Chapter Fourteen
James
Prince eventually trails off, falling into a light doze across from them. James looks to Mason, to share in the humor that
is Prince mumbling while he sleeps, but finds Mason dozing too. Which leaves James alone in the very loud silence of the coach,
with nothing but his feelings.
And that certainly won’t do, given that this whole night has turned his staunch decision on its head. Instead of spending
the evening squabbling or trying to one-up each other, they’ve simply... worked together in a détente that’s frighteningly
comfortable. Mason’s calm, easy attitude all night has put him off-kilter. He hasn’t pushed, hasn’t prodded, hasn’t tried
to entice James into anything.
Instead, Mason—irresponsible, reckless Mason—has spent the whole evening making sure everyone had food and water. Making sure
Prince was always having a good time. Cajoling Cunningham (quite a feat in itself) into changing pubs the moment the groom-to-be
was less than amused.
He cares about his friends. He cares about his family. And he’s quite responsible when it suits him. Which makes the narrative
James has been clinging to, one of immorality and danger and disregard, feel all the flimsier. This person he’s concocted
in his head, so brash and prideful and confident—maybe he’s not real. Maybe he never has been.
Perhaps James is the brash one. Perhaps Mason is as lonely as James himself feels, and that’s what’s driven him into trysts and casual flings. Perhaps it’s not ego, but a want for intimacy.
Which is exactly what he asked of James at Ascot. A formal, steady, understanding arrangement, which would include the intimacy,
of course, but would probably also include a lot of... this. Working as a team. Sitting together and sharing jokes. Camaraderie.
Safe and secure.
And why wouldn’t Mason feel comfortable asking for that, with a group of friends like Prince and Cunningham around him? Mason
fits in with these boisterous, unguarded men. They’re all making their own arrangements, going after their own happiness,
in whatever way they can.
But no matter how entertaining they’ve been, or how eagerly they brought him along for this celebration, James knows he doesn’t truly fit in here, not really. He’s not, he can’t be, like them—like Mason. Hell, he can’t even get his shoulders
to fully come down now that they’re safely in a coach. He’s spent the whole night watching the corners, peering down alleys.
He can’t help but worry someone is there, just beyond sight, watching, listening. Someone out to ruin them all. He’d give
more than Prince’s father paid for the whole night to feel as relaxed as Mason seemed tonight.
“Do you think it would be like that?”
James startles, looking over at Mason. “What?”
“Like being married to your best friend?”
James knots his fingers together in his lap. He wishes he knew what to do with all this newfound perspective, other than sit there anxiously as Mason shifts in his seat, his hair falling into his
eyes so prettily.
James can’t imagine marriage to be anything less than a painful lie—an extension of the life he’s already living, hiding all the various parts of who he is, but from someone with whom he’s supposed to share a bed.
Physical intimacy aside, he’s not sure he’s actually had a best friend before. Reginald’s been like an uncle to him, but it’s
never been—it’s not what Prince is talking about, he doesn’t think. He wouldn’t know what to do, how to be one. He’s terrible
at most things that have to do with other people, after all.
“I don’t think I could find someone who would fully understand me, and accept me, without hurting them in the process,” he
says.
At Mason’s surprised look, James realizes he’s already said too much. He fights the urge to shrink back against the seat and
simply lets the discomfort sit.
“Don’t think much of yourself, do you?” Mason asks archly.
James blinks back at him, feeling a bit too raw to come at that head-on. “What, and you do? Sleeping with Raverson?”
That was uncalled for, even for him. But Mason just shrugs, which is infuriating.
“I don’t define my self-worth by who I take to bed,” Mason says.
James feels his eyebrows go up. He doesn’t believe that. Mason’s intelligent; surely he understands that paramours reflect
on each other, well or poorly. Mason tips his head back to stare up at the ceiling, avoiding James’ eyes.
“All right, fine, maybe we’re both worthless, then.”
James squirms in his seat. Nothing about Mason fits tonight, and it makes James uncomfortable. He doesn’t like to be wrong
about things, let alone to be this completely wrong about someone.
“And you?” James asks, going straight to deflection. “Do you think you’ll ever get married?”
“I don’t know,” Mason says slowly, peeling his gaze from the ceiling to look over at Prince. “I certainly don’t think I’d be as excited as Prince is, at any rate.”
“That makes two of us,” James agrees.
Mason tilts his head back again and closes his eyes. James can tell they’re nearly there. He gives Mason about forty seconds,
and then kicks him lightly in the shin.
“Oi!” Mason says, glaring over at him.
“I’m not hauling his prone body out and leaving it on his father’s doorstep alone,” James says.
Mason huffs, but waves a hand in acquiescence just as the carriage comes to a halt. Prince jerks awake and stares at the two
of them.
“Wher’we?” he slurs.
“Home. Time for the groom to go to sleep,” Mason says, moving across the cab to prop Prince up while James opens the door
and hops down.
Together, and with no small possibility for injury to person or pride, they manage to get Prince out of the carriage and up
the steps of the Prince townhouse, which could easily fit two Demeroven townhouses inside.
Bobby raps on the door, and they hover there, keeping Prince upright. They’re all going to be trashed come morning.
The door opens and a tall butler with a broad face takes one look at Prince and lets out a highly Scottish curse.
“Give ’em here,” he says.
James and Mason pass Prince into his care, and he slams the door behind them without even a word.
“Nice chap,” Mason says, staring at the door. “Eloquent.”
“And loquacious,” James says.
Mason turns and James follows, the two of them looking down at the waiting coach. The idea of being inside that small space without the buffer of Prince doesn’t fill James with con fidence. Mason bumps his shoulder and James waves the coach away.
Then they set off, hands in their pockets, arms brushing. Each slight touch of Mason’s elbow sends shock waves down James’
spine, which is ridiculous, given they’re both fully clothed. But with all the revelations of this evening, all the self-discoveries,
all the kindness and honesty, James’ body seems to have no defenses.
The memory of their kiss, and the way his hands held James so tenderly yet passionately—it haunts his dreams, and his waking
hours, and any moment he so much as breathes. He’s never felt something that instantaneous. It makes him foolhardy. His lust
has no conscience.
But his head surely does. Doesn’t it?
They round the block, approaching the Mason townhome, a modest blue three stories with well-tended ivy on the balconies and
a river-stone stoop. James feels like his heart might beat right out of his chest, while his stomach ties itself into knots.
He doesn’t like feeling so mixed up and unsure.
“What if there were someone who knew all the parts of you?” Mason asks.
James falters but keeps walking, determinedly not looking at Mason. His palms feel sweaty. A person who knew every part of
him and, what, loved him anyway? There isn’t that person. There can’t be that person.
Mason cannot be implying that—
They approach the front stoop, but Mason veers suddenly toward the narrow alley between his house and the next. James hurries after him, just managing to catch him as Mason trips over his own feet. He ducks beneath Mason’s shoulder and pushes his thoughts away, letting Mason shuffle them down the cobblestone alley. He can’t leave Mason alone, unsteady as he is, and he finds he doesn’t quite want to. Unlike the weight of Prince’s arm, Mason’s arm falling across his shoulders elicits a visceral reaction, like pinpricks of surprise spreading all over his skin.
James tells himself he doesn’t like the feeling. Tells himself Mason’s waist beneath his palm doesn’t feel like a perfect
fit. That he doesn’t enjoy the way Mason’s hand lingers on his shoulder as they approach the door to the kitchen, hidden from
the street and out of view of the windows of the neighboring house. They turn to face each other on the worn single step.
James tells himself that the somersault of his stomach as Mason gazes into his eyes means nothing .
Mason begins to lean forward, the hand on James’ shoulder gliding up to cup the back of James’ head.
Quite without thinking, James shoots an arm out, pushing Mason gently away. His palm lands right above Mason’s heart, and
he can feel its thud. Mason stares at him, his eyes shuttering, disappointed.
“I thought...” he says.
James shakes his head. Pining is one thing. Intrigue is one thing. Lust and... magnetism are one thing. But he’s not brave
like Mason is.
“We’re partners in—”
“Preventing blackmail, nothing more. Yes, I remember,” Mason says, his hand falling from James’ cheek to clench at his side.
James tells himself he doesn’t miss its warmth.
“And in keeping grooms-to-be alive,” James offers, feeling like he must give the man something, in exchange for all that he
cannot offer.
“We could be more than that,” Mason says. His eyes are clearer now. “We have a perfect cover, a perfect situation. Wouldn’t—” He pauses, licking his lips. And damn, if that doesn’t send a frisson of want through James’ body. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be with someone who understands, even a little?”
Mason’s words land against James’ chest like a blow. Of course it would.
He understands, he does, Mason’s fixation on this. But that doesn’t make it the safe choice Mason thinks it is.
Mason, with his understanding family and friends. Mason with his secure position as the second son, unwatched, unhindered
by obligation. He couldn’t understand the sacrifice it would be to engage in an affair this risky. With all of London always
watching—it would be a scandal of monumental proportions waiting to happen.
James meets Mason’s eyes, and his strong refusal dies in his throat. Mason looks so earnest, and so vulnerable.
“We can’t be lovers. But we could be friends,” James hears himself say.
Mason blinks at him, before a smile slowly stretches across his face. “Yeah?”
James can’t help but smile back, even as something sinks hard in his gut. Regret, maybe? “Yeah. We could try being friends.”
Mason nods happily and squeezes the hand James still has pressed to his heart. James quickly retracts it, but keeps his smile
wide. He knocks on the door as Mason shuffles his feet.
“Try to get some sleep, and eat something, before the wedding,” James suggests.
Mason rolls his eyes, opening his mouth for some retort when the door cracks open. Lord Mason leans out in his robe, looking
between them.
“You’re both in one piece. I’m impressed,” he says.
“Demeroven’s worried I’m going to faint dead away, though,” Mason says, shockingly put together given the previous few minutes.
“I’ll leave him in your care. Do be on time tomorrow, won’t you?” James says, stepping down into the alley while Mason snorts.
“Thank you for bringing him home,” Lord Mason says.
Mason whacks his brother’s shoulder. He turns, gives James a wink, and disappears inside.
“We’ll see you at the wedding,” Lord Mason says, before closing the door with a soft snick.
James stares at the closed door, something strange swirling in his chest. Friends.