Chapter Twelve
James
Hell.
Oh, hell. What did he just do?
He kissed Mason. Bobby Mason. Bold, fearless, reckless Bobby Mason.
Bobby Mason, who’s been beautiful since they were young. Bobby Mason, who wouldn’t have given him a second look at Oxford,
is now standing debauched and winded, watching him hungrily as if he might like to—
Oh, hell .
James can’t seem to make... any part of himself work. Can’t move, can barely think. All he can feel is the heavy drum of
his pulse and the tightness of his midsection and his—
Mason reaches out as if to pull James back into his arms. James almost goes, staring at Mason’s reddened lips, thinking of
the snag of his light stubble and how if James pushed him up against the wall at the right angle, he could wedge his thigh
in tight and—
There’s a great cheer from the stands far beyond them.
“We can’t,” he croaks, stepping back from Mason’s reaching fingers.
“We absolutely can,” Mason counters, pushing off from the wall.
“I—I heard someone.”
Mason pauses, listening. James tries to breathe steadily against his racing pulse. He didn’t hear anyone. But he could have.
Mason pulls back the curtain and peers out into the tent. James stands there, mind whirring as blood slowly makes its way
back into his skull. Mason turns back to James with a sly smile and drops the curtain, sidling forward.
James is so paralyzed by indecision and arousal that he doesn’t move. The feeling of Mason’s broad palm skating along his
jaw to cup his neck makes James shiver. His thumb rests right at James’ earlobe, stroking gently.
He could melt into a puddle right there, just collapse into Mason’s arms.
“Funny how we’ve spent so many weeks sniping at each other, when we could have been doing this instead,” Mason says huskily,
leaning in to glance his lips off James’.
It takes everything James has not to chase his mouth. “We shouldn’t,” he mumbles, the words bubbling up from the depths of
his mind even as the rest of him strains toward Mason.
“We’re fine here,” Mason assures him.
James so wants to believe him. He hasn’t felt anything like the passion or fervor of their kisses in so long. Possibly ever.
Mason may be onto something about the fighting turning into ardor.
But Mason’s assurances give him little relief from the growing anxiety that’s rapidly clawing through his lust haze. Mason’s
been caught before. Worse, Mason has never been careful. Has never had to be.
Mason’s family loves him, clearly. Lord Havenfort caught him in a tryst and still sent him to Ascot with his daughter and stepdaughter. If James’ stepfather ever caught him in the act, James isn’t sure he’d live to tell the tale, much less be protected.
Mason isn’t an option. No matter how much these kisses—the ardent look on his beautiful face—stir something deep and young
inside of James, Mason is not the golden boy of his Oxford days.
Mason is a risk—one James can’t stand to take. Not now. Not with Raverson looming. Not with his title at stake. Not with his
fragile pride and anxiety.
“We can’t do this,” James says, pulling back with purpose this time.
Mason’s hand glides across his cheek as it falls away. James forces himself not to mourn its loss. This was a onetime occurrence.
A fantasy, nothing more.
“We could,” Mason says, remaining still, his eyes beckoning just as much as his hand did. “Surely this is safer than the alternative.
We have credible reasons to see each other, and ample opportunity. Even if we spend half our time bickering, wouldn’t it be
better to—”
Mason peters off and James realizes he’s shaking his head. He can’t listen to this—can’t let Mason lay out anything close
to a reasonable plan for a... dalliance. Because it would be reckless, and foolish, and too close to something James never
even knew he could consider, or want.
“If you’d just think about, for a moment, the implications of—”
“No,” James says, his voice high and tight. “No. We’ll—we’ll discuss the problem—Raverson,” he corrects. Mason snaps his mouth
shut, frowning. “Later. I must be going.”
He turns and pushes through the curtain, away from Mason and his potentially enticing offer—away from the fantasies of his youth—away from his own desires. Mason is pompous, and reckless, and handsome, and an absurdly good kisser, and James needs to get as far away from him as physically possible before Mason’s impulsivity spreads.
“Demeroven.”
James keeps moving, limping as quickly as he can back toward the lavatories. Their little hidey-hole was further from the
crowds than he thought.
“Why are you always running away?” Mason demands, too close behind him.
James hurries forward, only for Mason to grab his arm just as James goes to swing around the corner of the lavatories.
“For Christ’s sake, just talk to—”
James crashes into someone, Mason’s hand wrenching off his arm. But two strong hands catch him, and James closes his eyes.
He’d know that overtight grip anywhere. It belongs to the very last person he wants to see.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Raverson says, his voice lilting.
James scrambles back, nearly knocking into Mason, who quickly steps to his side so they’re facing Raverson together. James
watches Raverson take in their appearance—Mason’s ruffled hair, James’ askew tie, both of their reddened mouths.
“It seems I might need to pay a visit to the house of Havenfort sooner than I’d planned. How interesting,” Raverson says.
James feels his heart rate kick back up. How can they play this off? He’d tell Raverson he’s seeing something that isn’t there,
but one look at Mason proves that there’s no denying it. What was he thinking, just walking away without settling himself
first? Allowing Mason to traipse after him like an advertisement screaming Look, I was just nearly shagged .
“Lord Havenfort has nothing more to say to you,” Mason says.
“Oh, I think he will,” Raverson says, looking significantly between them.
“You’re seeing things, Raverson,” James pushes out. He just has to be like Mason—collected, and calm, not visibly panicking out of his mind.
“I don’t think I am, little Demeroven.”
“Shut up,” James hears himself say, a knee-jerk reaction to that honey-tinged tone in Raverson’s voice. The one he always
used when he would tell James he was being silly . Was upset over nothing . Was being immature .
“Ah, yes, a little romp does tend to make you brave, doesn’t it?” Raverson returns.
“You’re far off base,” Mason says, glancing between them.
“Oh, but you forget, Mason, I know what you both look like when you’re freshly... debauched. And you’ve done little to
hide it.”
James clenches his jaw, looking around, but they’re thankfully alone. Just Raverson, Mason, and James here in the dim tent
light by the overscented lavatories. And even still, he wants to hide, wants to shrink away. But Mason is tall beside him,
strong, and James reminds himself he doesn’t have to take this lying down. He doesn’t have to let Raverson have this kind
of sway over him.
“You’re making dangerous assumptions,” James tells him, curling his hands into fists.
Raverson meets his eyes with that damn languid smirk. “And you must have gotten better in the sack, then, Demeroven, if you’re
able to entice Mason. Though Mason is slumming it a bit for you, isn’t he?”
He doesn’t know quite why he does it. But something inside him snaps and James finds himself rushing forward. His fist collides
with a solid, painful thud against Raverson’s jaw.
Coming at him from beneath, given their height difference, the impact sets Raverson off balance and James watches in astonishment as he tips backward and lands sprawled on the packed dirt ground, a hand to his jaw.
“Damn, Demeroven,” Mason says, whistling as he steps up to his side, a hand out to stay James should he feel like going for
a second hit.
But James isn’t sure what even got him to the first. He’s never hit anyone before. But it—it felt good.
It feels good, staring down at Raverson as he glares up at them, indignant and flattened there on the ground, his white linen
suit covered in dust. It makes James feel just a bit powerful.
“You’re a dead man, Demeroven. I’ll tell the whole town about this—let them in on your precious secrets—the both of you,”
he spits up at them.
“Oh, yes, and what credibility you’ll have. Uh-uh,” Mason says, stepping in front of James to kick Raverson’s raised foot
away.
Raverson must have been trying to strike James in the knee. Perhaps James is not so powerful after all, but rather in shock.
He should have seen that coming.
“Who do you think they’ll believe—you, or lords in good standing with high morals and good families? You’ve yet to even claim
a party. You’re a joke,” Mason says, his chin high, looking rather imperious.
Raverson glares at Mason as he slowly sits up. Mason stays that step ahead of James, in a sort of ready stance, like a boxer.
James wonders idly if Mason boxes. It would account for the sinuous muscle he felt when—
“I’ll tell your stepfather,” Raverson says.
A surge of shame washes over James at the clutch those words have around his heart. But no, he will not let Raverson believe he’s found James’ soft underbelly. He will not let Raverson see an ounce of the hurt and confusion and shame he’s brought on James by becoming close with his stepfather. He won’t give the man the satisfaction.
“You may think you’ve charmed my stepfather, and perhaps you have,” he says, holding his chin high, just like Mason did, forcing
his voice to be steady. “But we’re not at Oxford anymore, Richard,” he says, his false bravado giving way to something deeper
as Raverson stares at him in shock. “Running to a boy’s daddy to tell him what he’s done won’t get you the power or standing
you had at school. You’ll need to be cleverer than that. Handkerchiefs and trinkets aren’t enough anymore. You’ve no popularity.
You’re nothing.”
Mason glances back at him, looking rather impressed. Raverson struggles to his feet, glaring. James reaches out and tugs on
Mason’s arm, yanking him back. He thinks there’s a glimmer of doubt in Raverson’s cold dark eyes as he rubs his jaw.
“You’ll both be sorry,” he says, disdain and threat dripping from the words.
“Go find some ice,” Mason says.
Raverson stares at them for a long, uncomfortable moment before turning on his heel and stalking off. James watches him go,
his knuckles almost numb where he’s clutching at Mason’s sleeve.
The crowd roars distantly and he shakes himself, releasing Mason’s arm to run trembling fingers through his hair.
“You should have broken his nose,” Mason says, turning to regard James as they stand alone at the back of the pavilion.
“My aim was off,” James agrees. “Wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Fair,” Mason says, looking over his shoulder to ensure Raverson has truly disappeared. “How’s your hand?”
James shrugs, flexing his fingers. Reginald taught him how to swing a proper punch when he was a boy, but no one ever told him how much it hurts to collide your knuckles with another man’s jaw. “I’ll be fine,” he says, noting the way Mason still looks a little bit impressed.
Men.
Yes, men. He, normally a completely rational man, just had a tryst and then socked a peer. A lord who’s currently blackmailing
them both.
“Well, this seems to have solved our problem, at least momentarily,” Mason says, reaching out for James’ hand.
James hastily shoves his hands into his pockets. He can’t let Mason touch him again. He doesn’t know what he’ll do. He doesn’t
know himself today. And he doesn’t know if that’s Mason’s fault, or Raverson’s, or his stepfather’s, or if perhaps beneath
the surface this is who he’s always been—dangerous, reckless, and thoughtless—and he’s just been suppressing it with anxiety
and fear all this time.
“That’s not the last we’ve seen of Raverson,” James says, trying to rein in his swirling thoughts. “We’ll have to come up
with something better, get your ring back.”
“Of course,” Mason says, stepping closer. “You know, it’s rather attractive, this unguarded side of you. Very bold, very brash.
I like it.”
James swallows against the look on Mason’s face—sly, attractive, hungry. “I—” he starts. Mason’s boxing him in against the
wall of the lavatories, out in the open, where anyone could see.
“Demeroven, consider—”
“No,” James says, all that bravado and bravery and action slamming back into wherever it’s been hiding. All he can feel now is the panic of his reality—the sheer number of ways ev erything could come tumbling down. “No. I told you; we cannot do this. We are partners in preventing blackmail, nothing more. Now please step back.”
Mason stills, staring at him. “Come now, we’ve taken care of Raverson—”
“We haven’t,” James says, Raverson’s threat about his stepfather still ringing in his ears. “There is too much at stake to
give into this—this—”
“Angry attraction?” Mason suggests, looking far too mischievous, far too handsome, far too tempting.
“Absurdity,” James returns, trying not to care when Mason’s smile dims. “I have to leave.”
“Leave,” Mason repeats, his smile disappearing altogether. “You mean run.”
James shrugs—can’t deny it, really. He needs to run away, before Mason talks him into anything else. Because he’s not sure
he has the resolve to stick to his decision. Not with Mason there, rumpled and wanting.
“Please apologize to Lady Gwen and MissBertram, would you? We’re quite delinquent in bringing their drinks,” he says, and
his voice sounds foreign, formal.
“Tell them yourself,” Mason says, an aloof look falling over his features. “And I’m walking away first,” he adds, turning
on his heel to stomp off toward the drinks, leaving James alone by the lavatories.
He watches Mason until he fades into the crowd by the refreshments, his thoughts whirring so fast he’s not even sure what
he’s truly thinking. He scrubs at his face, wincing. His knuckles flare with dull pain. He looks down to find them red and
already a little swollen.
He should feel proud for having taken Raverson down a peg. But somehow all he feels is hollow, like today has been some strange, broken dream.
Bobby Mason kissed him. Bobby Mason... wants him.
After years of swooning over him at school, of butterflies and late-night fantasies, here it is, his dream come true.
Bobby Mason offered to be his lover. And James said no.