Her shoulders relax and he silently pats himself on the back. He bows and quickly retreats, striding across the room as if he has somewhere to be. But even with that dance dodged, he sees hungry maternal eyes tracking him from every cluster of attendees. Like he’s a piece of fresh meat. Which he supposes he is, though he’s hardly a prize.
The second son of a lightly disgraced gambler with an alcohol problem—surely there’s someone better for the many daughters at the ball tonight. But the wandering, watchful eyes say otherwise, and, oh dear, he needs to find the safety of his cousin and Beth, now.
He searches for a flash of blond but can’t see Gwen anywhere. Beth’s far too short to find from this far away. He about-faces again, considering heading out to the small terrace, before he nearly bumps into Demeroven.
The shorter man hovers just outside the hall to the velvet-lined parlor, where many of the gentlemen and parliamentarians have set up camp for the night, far from the fray. Demeroven should still be inside. Bobby can just see Uncle Dashiell’s head in the chamber beyond.
Instead, Demeroven has nearly pressed himself back against the wall, blocking Bobby’s more furtive path out to the terrace. And though he’s not Beth or Gwen, Demeroven is still better than the roving mothers.
“All a little much?” he asks, focusing on Demeroven’s discomfort instead of living in his own.
Demeroven’s head snaps up, those wide blue eyes staring up at him like he’s just appeared out of thin air. “Oh, um, a tad,” he says, his voice stiff.
Bobby nods toward his side and Demeroven moves jerkily so Bobby can slip into the gap between him and the pillar that mostly blocks them from the rest of the room. Together they watch the swirling dancers. It’s a little quieter here and Bobby lets himself relax.
He’s been wracking his brain, but he doesn’t remember meeting Demeroven at Oxford, though they were only a year apart. He thinks he would remember if they’d been introduced. It would be hard to forget Demeroven’s striking gaze, patrician nose, and the sharp line of his jaw. Though perhaps he’s clenching his teeth?
“Anything good on the agenda, you think?” he asks, gesturing back toward the clustered parliamentarians, hoping to put him at ease.
Demeroven glances at him before staring back at the floor. “Not really.”
Bobby waits, but the man doesn’t elaborate. “I thought the Medical Act sounded interesting,” Bobby tries again. Anything but talk of marriage.
Demeroven just shrugs. “It’s all a lot of chatter, really.”
Bobby stares at him, surprised. “My brother says the briefing Uncle Dashiell gave him was rather interesting.”
“I guess,” Demeroven says, looking unconvinced.
Bobby clicks his tongue. If he were about to sit in parliament for the first time, he wouldn’t be dismissing all the upcoming bills as prattle, but... he’s sure there’s a weight of responsibility that might make it all seem onerous.
He’d rather sit through a hundred boring sessions in the Lords than dance, but fine.
“You know, the Matrimonial Causes Act last year has had a dramatic effect already. Did you see Lady Ashmond earlier? She seems to be much happier as a divorcée.”
“Good for her,” Demeroven says.
Bobby blows out a breath. This is Beth’s cousin. He has to extend him some grace.
“Well, I hope you find an act that piques your interest,” Bobby says, forcing lightness into his voice. “I’d hate to think you’d be bored to tears all season.”
Demeroven toys with his cuff links, eyes fixed toward the ground. “Every time anyone brings up a point that’s remotely interesting, somehow the conversation turns to the events for the season and the racing bets. Endless talk of racing bets. How men who make our laws can be so enthralled with mindless, vulgar gambling, I’ll never know,” he says in a rush.
The man is certainly making it difficult. “Surely there must be something of interest. I hear the games of whist at the club get rather competitive,” Bobby says.
“I don’t gamble,” Demeroven reiterates.
“You don’t have to gamble to play whist,” Bobby replies, trying not to take it personally. “Uncle Dashiell says you were good at maths. You must like cards.”
Demeroven shrugs again, shoulders slightly hunched. “I’m decent at whist, but I won’t abide playing for money, not with them, anyway.”
Bobby watches the way his glance shifts back to the parlor, disdain on his otherwise handsome face. That won’t do. “You’ll have to get better at pretending.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s no way you’ll survive at the clubs with that attitude. Find something, low-stakes games, darts—anything—to make you seem approachable, or you’ll be marked for the season.” Demeroven’s shoulders stiffen and Bobby winces as he tightens his jaw again. “I only meant... Well, you’ll need to find a way to survive at the clubs is all. Connections are important. I could suggest a few clubs that are less... lordly, if you like.”
He starts to say more, but the flat look Demeroven turns his way sours the words in his throat. He was only trying tohelp, for God’s sake, no need to look at him as if he’s dirt on the man’s shoe.
