Bobby rolls it over in his mind. “Gwen would be happy with James? In name only, but you know, at functions and parties and—”
“Did you see what a team they make at everything? She’d be delighted. And when she’s being too high-strung, we can toss them together and go on a nice long walk, just the two of us.”
Bobby laughs. “James really can go on about boats and fencing.”
“So give him to Gwen, she loves all of it.”
A strange, tentative hope creeps into his chest. It would be perfect. More than perfect. It would be a way out of an impossible situation—a way to have the happiness and safety he and James have wanted. A way to thwart Raverson and any other whispers of impropriety for the rest of their lives.
A false marriage would solve all their problems, if he and James can be brave enough to trust each other. Bobby just doesn’t know if he’s willing to put his heart on the line again to find out.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
James
He stands shoulder to shoulder with Albert and Lord Havenfort, the three of them clapping vigorously. The gavel has just come down. The Medical Act has passed the Lords, and will move on to the Commons.
A surge of true pride flows through James’ veins. He, James, Viscount Demeroven, has done good for the world, and his name shall forever live on that docket. It’s a heady feeling.
James shuffles along, following Albert out of the hall as the lords begin to file out. He finds himself nodding to various other lords on their side of the aisle. They smile, some tip their hats, some shout greetings to him, Albert, and Lord Havenfort. He doesn’t even pay attention to the other side, grumbling about government overreach.
Instead, he focuses on the blue sky as they pour out of St.Stephen’s, letting himself enjoy the feeling of accomplishment. It’s one he plans to become familiar with in the next few years. He’s actually itching to pick Lord Havenfort’s brain about what bills he thinks will be on the docket for the next session. He’s eager to continue this work.
He’s eager to keep building the life he’s finally taking as his own.
“I cannot thank you boys—you men—enough for your helpthis season,” Lord Havenfort says, pulling them both out of the fray to linger at the side of the building.
James can’t help but smile bashfully while Albert outright grins. Lord Havenfort rummages in his top pocket and retrieves two fat envelopes. He thrusts them at Albert and James, who riffle through them. James feels his jaw drop.
“Lord Havenfort, this is—” he starts, staring down at the packet of bills.
“It’s Uncle Dashiell, James,” Lord Havenfort says. James looks up to meet his eyes in surprise. “And I want you and Albert to spend this madly at Cowes. Spoil the girls, and Bobby, and have the time of your lives. Then we’ll all reconvene and plan out how we’re going to divvy up the shooting season.”
James tries to wrap his mind aroundunclewhile Albert enthusiastically agrees for both of them, as if nothing at all has happened, as if they’re still friends. It’s like there’s something molten creeping through his chest. An unfamiliar feeling that pricks at James’ eyes and requires a lot of blinking.
“I’m proud of you both, and look forward to working with you for years to come,” Lord Havenfort says. “You’ve done a great honor to your houses.”
James finds he would do just about anything to see hisunclelook this happy again. How strange. “Thank you,” he manages to say around a pleasant tightness in his throat.
“Give Aunt Cordelia our love,” Albert says, slinging an arm around James’ shoulders.
James hesitates, surprised, but leans cautiously into his side, smiling as Lord Havenfort winks at them and then marches off, whistling, lost in a sea of parliamentary top hats and coattails.
“Damn good show,” Albert says, squeezing James once before releasing him to thumb through his envelope. “Jesus. Weshould pass bills more often. We could pay for the trip twice with mine.”
“God, I don’t even want to count,” James hears himself say, overwhelmed by that warm, gooey feeling in his chest.
“How are you planning to get to Cowes?” Albert asks, bringing James’ gaze up from the obscene envelope of pounds in his hands.
“I’ve got a rail ticket to get there for the second heat on opening day,” James says, as if he hasn’t been rattling off the date and time all week.
“You should come with us the day ahead.”
James stares at him, shocked and unsure, but Albert simply smiles at him. Almost a little sadly, like Gwen did last week. Like—like he understands, and still wants James to come, even though he—
“Uncle Dashiell booked us all a private car and rooms to sleep in before we catch the first ferry.”
“All?” James asks, that gooey warmth developing claws in his chest.
