She pulls him to a stop outside his door, glances at Demeroven, and then turns to Bobby, smiling fondly. She runs her aging hand over his door, tracing the faded etching where he carved his name into the wood when he was four. His father beat him, but Mrs.Tilty was impressed he knew his letters.
“I am well, Mr.Mason,” she says. “Glad to have you back, and for your company.”
They both look at Demeroven, who blushes and then slips into the guest room, the door closing with what feels like a decisive click. So much for conversation.
Bobby forces himself to look back at Mrs.Tilty. “We’ve missed you too. There’s absolutely room for you at the London house, if you’re interested,” he says, thinking it might be rather nice to have her there.
But of course: “No, no, my place is here. Mr.Tilty has London well in hand. And what would he and I have to discuss when he comes home if I were there to experience it with him?”
“I do hate that we take your husband from you for four months out of the year,” Bobby says.
“Oh, goodness. If we didn’t have this break every year, we’d surely murder each other,” Mrs.Tilty says with a chuckle. “Now, I’ve laundered your sheets with the lavender soap you like, and there’s water and a bit of rosemary bread on the side table if you get hungry.”
Bobby reaches out impulsively to hug her. She squeaks and then hums, rubbing his back. He takes just a moment to savor her familiarity, her safety. She feels like all the good of childhood, and he wonders as he pulls back how he survives in London without her.
“All right, all right. To bed with you. Lady Harrington hasall kinds of things planned for the week, as does Lady Mason. We’ve tried to keep them entertained, but nothing beats young blood.”
“I’m sure you’ve done a wonderful job,” Bobby says, taking her hands. “And thank you. I know it is a huge comfort to Albie that you’ve been here with Meredith.”
“It’s my honor. I can’t wait to have another little boy to chase.”
Bobby smiles and lets her leave him after a squeeze of his hands. He stands there, big and small, old and young, comforted and disconnected all at once. He leans back against his door, feeling the familiar solid wood, hoping it can ground him.
Instead, he’s left staring at Demeroven’s door, all kinds of other feelings rising in his chest until they crescendo. He throws his door open and catapults himself into his childhood bedroom. He strides across the room with practiced steps to launch himself face down onto his bed, feeling the bounce like an old friend, eyes squeezed shut.
He’s had many a strop in this room, with its blue walls and cream-colored furniture. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to see the tattered lace of his canopy. Doesn’t need to look to know there are little horse and knight figurines still on the windowsill. His sheets smell like lavender, and the bed is the kind of soft only an extremely old mattress can be, lumpy in just the right spots.
It’s the perfect place to simply dissolve into a puddle of frayed nerves, sexual frustration, and general malaise, and he’s set to do just that, rolling onto his back to splay like a starfish, his feet hanging off the side of the bed.
And then the bed moves.
Chapter Eighteen
James
He’s not entirely sure how he finds himself with a knee on Mason’s bed, in what’s clearly Mason’s childhood bedroom, with Mason sprawled out below him. All he knows is that there was this feeling, all through the carriage ride, all through dinner, like a brightening in his chest. Like someone reached inside him and lit a light he didn’t know existed.
All along, he’s thought Mason was being reckless, suggesting something that could never be. How could there be a safe dalliance? How could there be protection, and acceptance, and support for a relationship such as theirs?
But here they are, in a house made of three families, where his cousin and herloverare accepted, and loved, and championed. Mason wasn’t simply talking from between his legs. He knew—he’slived—another way.
And yes, in London, it’s different.
But James knows the bravery that wormed its way down to his foot at dinner, knows how warm and comfortable and... happy he’s felt for the last twelve hours. Even if it’s just here, just with their weird extended families, all tangled into a protective web of acceptance. Even if they have to hide from Lady Harrington—how much easier it is to hide from just one woman than all of London.
He wants to know, just once, what it would be like to havethis. What it might be like to be as comfortable as Lady Gwen and his cousin. What it might be like to finally reach out and take something he wants—someone he wants.
Mason blinks his eyes open, staring up at James, his mouth parted, chest rising and falling rapidly. He can see Mason’s mind whirring behind his hazel eyes. Can see the questions, the hesitation. Can see the frustration too—that look he gave James at dinner, full of heat and future payback and lust.
James doesn’t know how to explain what’s changed. How he’s gone from idolizing Mason, to hating everything he stands for, to being jealous, to wanting more. How much it means, how much it excites him, how much it baffles him, that Mason wants him back.
He can’t seem to form the words, and so he falls back on the only thing he knows, and bends over Mason. He dips his head, waiting only a fraction of a moment for Mason to raise his neck, and then their lips collide.
It’s soft, and heated, and achingly tender. James slowly straddles Mason, a knee on either side of his broad hips so he can press down, gasping into Mason’s mouth. Mason’s hands move to cradle James’ jaw, angling him so he can better nibble on James’ bottom lip.
James groans, heat shooting through him, and Mason pulls back.
They stare at each other for a charged beat.
