James blinks over at him, unsure of how they got from railroads to adultery. If a public mistress is a bridge too far for hisstepfather, what would he think of James frequenting clubs like D’Vere?
No, Mason’s cavalier attitude about his persuasion, his penchant for discussing things in public, for trying to be open and honest in a ton that would shun him for far less than buggery—Mason is not the person to befriend. Much less... anything else. Better to let him think James is a lout than to court misfortune.
Not that Bobby Mason would ever want anything else with James. He has better options. And they can’t get through a single conversation anyway. More importantly, James isn’t interested. It was a schoolboy fancy of his, nothing more. The real Bobby Mason isn’t someone to pine after. No matter how much those fleeting moments of détente with Mason tug at his youthful crush, James knows there can be nothing between him and Bobby Mason.
“Not hungry, Viscount? Stuffed yourself with free food with Havenfort’s daughter? Is she trying to woo you into making a donation to that damn hospital?” Stepfather asks.
James shakes his head. “No, no. Just there for parliament. You know I—” He pauses, forcing a bland smile onto his face. “You know we discuss all the Demeroven donations.”
Stepfather grunts and goes back to his rant about... racehorses?
James can’t keep living like this. At least in Epworth he could escape into the countryside—take solace in his own silence. There, silence was golden, peaceful, and restorative. But more of these dinners, more of the meetings, more of the courting activities with everyone talking around him but not to him... Bobby Mason might not be the friend he should have, but James needs to renew his search to find someone he can talk to—someone, anyone, who will talk to him in return.
Chapter Seven
Bobby
“You are being an absolute bore, you know,” Prince says, placing a fresh drink down in front of Bobby where he’s collapsed into an armchair in the back corner by the window.
“Yes, well, perhaps it’s this dreary party you’ve thrown,” Bobby says, enjoying the burn of whisky down his throat.
He looks around the room at the motley collection of school friends, heirs, and spares Prince has assembled for the evening. It’s a slapdash, after-the-fact engagement celebration, and, for reasons unknown to Bobby, Prince is holding it in the back room of his townhouse, rather than, oh, absolutely anywhere else.
There’s nowhere to hide back here, in Prince’s father’s overlarge sitting room, filled with stuffy chairs and card tables. In a different situation, Bobby might have found a good book to read among the hundreds of leather tomes that line the walls, but it’s far too noisy for that.
All of the chaps clustered around the room were a year above Bobby in school. None of their mutual D’Vere crowd is in attendance either. And of course, Albie isn’t here. He and Uncle Dashiell are working all night, consolidating their research on the Medical Act. But Albie insisted Bobby attend Prince’s party. One of them had to show up.
“Cheer up,” Prince cajoles. “You’re among friends.”
“Your friends,” Bobby grouses, hoping it sounds playful.
By Prince’s frown, he doesn’t quite succeed. “Do we need to get you laid?” Prince asks.
He barely manages to keep from snorting whisky through his nose. “Hardly likely among this lot,” Bobby coughs out.
Prince looks about the room. “Touché. Then later this week. We’ll give Parker a call. Unless you’d be willing to let Catherine set you up.”
Bobby looks over at Prince and plunks his glass down onto the side table. “Do you really think your fiancée can solve this problem?”
“She knows many lovely young ladies,” Prince defends.
“If the object is to get me laid, that is not the way to go about it,” Bobby says.
“Ah, right, their virtue. Well, I’m sure she knows some women outside of the ton too.”
Bobby stares at Prince. It’s not their virtue he’s concerned with, though of course he would never try to take anyone’s. “Prince.”
“She does know an opera singer, I think. Or perhaps she’s a dancer? I can never keep up, active social life and all.”
“I am not interested in an opera singer, or a dancer,” Bobby says, watching as Prince continues to ponder. “Prince,” he says, waiting until the man meets his eyes. “I am not... like you.”
Prince considers him. “Open to love?”
“Not the way you’ve found it, no, I don’t think,” Bobby says. “Honestly, I’m surprised you have,” he adds softly, glancing around. They’re in the back corner and no one’s paying them any attention.
He wants to understand how Prince went from frequenting Parker’s club every night to happily engaged.
“I didn’t think I would either, really,” Prince says with a shrug. “But I met Catherine and that was it.”
