don’t you side with him too,” she says to Beth, who laughs at her and then leans
around Gwen and Demeroven to catch Bobby’s eye.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“I think you’re letting Gwen distract Albie from the fact that he has yet to place a bet, and it’s going to mean no one gets
any money,” Bobby says, rallying as Albie gapes at Gwen. “You hadn’t put that together yet?” he asks, laughing. Albie glares
over at him.
“I have decided on Gildermire, thank you,” Albie says primly, adjusting his tall top hat. “And I’ll not be talked out of it.”
“Are you sure?” Gwen needles, that lilt in her voice that always means a protracted fight. “Because I think I can convince
you into Fisherman.”
“Fisherman’s lost his last two races.”
All four of them turn to look at Demeroven. His cheek is a livid purple from where it smacked the patio only days earlier,
and the poor man’s been limping all day. Albie keeps looking between them at intervals, as if trying to decide whether or
not Bobby finally hauled off and punched him.
Bobby’s been replaying that moment before Demeroven fell over and over in his head—the terrified look of panic that came over
his face before he toppled backward down the stairs. The sound of him hitting the ground still makes Bobby wince.
“I think Lord Mason’s got it right—Gildermire for sure,” Demeroven continues.
Albie preens and then sticks his tongue out at Gwen, who glowers first at Albie and then toward Demeroven. “Fine. But I want
ancillary bets.”
“That’s not part of the bargain,” Albie says at once. “I won the tournament, I set our Ascot bets—those were your rules.”
“Well, this is boring,” Gwen exclaims loudly.
“I suppose I could go in with you on a small bet for Fisherman if you’d like, Lady Gwen,” Demeroven says. Bobby turns to look
at him, shocked. “What?”
“You don’t bet.”
Demeroven shrugs. “If it will make Lady Gwen happy, I see no reason to withhold.”
“Yes!” Gwen says, her exclamation drawing looks from the attendees around them. “All right, Demeroven, how much are we talking?”
“Well—” Demeroven starts, shifting to stand up tall with a groan. “Given the previous four races—”
“Let’s not,” Beth says, stepping back from the barrier to maneuver herself between Gwen and Demeroven, her face pinched.
“Why not?” Gwen demands, nudging her, which jostles Beth into Demeroven, and Demeroven into Bobby.
Demeroven lets out the smallest ouch and Bobby hesitantly steadies him. Gwen pays them no mind, glaring down at her partner while Beth shakes her head.
“I don’t believe any of us need our reputations tarnished by a loud round of betting. Albert will place the bets today and
we can all simply stand miserably in the sun, all right?”
The group stares at Beth, who looks resolutely across the track, chin held high.
“A good idea,” Albie says after a moment. “Gwen, perhaps you can simply bet against yourself.”
“What fun is that?” Gwen grouses, slumping against the fence.
“Fun that can’t be misconstrued as anything less than innocent,” Beth says.
“I’m sorry.”
Bobby starts, looking down at Demeroven, who’s looking at Beth.
“What?” Beth asks, inelegant and surprised. Even Gwen looks taken aback.
“If you’re refusing to take part in some low-stakes betting on my account, it’s unnecessary. My remarks at the opera were... indelicate, to say the least, and the words of a cad to say more. Please, do not hold back on my behalf. I—I meant to say I was impressed by the work your cousin is doing, Lady Gwen, and that I hoped I too was making some effort to improve both our families’ standings. I did not mean to disparage our predecessors, nor to speak ill of the dead.”
Bobby knows there’s commotion around them, but he thinks you could hear a pin drop among their group.
“Thank you, Lord Demeroven,” Beth manages, a tight smile on her face as she looks up at him. “I appreciate it.”
Demeroven rummages in his jacket, pulling out a few bills. “Please, have a wager on me, would you both?”
Gwen snatches the bills before Beth can say anything, winking at Demeroven. She pulls Beth close. Beth’s gaze lingers on her
cousin for a moment, and then that smile unfurls and she lets Gwen draw her into a quieter, but no less fervid, discussion
of bets.
Demeroven looks back across the track, his face a bit less tense than before, and Bobby feels it all click horribly in his
head. Bobby can’t take Raverson down alone. The only other person who knows about Raverson’s extortion plans—the only person
Raverson has said it to outright—is Demeroven. Which means he has to accept Demeroven’s apology. They’ll need to work together
to thwart Raverson’s scheming. It’s not as if anything Demeroven has said—at all—has been wrong. But Bobby’s wounded pride
still flares bright in his chest.
Unfortunately, he no longer has the luxury of pride. Not with Raverson loudly making jokes and further connections across
the track in the royal enclosure. Not when Raverson looks directly back at them and has the gall to tip his bloody hat in
their direction before turning to chat with some dignitary Bobby can’t name.
Demeroven shifts closer to him, stretching uncomfortably. Bobby takes a deep breath. Demeroven offered an apology. He needs
to make the next blasted move. So he reluctantly lowers his head to whisper, “We have to stop him.”
Demeroven startles, then glances briefly up at him. “Agreed.”
Bobby lets himself lean against the fence. He looks down at Demeroven, the man’s cheek such an unpleasant shade of purple
that he feels some of his guarded pride slip away. “I’m sorry for startling you the other night.”
He sees Demeroven start to fight the comment before his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry for accosting you instead of having a
simple conversation about Raverson. My... temper was already high; I shouldn’t have approached you that way.”
Bobby forces himself to nod. He has to meet Demeroven halfway if they’re ever to work together. They watch as the horses finally
approach the starting gate, the crowd raucous around them. Bobby can hear Beth, Albie, and Gwen discussing something, their
chatter fading into the sound of the crowd as the jockeys get into position.
“So what’s your plan?”
Bobby stiffens, glancing at Demeroven to find the man watching him carefully. “Why do I have to have the plan?” he asks.
“Because this is your fault,” Demeroven replies, his face closing off again.
“Well, if you had just told me Raverson has a habit of extorting his... connections,” Bobby counters, the indignance he’s
been trying to ignore rising fast.
“How was I supposed to know that you’d go and dally with the man again?” Demeroven hisses.
“I did not— It wasn’t that—” Bobby begins, glancing around them.
The starting gun goes off and the horses charge out of the gate. Bobby watches the race, his pounding pulse having little to do with Gildermire’s immediate lead. They can barely get through a single discussion without devolving into an argument. And yet there’s something simmering in his stomach about each conversation. They replay over and over in his head, and he wishes he knew why.
Why does this man’s opinion of him sit so heavy on his shoulders?
Gildermire wins by two lengths with Fisherman just behind. Gwen and Albie whoop while Beth jumps in place excitedly next to
Demeroven. The man himself barely moves, staring broodily across the track. Bobby reluctantly follows his gaze and finds Raverson
standing amid a cluster of dukes, shaking hands and grinning that irritatingly straight grin.
“Bobby, escort me to the water closet before the next race?” Beth asks.
“Demeroven, you escort me,” Gwen adds, grasping James’ arm before he can protest and yanking him toward the exit that will
lead them across the track and around to the back of the pavilion.
Bobby sighs and takes Beth’s arm. “She’s a menace, you know,” he says as they follow sedately after Gwen and Demeroven.
Gwen does slow down when it becomes apparent Demeroven’s limp hasn’t quite loosened up yet. The sight makes Bobby’s throat
tight with regret and he tugs Beth closer.
“She absolutely is,” Beth agrees. “You and James getting along a bit better now?”
“What, now that he’s offered a perfunctory apology for making you cry?” He glances down at Beth and finds her frowning up
at him beneath her lace bonnet. He sighs. “We’re... finding things to—”
“Bond over?” Beth suggests.
“Don’t get your hopes up too high,” Bobby cautions, pretending he hasn’t noticed the way Demeroven’s pants fit quite snugly
in the rear.
“Well, I’m glad you’re getting along a little better at least,” Beth says as they head toward the shaded pavilion where spectators are hurriedly purchasing refreshments before the next heat.
“Why?” Bobby wonders.
“Well, Dashiell is adamant we all get along and work together. He’s very impressed by James’ new work ethic.”
“And neither you nor Gwen has bothered to tell him that he’s been an arse to all of us?” Bobby asks, ignoring the pang that
it’s possible Uncle Dashiell now prefers Demeroven to him—especially as Demeroven hasn’t gotten him recently blackmailed,
that Uncle Dashiell knows of.
“It’s made him so happy, working with Albie and James. He’s so big on family, and with Mother so close to... I couldn’t
bear to take that from him,” Beth rushes out, her hand going tense in the crook of his elbow.
“Right. Of course,” Bobby says quickly. “Of course he is. He’s a happy expectant father, no reason to tarnish that. I can—I’ll
get along with Demeroven.”
“You will?” Beth asks, looking up at him with such bright hope, he can’t help but nod. “Thank you.”
“Beth,” Gwen says.
Bobby blinks, surprised to find them already at the outer wall of the water closets.
Beth pats his arm and then lets Gwen pull her away into the lavatories, leaving Bobby and Demeroven loitering outside. Hardly
a picturesque location, but at least it’s cool. They stand in the shade beneath the white tarps, awkward and alone.
“Blistering hot out there, isn’t it?” Demeroven offers, scuffing his good foot against the packed dirt floor.
“Damn right,” Bobby agrees, shaking his hands out to pump himself up enough to continue his and Demeroven’s charming conversation.
“Perhaps you and the girls could arrange an event, or ensure Raverson is invited to the next tea,” Demeroven says quietly.
Bobby jerks his gaze to meet Demeroven’s. “Excuse me?”
“You could use the opportunity to suss out his plan, try and understand all the angles.”
Bobby would rather fall down his own set of stairs than approach Raverson at a tea. “Why? You seem chummy enough—can’t you
do the digging?”
“Lord Havenfort has my days planned out down to the hour,” Demeroven says. “You’ve the time, don’t you?”
Bobby bristles, hackles rising fast. “I have better things to do.”
Demeroven considers him and Bobby tries to keep his shoulders back, chest out. “Do you?” Demeroven asks.
He hates that Demeroven can do this—can ask questions, make statements, make note of things just as they are, no artifice,
no sugarcoating.
No, he doesn’t have better things to do, but he surely doesn’t want to admit that to Demeroven, the frustrating—
“I’m absolutely parched,” Gwen announces as she and Beth emerge from the lavatories. “You boys can fetch us some refreshments,
can’t you?” she prompts.
Bobby would argue, but there’s a sheen on Beth’s eyes. No matter where they go, or how busy Uncle Dashiell keeps them, nothing
can truly distract from the impending birth and the danger Beth’s mother will be in when the baby comes. That worry is ever
present.
“Of course,” Bobby says, even as Demeroven frowns at him. “Come along, Demeroven,” he says, taking Demeroven’s arm to turn
him around and steer him toward the far side of the pavilion where the drinks and food wait for sale.
But Demeroven has other plans, veering off to the right once they’ve passed the lavatories. He haltingly marches them toward a deserted corner where they can duck behind a tent flap, leaving them in the meter-wide gap between the tent and the side of the whitewashed pavilion.
It’s cooler still in this little hideaway, and everything’s tinged with an off-white light from the tent above them. If Bobby
weren’t so uncomfortable in such close quarters with Demeroven, he might be relieved.
“We need to make a plan,” Demeroven whispers, glancing up at Bobby before running his fingers through his thick sandy-brown
hair.
“Look, if you’re going to have me doing investigative work, why don’t you tell me everything you know, since your reticence
is what got us into this situation,” Bobby returns, clenching his jaw the moment the words are out.
He used to be good at hiding his resentments. But it seems like lately all he can do is spew them at anyone willing to listen,
whether they deserve it or not.
Demeroven pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do you have to do this?”
“What?”
“Keep pointing fingers when I’m trying to stop?” Demeroven says, scrubbing his hand down his face before meeting Bobby’s eyes.
Bobby feels his defenses rising again despite himself. “Stop? You’re the one accusing me of knowingly endangering the family,
when it was you not telling me who Raverson was that put us in this position.”
“Only because you can’t seem to properly vet your paramours,” Demeroven says, stepping toward him.
Bobby steps back, trying to put space between them as their animosity swirls around them, feeling less like animosity and
more like something else he doesn’t quite want to name.
“Raverson was hardly a paramour. And he came on to me,” Bobby says.
“And you had no control? Couldn’t take even a moment to study his history before you let him into your pants?”
“What, do you vet all of your... engagements before having a go? Pause the action to go and interview people about them?”
Bobby asks, glancing toward the flap of the curtain, but he doesn’t see movement on the other side. “You’ll barely discuss
D’Vere, let alone anyone else. Do you expect a man to wait for you while you poke about in his life?”
“If he’s truly interested, he would wait,” Demeroven says haughtily.
Bobby feels his chest tighten. He’s so unnervingly smug. “Right. Because you’re such a prize, any man would fall over himself
to wait around until you deem him worthy.”
“Any man worth my time would be doing his own research,” James insists.
It burrows against Bobby’s gut; no one has ever been willing to wait for him. If they had been, perhaps he wouldn’t have snuck
into the curtains with Raverson. Perhaps one of his lovers would have stuck around, instead of going off to get married. No
one has ever wanted him enough to care about the repercussions, because it’s always just been one night, if that.
But Demeroven is staring at him, his eyes narrowed, like he can hear Bobby’s pathetic thoughts. He’s not going to let this
man think himself better than Bobby, just because he’s clearly met better men.
“So you’ll do your research for a paramour, but can’t be bothered to step in when your aunt and cousin are being treated abominably,
is that it?” Bobby spits out.
“Shut up,” Demeroven hisses, his eyes darkening. Bobby takes another step back, surprised. “I didn’t know. If I had, I would have fucking done something.”
Bobby can see the truth of it on Demeroven’s face, can see anguish and anger and self-loathing. But he can’t seem to stop
his mouth. “Would you really? Or would you just have let your stepfather—”
“Don’t you say a word about my stepfather,” Demeroven snarls, stalking forward again. Bobby’s back hits the pavilion wall
with a light whump. “You couldn’t understand what it’s like, having so much responsibility heaped on your shoulders all at
once, when the year before they told you nothing . You think your life is hard: ‘Woe is me, I’m a second son, I’m bored and have nothing to do.’ You cannot fathom what I’ve
dealt with, the lengths at which I need to go to protect my family, to rehabilitate my name.”
“Goddammit, Demeroven, we’re aiming for the same thing,” Bobby manages, holding back a plethora of ruder responses.
He hates this. He hates that Demeroven is right. That he’s seeing clearly while Bobby’s been oblivious. And more than anything
else, he hates how sodding good Demeroven looks all hot and bothered.
“You accuse me of making this into a competition, but you cannot stop yourself from reminding me that you are more important.
And yet you want the responsibility of this blunder to be mine alone. You slept with him too,” Bobby says roughly.
“Before I knew better!” Demeroven exclaims, the sound ringing around them.
They both glance toward the tent flap, but there’s nothing but the stuffy air in their little alcove and the distant roar
of the crowds.
“I could have known better if you’d bothered to tell me,” Bobby says, his voice low.
“When would you have listened?” Demeroven mutters.
“If you’d tried even at all to get to know me, we could have been friends,” Bobby hears himself say. He’s hot, and he’s frazzled,
and he’s getting so tired of fighting about this.
“I know you,” Demeroven counters.
“You don’t,” Bobby insists. “You could have. Instead you’ve concocted this idea that I’m some kind of sex-crazed deviant determined
to ruin you.”
“I’d never let you ruin me,” Demeroven says and Bobby feels himself flush.
“Right. Right, my mistake. I’m sure I would never pass the safe paramour exam,” Bobby grits out. “Or would I just be refused
the test altogether? Too lowly for you to trifle with,” he hears himself say.
His chest is heaving in tandem with Demeroven’s. Demeroven’s face is flushed, his eyes suddenly a little wild, his hands balled
into fists.
“It’s not a question of your status or... political value,” Demeroven says rapidly.
“What, then it’s my personality that’s so abhorrent?” Bobby asks, wondering when his mouth got so fully away from him.
“Have you lost your mind?” Demeroven exclaims.
“You’re the one that dragged me in here. If it’s so difficult to be around me, why don’t you just—”
Demeroven steps forward, his hand sliding around to the back of Bobby’s head to pull him into a rough and sudden kiss. All
that animosity, all the anger, all the hurt boils between them as Demeroven leans forward, trapping Bobby against the wall,
their bodies pulled flush together.
Bobby groans into Demeroven’s mouth, surprised and aroused and strangely delighted to discover that Demeroven feels just as chiseled beneath his linen coat as he looks. Better than that, Demeroven can bloody kiss. It’s all fierce, needy lips and groping hands, and Bobby gives himself over to the physicality of it.
Rough, and hot, and heady—is this what was coming for them the whole time? All the fighting and petty words, was it really
this beneath the surface, all along?
Demeroven sucks on his bottom lip as he palms Bobby’s arse, grinding them together in a press that’s delicious friction and
frustration and utter glory—
Until Demeroven suddenly pulls away, the two of them left gaping at each other with kiss-raw lips, hair mussed, bodies heaving.
What the actual—