“You’re not listening to me. I want to be that personalways. Only and always.”
“James,” Cassian said through a breathy half-laugh. “You know that’s not how it can be. It’s not how the world works.”
James’s bottom lip trembled, and he shrugged.
“I’ll have to live in my fantasies, then,” he said, “if that’s not how the world works.” He sniffled and blinked back a few tears. “Do you know how I said that you were entitled to me?” Cassian’s brows pinched, but he otherwise stayed quiet. James shook his head. “You’re not entitled to me likethis, Cassian. I want to feel special. I want to feelcherished. Not used.”
“I’m not—”
James held up his hand, wordlessly cutting him off in the exact manner Cassian had done so many times before. Cassian looked stunned—his eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up—but complied.
“IknowI’m asking a lot of you, and I... Jesus, I hadn’t even realized that I needed to ask it. Not before we started having this conversation. But now Idoknow that I have to.” James shut his eyes for a moment and sighed. “I can’t pretend to know what our future should look like. Or even what itcanlook like. But Idoknow that I can’t only be some man who you see once in a while, one who youtakewhenever it fits with your schedule. I can’t be here, at sea, knowing that you’re there, in New York, spending most of your time with someone who isn’t me. Someone who might be in love with you. Someone who at the very least hopes to have children with you. I want more than that. I’mworthmorethan that. And you are, too, Cassian. You deserve more than that. I want us to figure out how to be together. Really, truly together. I want alifetogether. Somehow.”
Cassian stood, clutching the towel. “James—”
“Iknowit’s a lot to ask for. But I still hope that you’ll consider it. I hope that you’ll consider what it is that you really want, not what’s expected of you. Because I know what it is thatIwant. And it’s you.Allof you.” James paused, and a few tears fell from his eyes. “I won’t settle for less. And you shouldn’t either.” He sniffled and wiped his wet cheek with his sleeve. “Soon enough, we’ll reach New York. And I’d like to know your answer by then. Come find me when you... God, fucking hell, come find me when you get your head out of your arse, Cassian.”
He stormed out of the room.
Chapter Eighteen
Cassian
April 14, 1912
7:05 p.m.
Seated in the saloon beside Ethel, Cassian was nursing his glass of wine. Over the last several hours, he had been replaying the conversation he’d had with James in the Turkish Bath Complex, but hestillcouldn’t comprehend James’s sudden and strong reaction to his musings about their future together. Clearly James thought that Cassian’s plan was inadequate. Or, worse, even. James seemed to think that Cassian merely following through with the expectations that had been placed on him not only by his parents, but by society as a whole, would be morally reprehensible.
But Cassian couldn’t see why that was. After all, he’d be kind to whichever woman he’d eventually marry (and thankfully, that woman, whoever she was, wouldn’t be Ethel, since imagining the exact same scenario with her as his wife made his stomach hurt).
Still, whichever other woman Cassian ended up with, he’d ensure that she was taken care of, financiallyandsocially. Most of the women whom Cassian had met over the years would have been more than satisfied to enter into a marriage with someone like him—someone with both the connections and wealth to ensure aprosperous future for her and her children. Equally as important, those women had seemed to know that their future husbands might have mistresses. Consequently, Cassian was honestly struggling to see a problem with his plan. After all, marrying for love still seemed like a thing of fairy-tales to him. Or, if not fiction, then at least not something that was practiced by most of those who belonged to New York’s high society. And it stood to reason that whomever Cassian eventually chose for a wife would likely have the same beliefs surrounding matrimony.
Besides that, though, James had been hurt by the mere thought of Cassian sharing his life with someone else, even if that life was only a ruse. Again, though, Cassian couldn’t make sense of this, exactly. He could separate physical affection (and certainly sexual intimacy) from emotional connection with ease. But James had behaved as though Cassian occasionally engaging in intimate relations with his future wife (if only to prevent potential suspicions over his sexual proclivities and provide her with children) somehow meant that Cassian’s feelings for him weren’t sincere, when that couldn’t have been further from the truth. CassianlovedJames. He loved every single thing about him. Intimacy with some other person, regardless of who that person was, couldn’t negate that. Still, though, James seemed to have been completely crushed by the notion of Cassian bedding his future wife, no matter what Cassian said on the matter.
So now Cassian was left with a heaviness in his chest, confusion and sorrow both pulling on his fractured heart with equal force. And he wondered how he ought to fix things. It seemed as though his choices were to either spit in the face of societal conventions so that he could continue to have James (which, in turn, might result in kinds of consequences that he couldn’t even foresee) or otherwise leave James and follow the path that had been laid out for him since he was a boy (something that seemed completelyunfathomable to him; Cassian was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with James now, and he simply couldn’t conceive of life without the steward’s sweet smile, clever wit, consent to continuously provide exceptional service ofallkinds, and, of course, those ludicrously pinchable cheeks).
What was he to do?
Cassian was still somewhat lost in thought, the constant pain from heartbreak having exhausted him close to the point of numbness, when James came over to wait on their table. Cassian’s stomach seized the moment James’s voice brought him back to the present, but he kept his focus on the empty dinnerware in front of him as James moved from person to person, scribbling down their preferences for the main course.
Cassian frowned at the beautiful turquoise-and-gold-patterned plate, and then he lifted his eyes to linger on the rich burgundy wine he’d ordered before. Refined chatter from the other first-class passengers played in his ears like the most familiar melody, and the beautiful sound made Cassian’s heart sink. Dammit, helovedJames. But he lovedthisas well. Dining in first class. Being surrounded by his peers. Peers who respected him. Peers who maybe even revered him, even for his name alone. Even more than those things, however, Cassian loved making money through his various investments and assorted new business ventures. Could he really eschew this whole lifestyle in order to be with the man he loved? Would that be what was necessary to keep him? Cassian couldn’t imagine what a life “together” with James could even look like. James himself seemed not to know. And yet Cassian had seemingly been tasked with figuring it out for the both of them. Or else lose their connection forever.
Cassian’s blood spiked with irritation, and he clenched his teeth as it rolled through him.
And then, for the first time in probably his whole entire life, Cassian had the crystal-clear thought that life was not fair.
“Good evening, Mr. Livingston,” James said, his voice flat, lacking its usual cheeriness and sweetness. Cassian’s stomach lurched for a second time. “What would you like for your main course tonight?”
“I’ll have the lamb,” Cassian responded, his voice weak. “Mint sauce on the side.”
Just after Cassian said the words, he had the fleeting thought that maybe James might make a playful remark about his previous faux pas with the horseradish sauce, but instead James only nodded, said a brief, unenthusiastic-sounding “lovely choice,” and walked off. Cassian’s insides coiled from a flash of self-reproach, and he shut his eyes as he scrubbed his forehead with his fingertips, a headache beginning to brew.
“Are you all right, Cassian?” Ethel asked. “Do you need some water?”
“Here.” Mr. Quinn passed his water over to Ethel, who then placed it in front of Cassian, even though he had a half-filled glass of his own sitting there next to his wine. “Take mine. You can have as much as you need. I get headaches, too, sometimes, if I drink too much wine without properly hydrating beforehand.” He cleared his throat, and worry lines rippled across his forehead. “Not to imply that you made a mistake in your beverage choice for the evening, of course.” He frowned. “Apologies, Mr. Livingston. I shouldn’t be so presumptive. Headaches can happen for all sorts of reasons.”
“It’s fine, Mr. Quinn,” Cassian said through a sigh before forcing a small but hopefully reassuring smile. “Drinking water before or with wine is, indeed, a sensible practice.”
