“Not much else to do,” Bobby offers with a shrug. He does so love his cousin and Beth for coming up withsomethingto 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 oftheir 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 Gwenwantedto 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 bemaking 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.
