“Good for her,” Demeroven says.
Bobby blows out a breath. This is Beth’s cousin. He has to extend him some grace.
“Well, I hope you find an act that piques your interest,” Bobby says, forcing lightness into his voice. “I’d hate to think you’d be bored to tears all season.”
Demeroven toys with his cuff links, eyes fixed toward the floor. “Every time anyone brings up a point that’s remotely interesting, somehow the conversation turns to the events for the season and the racing bets. Endless talk of racing bets. How men who make our laws can be so enthralled with mindless, vulgar gambling, I’ll never know,” he says in a rush.
The man is certainly making it difficult. “Surely there must be something of interest. I hear the games of whist at the club get rather competitive,” Bobby says.
“I don’t gamble,” Demeroven reiterates.
“You don’t have to gamble to play whist,” Bobby replies, trying not to take it personally. “Uncle Dashiell says you were good at maths. You must like cards.”
Demeroven shrugs again, shoulders slightly hunched. “I’m decent at whist, but I won’t abide playing for money, not with them, anyway.”
Bobby watches the way his glance shifts back to the parlor, disdain on his otherwise handsome face. That won’t do. “You’ll have to get better at pretending.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s no way you’ll survive at the clubs with that attitude. Find something, low-stakes games, darts—anything—to make you seem approachable, or you’ll be marked for the season.”Demeroven’s shoulders stiffen and Bobby winces as he tightens his jaw again. “I only meant... Well, you’ll need to find a way to survive at the clubs is all. Connections are important. I could suggest a few clubs that are less... lordly, if you like.”
He starts to say more, but the flat look Demeroven turns his way sours the words in his throat. He was only trying tohelp, for God’s sake, no need to look at him as if he’s dirt on the man’s shoe.
Still struggling for any way to keep the conversation going, Bobby turns at a touch to his elbow. He wilts in relief to find Beth at his side, smiling up at him while Gwen offers her hand to Demeroven.
Demeroven nods stiffly at them. “Lady Gwen, Miss Bertram.”
Bobby nearly pushes the man into his cousin’s arms, watching Demeroven sedately escort Gwen onto the floor. They make a striking couple once they get moving, his lithe build and her tall, stately frame, twirling gracefully. It seems unfair that Demeroven should be both that attractive and a good dancer, especially when Gwen’s always complaining that Bobby’s dancing skills pale in comparison to Albie’s. Hehasgotten better over the last year; she just refuses to acknowledge it.
“You two getting along?” Beth asks, sidling into Demeroven’s empty space.
Bobby looks down at her, rolling his eyes at her eagerness. Always wanting them all to get along, to be happy—dreadfully loving of her. But he can’t resist her big brown doe eyes. And with her rich brown hair falling in ringlets from her braided bun, she’s almost angelic.
“He’s... fine,” Bobby lies, looking back at the dance floor. Can’t miss Gwen, her blond hair styled in much the same way, a head taller than most of the girls, and inches taller than Demeroven, for that matter.
“Do you think you could invite him to visit the clubs with you?” Beth asks.
Bobby turns back to her, eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Well, he doesn’t know anyone. And I remember how lonely I was in the first few weeks of the season. It would be nice for you to introduce him to a few people, help him make friends.”
Bobby bites his tongue against the honest retort—that most of his friends have up and gotten married, the poor lads. Cunningham is still about, and Prince, somewhere, though he thinks he’s heard that Prince has gotten engaged too.
“I’m not sure he’d like the clubs I attend,” Bobby says instead. It’s enormously true, but feels safer than baring his own lonely soul.
It’s not that Beth wouldn’t understand, but she has Gwen. A constant friend, a live-in companion—the love of her blasted life. And he’s just... second fiddle to his brother, who barely has any time for him anymore.
“I’m sure he’d find them interesting,” Beth counters. “Please? I’d hate to see him fall in with the wrong crowd.”
Bobby sighs. Albie would tell him to do it—help ensure that Demeroven votes with the liberals, sympathetic to Uncle Dashiell’s positions. Help erase the stain of the previous Viscount Demeroven—Beth’s late, horrible father. A new voice for a new generation.
And if even Beth—who has every reason to resent Demeroven for coming of age, inheriting her late father’s estate, and nearly leaving her and her mother destitute last season—can find it in her heart to help him, how can Bobby refuse?
He spins the new gold signet ring Meredith got him, engraved with his initials, around on his finger and watches Gwen and Demeroven continue dancing into another set. He supposes showing Demeroven the town wouldn’t be the worst wayto spend a season. He’s handsome and learned, even if he seems to be a dour, reticent chap. Bobby has always liked a challenge.
“What do I get if I do this for you?” he asks, looking back at Beth.
“The pride of a job well done and a possibly enduring friendship aren’t enough?” Bobby narrows his eyes and she laughs. “How about my undying gratitude?”
