“Demeroven!” Prince says, stepping up to them with a beaming smile on his handsome face. “It’s been ages, how are you?”
“I’m well,” James says, wilting in relief. His old sculling teammate Prince—this night might actually be fun after all.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. You say goodbye before you leave, both of you,” Parker says, bowing to them before striding off to mingle. He’s greeted with boisterous shouts.
“He’s something, isn’t he?” Prince asks.
“Something,” James agrees, tilting his chin toward the bar.
Prince smiles and walks with him, only to be handed a drink in a bright-green glass before he can even open his mouth. “Jeremy, my good man, always so quick.”
“Only for you, Mr.Prince,” Jeremy says, winking at Prince before spinning away to help another customer.
“Liar,” Prince calls after him before leaning against the bar and taking a sip of the drink. “Delicious, as always.”
James watches the bob of his throat, slightly entranced, but trying desperately not to show it. “How have you been?” he asks, a little haltingly.
But Prince doesn’t mind. He’s always been a kind, lovely man. Never looked at James twice, and now that he’s about to be married, James supposes he never will. Though, looking around, he thinks a few of the men in quiet, intimate corners are surely married already.
He’s not sure what other course there is for a man of his persuasion. Marriage is the only logical next step, even if it can never be to the object of one’s most fervent desires.
“I’m well,” Prince says, bringing James’ attention back to his bright, smiling face. “MissLangston and I have planned the most wonderful honeymoon in Paris, and I’m eager as ever for the wedding to arrive.”
James bobs his head with a forced smile. He doesn’t think he could ever be so jovial about cutting off such a big part of his life. Or at least pretending to. Those two men in the corner are both definitely married—he noticed them at the ball with their wives earlier in the week. But it’s not stopping them from sauntering up the stairs to the private rooms.
“Congratulations, by the way. Never got a chance to say,” James forces out.
Prince beams at him. “Thank you, thank you.”
“She sounds like a lovely young woman,” he adds, trying to recall what his cousin said about her.
“She is, at that,” Prince agrees. “The most wonderful dancing partner, and sharp as a tack. I think you’d like her, actually. You and that chap... Brightley? You used to have those long, convoluted Shakespearean quoting competitions.”
“Yes,” James says, remembering Frank Brightley, a most pugnacious man. But oh, could he quote Shakespeare.
“MissLangston might be able to best you both,” Prince says.
“Oh?” James wonders. “Well, we might just have to test that, then.”
“She’d be delighted!” Prince says happily, those dimples lifting his cheeks. “I’ll have her reach out for a dinner. Perhaps the two of you could compete over drinks afterward.”
“That would be grand,” James says, almost meaning it.
Drinkssuggests there would be other people. He’s not great under pressure with real eyes watching. His sweaty mates on the sculling team weren’t the same.
“But you’re happy?” he asks, forcing himself to ignore his unnecessary nerves.
“Very,” Prince says. “Really,” he adds. James must not have done a good job of hiding his skepticism. “It’s a love match, good boy.”
“That’s wonderful,” James says honestly.
“You’ll have to come to the stag night as well,” Prince continues.
“Of course,” James agrees. “Just tell me when.”
“Excellent! Oh, good—Cunningham,” he calls out, raising his hand.
The Mason brothers’ broad friend from the opening-night ball appears from the second parlor. He’s lost his overcoat somewhere and is walking around in a white shirt and red suspenders with an undone tie, deep brown hair mussed. James isn’t sure why he’s so surprised to see him; really, he should have guessed, given Cunningham’s dour references to his own fiancée at the opening ball. But James’ inattention to signals is hardly his most pressing concern now.
