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 be making 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 abouthis 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.
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?” Bobby 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.”
