“And it didn’t matter that she wasn’t... like your other lovers?” Bobby asks, afraid even with their relative seclusion to say it too plainly.
“Not at all,” Prince says easily. “Feels the same. Actually, it feels better. I’ve never loved anyone like I love Catherine.”
“Oh,” Bobby says, forcing a smile.
“It doesn’t matter, to me,” Prince adds, seeming to see through Bobby’s curiosity. “I thought it did, for a while, but Catherine was the exception. Or maybe I just hadn’t met the right girls before. I don’t know. I feel just as passionate about Catherine when I’m with her as I ever did with any of the... others.”
Bobby looks down into his drink. Is it just a matter of meeting the right woman? He doesn’t think so. If it were, surely he’d have felt a stirring in his gut, a tightness, asomething, when looking at the most beautiful girls of the season. Surely dancing with them would have felt likemore.
He doesn’t know how to ask the question. It feels embarrassing, like laying his heart onto the center of the low table for Prince to see. And especially given that Prince has seen everything else he has to offer, and clearly it didn’t stir nearly as much in him as MissLangston does, Bobby’s not sure he could take further scrutiny.
“But that’s just me,” Prince says.
Bobby blinks and looks up from his drink to meet Prince’s knowing gaze. “Sorry?”
“Plenty of chaps have told me they couldn’t do it. Or could only marry a woman with the mutual understanding it would be a marriage in name only.”
“Oh,” Bobby says, feeling his chest unclench just a little. Perhaps it’s not just him, then.
“Demeroven said as much, actually. Did I tell you he’s coming to the stag night?”
“The stag night?” Bobby asks, feeling the words like a jab to the ribs. Prince asked Demeroven before him?
Prince asked Demeroven to attend his stag night?
“Blast. My apologies, old boy, I guess I took it as a given you’d be there. Just over a month, the twelfth of June, night before the wedding. Cunningham’s supposed to be planning it with you, actually. Bugger, man, I’m sorry.”
Bobby waves him off, mollified by Prince’s polite horror. “Excellent, Cunningham throws a wonderful shindig. Much better than this sorry affair. Where is he, anyway?”
“Here they are now,” Prince says, nodding toward the door before he stands and makes his way across the room.
Bobby watches him go. Watches as he greets Cunningham, Demeroven stepping in behind him, all of them jovial and bright. Bobby downs the rest of his drink. Not only will Demeroven ruin Prince’s party for him, but now he’s here cavorting with Prince and Cunningham—stealing them from Bobby, more like.
He fiddles with his signet ring. It feels like his limbs might jitter themselves right off his body. He’s not going to let Demeroven get to him like this. He doesn’t owe the man anything, and Demeroven doesn’t owe him anything either. Clearly, if his words at the tea party last week were any measure. They don’t have to like each other at all. Nor spend any time together, Bobby decides.
He stands, determined to find a group of people to talk to, but he hasn’t taken two steps when Cunningham grabs his arm.
“Ah, Mason, excellent. We need a fourth for whist.”
Bobby grimaces, but doesn’t pull out of his hold. It’s one thing for him and Demeroven to behave like cavemen in front of Beth and Gwen. But he can’t be that rude in front of Prince when he’s invited them both to the stag night.
And so he finds himself seated beside Demeroven at Prince’ssmall card table, watching Demeroven expertly shuffle the deck. He looks at ease now in an open collar, suspenders, and a loose frock coat. Nothing like the tightly wound prick he traded insults with last week.
Which is a problem, because he looks sodding good like this too. If the man was just atrocious to look at, Bobby might not feel so twisted up. But those damn blue eyes peer up at him and he feels his chest tighten against his will.
“Are you a better whist player than a badminton player?” Demeroven asks, eyes bright, a smile playing at his lips.
Handsome or not, Bobby’s not quite ready to make nice. “In a fair game, absolutely.”
“Oh, was there dirty badminton at the Steton do? Thought I saw you on the courts,” Cunningham says. “What am I saying? Of course there was. Your cousin was there, wasn’t she, Mason?”
Bobby looks over at Cunningham. “Lady Gwen?”
“She plays like a demon,” Prince puts in. “Beats the pants off everyone.”
“Actually, MissBertram and I beat Lady Gwen and Mason,” Demeroven says as he begins dealing out the cards.
“Really?” Prince asks, glancing at Bobby in surprise. “No one ever beats Lady Gwen.”
