An entirely different, prickly feeling raced down Jonathan’s spine. Friends. Lord Frome’s friends. Was Jonathan now counted among those?
“Of course,” Jonathan said, making his smile as broad as possible. “But I must warn you,” he went on as he strode over to Frome’s side and joined him in walking around the house toward the south lawn, “I was brilliant at tennis at university. And I have the advantage of youth and stamina on my side whereas the rest of you….”
He made a mock regretful face that had several of the older gentlemen laughing.
His father was among that crowd. He watched Jonathan intently.
Unlike his usual frowns and scowls of disapproval, Jonathan’s father seemed more curious than anything else. When Lord Frome made a joke about all the work Fairford’s laundry would need to put into removing grass stains from gentlemen’s trousers and Jonathan replied with a quip of his own, his father actually smiled.
His father smiled at him. All it had taken, after years of fury, insults, and disgust, was to sink to the silly level of a group of gentlemen who seemed to be in the country for no other reason than to behave like rowdy boys.
“Shall we play doubles?” Copeland asked once the assembly of guests had gathered around the carefully prepared tennis court.
“I claim young Moorgate for my side,” Atherton leapt forward, grabbing Jonathan’s arm like he would drag him off into chaos.
Jonathan didn’t like the touch at all. It was too quick and possessive for a man he barely knew. He was uneasy about the fire in the man’s eyes as he did a sweep of Jonathan’s body, then said, “Young Moorgate appears to be as strong and athletic as he claims he is.”
“And who are you when you’re at home?” Jonathan asked boldly, thinking of his mission once more.
His father surprised him by answering, “Mr. Atherton is a colleague of mine in the House of Commons. You would know this if you paid attention to anything at all.”
The urge to snap back at his father and accuse him of blocking any sort of knowledge that might be interesting in the company they currently kept was strong.
The trouble was, that thought unlocked a dark door within Jonathan, one he’d steadfastly ignored for nearly half his life.
He’d always prided himself on having the strength and cleverness to separate himself from his family and claim his freedom to live as he pleased, embracing his true self. But as he took a racket from one of the footmen, shed his jacket, and took up a position with Atherton on the court, another, devastating truth hit him.
He hadn’t boldly claimed his freedom. He’d been pushed out of a world that he’d actually rather liked.
And suddenly, he was back in the center of it again.
“Your serve, young Moorgate,” Atherton said, tossing him one of the tennis balls.
“Thank you, minister,” Jonathan caught the ball and acknowledged the man with a playful nod, despite his growing aversion.
If he could just play the game well enough, if he could make the right friends and ingratiate himself to the men around him, maybe, perhaps, just possibly, he could go home again.
His first serve had too much energy behind it and bounced hard off the packed grass on the other side of the net. It flew wildly off to one side as the other gentlemen laughed.
“That’s the spirit, young Moorgate!” Lord Frome called from the side, where he stood next to Jonathan’s father. “We all knew you had it in you.”
“I’d wager he has a lot more in him than that,” Copeland added with a laugh.
The game continued and Jonathan’s play improved. Once he had a feel for the court and his racket, he was able to aim his shots more precisely and overpower his opponents. All the skills he’d had in his youth returned to him, and within no time, his blood was pounding and his muscles flexing as he leapt after tricky shots and made a few of his own.
Of course, it did not take long for him to realize that the gentlemen he played with were not as interested in the game or his prowess as they were in having someone to center their jokes and conversation around.
“Young Moorgate will leave his photography business to tour the world playing tennis soon,” Copeland laughed as Jonathan defeated him with an excellent shot.
“He certainly has worked up a sweat,” Atherton commented with an arch of one eyebrow.
“Younger men will always upstage their elders,” another of the guests whom Jonathan hadn’t had an opportunity to speak with yet said with a smirk, crossing his arms.
“Perhaps young Moorgate could put on a display for us, stripped to the waist and playing on his own,” Blythe laughed.
That comment caused Jonathan to miss a fairly easy shot. He turned to watch the ball veer off and one of the footmen chase after it. He needed the moment to look away from the men he’d been trying so hard to make his friends.
They weren’t his friends at all. Their teasing wasn’t acceptance. They’d invited him into their midst because they needed a butt for their jokes.
