“Oh, but you forget, Mason, I know what you both look like when you’re freshly... debauched. And you’ve done little to hide it.”
James clenches his jaw, looking around, but they’re thankfully alone. Just Raverson, Mason, and James here in the dim tent light by the overscented lavatories. And even still, he wants to hide, wants to shrink away. But Mason is tall beside him, strong, and James reminds himself he doesn’t have to take this lying down. He doesn’t have to let Raverson have this kind of sway over him.
“You’re making dangerous assumptions,” James tells him, curling his hands into fists.
Raverson meets his eyes with that damn languid smirk. “And you must have gotten better in the sack, then, Demeroven, if you’re able to entice Mason. Though Mason is slumming it a bit for you, isn’t he?”
He doesn’t know quite why he does it. But something inside him snaps and James finds himself rushing forward. His fist collides with a solid, painful thud against Raverson’s jaw.
Coming at him from beneath, given their height difference, the impact sets Raverson off balance and James watches inastonishment as he tips backward and lands sprawled on the packed dirt ground, a hand to his jaw.
“Damn, Demeroven,” Mason says, whistling as he steps up to his side, a hand out to stay James should he feel like going for a second hit.
But James isn’t sure what even got him to the first. He’s never hit anyone before. But it—it felt good.
It feels good, staring down at Raverson as he glares up at them, indignant and flattened there on the ground, his white linen suit covered in dust. It makes James feel just a bit powerful.
“You’re a dead man, Demeroven. I’ll tell the whole town about this—let them in on your precious secrets—the both of you,” he spits up at them.
“Oh, yes, and what credibility you’ll have. Uh-uh,” Mason says, stepping in front of James to kick Raverson’s raised foot away.
Raverson must have been trying to strike James in the knee. Perhaps James is not so powerful after all, but rather in shock. He should have seen that coming.
“Who do you think they’ll believe—you, or lords in good standing with high morals and good families? You’ve yet to even claim a party. You’re a joke,” Mason says, his chin high, looking rather imperious.
Raverson glares at Mason as he slowly sits up. Mason stays that step ahead of James, in a sort of ready stance, like a boxer. James wonders idly if Mason boxes. It would account for the sinuous muscle he felt when—
“I’ll tell your stepfather,” Raverson says.
A surge of shame washes over James at the clutch those words have around his heart. But no, he will not let Raverson believe he’s found James’ soft underbelly. He will not let Raverson seean ounce of the hurt and confusion and shame he’s brought on James by becoming close with his stepfather. He won’t give the man the satisfaction.
“You may think you’ve charmed my stepfather, and perhaps you have,” he says, holding his chin high, just like Mason did, forcing his voice to be steady. “But we’re not at Oxford anymore, Richard,” he says, his false bravado giving way to something deeper as Raverson stares at him in shock. “Running to a boy’s daddy to tell him what he’s done won’t get you the power or standing you had at school. You’ll need to be cleverer than that. Handkerchiefs and trinkets aren’t enough anymore. You’ve no popularity. You’re nothing.”
Mason glances back at him, looking rather impressed. Raverson struggles to his feet, glaring. James reaches out and tugs on Mason’s arm, yanking him back. He thinks there’s a glimmer of doubt in Raverson’s cold dark eyes as he rubs his jaw.
“You’ll both be sorry,” he says, disdain and threat dripping from the words.
“Go find some ice,” Mason says.
Raverson stares at them for a long, uncomfortable moment before turning on his heel and stalking off. James watches him go, his knuckles almost numb where he’s clutching at Mason’s sleeve.
The crowd roars distantly and he shakes himself, releasing Mason’s arm to run trembling fingers through his hair.
“You should have broken his nose,” Mason says, turning to regard James as they stand alone at the back of the pavilion.
“My aim was off,” James agrees. “Wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Fair,” Mason says, looking over his shoulder to ensure Raverson has truly disappeared. “How’s your hand?”
James shrugs, flexing his fingers. Reginald taught him how toswing a proper punch when he was a boy, but no one ever told him how much it hurts to collide your knuckles with another man’s jaw. “I’ll be fine,” he says, noting the way Mason still looks a little bit impressed.
Men.
Yes, men. He, normally a completely rational man, just had a tryst and then socked a peer. A lord who’s currently blackmailing them both.
“Well, this seems to have solved our problem, at least momentarily,” Mason says, reaching out for James’ hand.
James hastily shoves his hands into his pockets. He can’t let Mason touch him again. He doesn’t know what he’ll do. He doesn’t know himself today. And he doesn’t know if that’s Mason’s fault, or Raverson’s, or his stepfather’s, or if perhaps beneath the surface this is who he’s always been—dangerous, reckless, and thoughtless—and he’s just been suppressing it with anxiety and fear all this time.
