James tries to straighten said weak backbone, curling his fingers into fists as his stepfather slips into one of his tried-and-true rants. James is meek. James is fragile. James is bad with people. James isn’t cut out for this life, and if they’d just spoken to the late viscount, they could have ensured that Stepfather maintained official control of the finances once James came of age. But no, Stepfather is saddled with this lump of a boy instead of the man he needs.
“I’ll do better,” James cuts in, his ears ringing with phantom previous lectures. “Tomorrow. I’ll make sure to meet Henchey. Brighton wasn’t there, for the record.”
“Of course he wasn’t. Wouldn’t waste his time with something so frivolous.”
James yawns theatrically. “Right, well, I’m knackered. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.”
He ducks out of the room before his stepfather can get another word in and pads back across the foyer and down the corridor to the kitchen. He can’t face his bed just yet, not with his stepfather’s tirade still ringing in his ears.
Instead, he collapses at the long oak staff table in the red-tiled kitchen and lets his head fall into his hands. He just needs a few minutes for the echo of his stepfather’s words, the latent sound of the orchestra, the chatter of his cousin, her stepsister, and the Mason boys talking too fast and too furious to fade away.
But as he stares at the backs of his eyelids, Bobby Mason’s face fills his mind. His broad jaw, his thoughtful hazel eyes, his frown at finding James as lacking as everyone else always does—
Their chef, Reginald, smacks a plate of scones down in front of James and he jumps.
“Jesus,” James says.
Reginald pours him a glass of milk, plops it down beside the plate, and strides around the table to sit heavily across from him. His blue eyes sparkle with interest and James wants to hide his face again.
Reginald has been teasing secrets out of James since he was small and Reginald was just a kitchen hand, plying him with cookies and shielding him from his stepfather whenever possible. Often his only refuge, and friend, Reginald knows every one of James’ tells, which is bloody annoying sometimes, even as the smell of the scones does release the tension in his shoulders.
“So?”
James groans and stuffs half a scone into his mouth to stall.
“Come on, tell me. Is he everything you thought he’d be?” Reginald asks.
James feels himself flush. “Shut up,” he mumbles.
Reginald grins, rubbing his hands together. His dimples make his smile almost irresistible, but James does not want to discuss this. Not when the night felt like such an unmitigated failure.
“All right. How was the dancing?”
James stuffs another scone in his mouth and Reginald laughs.
“Really? Anyone of interest?”
James shrugs. Lady Gwen wasn’t a terrible partner, though she hardly seemed focused on him. Lady Gwen and his cousin, MissBertram, are thick as thieves and seem to be able to communicate with nary a glance between them, always laughing and filling out their Spot-the-Scion cards.
“It was fine,” he says after he gets the scone down. Usually they’re his favorite, but he’s parched from all the dancing and alcohol.
He takes a long drink of milk, closing his eyes to hide from Reginald’s raised eyebrow.
“Fine,” Reginald repeats, waiting him out until he can’t drink any more. “You must have metsomeone.”
“Lord Havenfort introduced me to the lords,” James mumbles, taking another scone simply to crumble it to bits on the plate.
“And?”
“And they were rather boring,” he admits, finally looking up to meet Reginald’s eyes. “A lot of whose wife was where and which daughter was available.”
“Any of those daughters the ones your mother keeps harping on about?”
James sighs. “Plenty.”
“And how many did you dance with?”
“Two?” he guesses. He really wasn’t paying much attention to anyone but his cousin and Lady Gwen. “The rest were friends of my cousin’s, and they’re all already taken.”
