Read on for an excerpt from You’re the Problem, It’s You Coming in Summer 2024
Bobby
They haven’t invented a liquor strong enough to counteract the absolute banality of an opening-night ball. Bobby Mason stares down into his drink, listening to his brother, Albie, and their friend Lord Cunningham recite a list of debutantes at a rapid-fire pace, all the names swirling into a light buzz. Bobby’s not sure how Albie has managed to keep track of this many girls, living up north all year. Perhaps this is what Meredith discusses when they’re spending long, loving evenings together.
Guilt overtakes him. He shouldn’t think ill of his new sister-in-law, stuck in the country and unable to travel because she’s expecting and poorly. If he’s being honest, Albie’s always the one bringing up engagement gossip, not Meredith. Meredith’s a delight. This unending conversation is a pain.
“But I wouldn’t put any money on the Steton-Johnson merger,” Cunningham says, his slightly nasal voice cutting into Bobby’s brooding.
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Albie says, chuckling as Cunningham rolls his eyes. “Lady Annabeth goes after what she wants. She already had ten scions last I checked.”
“Damn, already?” Bobby grumbles as he looks down at his own Spot-the-Scion card. He’s only managed to spot seven society sons, four of whom include himself, Albie, Cunningham, and his cousin Gwen’s partner Beth’s cousin Lord James Demeroven.
Bobby glances at Demeroven and finds him staring down into his own glass, narrow shoulders high. Cunningham’s apparently betrothed to a nice girl up in the country, so he has no need to make a match this season—the poor lucky sod. But Demeroven, with his new title, will need to think about settling down. Bobby is sure Beth’s terrible uncle is eager for Demeroven to pop out an heir.
Of course, that’s not a unique perspective in this room. Bobby looks out at the sea of debutantes, mothers, and eligible scions in the immaculate ballroom. It’s all swirls of soft pastels, tails, and glittering jewels.
Oh, and there’s Mr. Yokely, Lord Yokely’s younger brother. “Eight,” Bobby mumbles. He fishes the small pencil Gwen passed him earlier out of his pocket to mark his Spot-the-Scion card. He’s doing pretty well for having spent the first hour dancing with Beth—another ten eligible sons spotted and he might have a chance at winning.
“You got another?” Albie asks, leaning up to see his card. Bobby’s got inches on his older brother now. It’s still strange to be able to look down at Albie’s light brown hair.
“Not much else to do,” Bobby offers with a shrug. He does so love his cousin and Beth for coming up with something to keep them occupied.
He really should be trying harder. Beth said that betting rights and gains at the Ascot races would go to the winner of their society sons tournament this year. He’s not sure if that prize is just among the extended family, as they are, or if it includes Beth and Gwen’s young lady friends too. If so, he’s doomed. He can never remember enough of the various heirs to fill out a whole card, and they’ve added the spares this year, too. At least the girls get twirled around the room, giving them a better vantage point to scope out the myriad progeny of the ton.
He notices Albie marking something down on his card. “How many do you have?”
“Fifteen,” Albie says, brown eyes twinkling.
Bobby groans. “Demeroven, how are you doing?” he asks, wanting to feel at least a little better about his terrible way with faces and names.
Demeroven looks up, his piercing blue eyes darting about to figure out who addressed him. He looks so uncomfortable. “Um, four?”
“Just us, then?” Albie asks, not unkindly.
“Yes,” Demeroven says, sheepish.
“Well, that won’t do,” Cunningham says, his round cheeks dimpling with a slightly evil smirk. “We’ll have to get both of you lads dancing, then, won’t we?”
“Oh no. No, no,” Bobby says, trying to back away. Albie grabs him about the shoulders, laughing at his expense. “I don’t dance.”
“You danced with Beth,” Albie counters.
“Beth is different,” he says hastily. “She doesn’t step on my toes.”
“I’m sure there are any number of lovely young ladies who can manage a simple waltz without injuring you,” Albie says, his grip tightening. “What about—”
“Demeroven’s the one who should dance,” Bobby says desperately, wincing as Demeroven’s head snaps up, a lock of sandy-brown hair falling into those harried blue eyes. “He’s new. He needs to meet new people.”
“I couldn’t, really. I’m sure there must be— Oh, Lord Havenfort,” Demeroven says, turning with a relieved smile as Bobby and Albie’s uncle approaches them. Bobby thinks he hears Demeroven add a muttered, “Thank Christ.”
“Gentlemen,” Uncle Dashiell greets, smiling down at all of them. Dashiell Frederic Bertram, Earl of Havenfort, is almost a head taller than most of the men in the room and, with his striking blond hair and features, draws every eye his way everywhere he goes.
Honestly, if Bobby’s cousin Gwen wanted to find a husband, she wouldn’t have trouble. She got all of her looks from her father—statuesque, blond, and instantly captivating. Now, if Bobby could only spot her and her partner Beth in the crowd . . .
“Bobby, would you mind terribly if I stole Albert, James, and Lord Cunningham away? There are several members of our party I’d like you all to meet,” Uncle Dashiell says.
And how can Bobby do anything but nod and smile, watching as his only protection, such as they were, is shepherded away to more important matters? He supposes it wouldn’t occur to any of them to invite him along. He’s of no political import, after all. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be interested.
Bobby sighs and swigs the rest of his drink, staring out at the ball. Albie’s running the estate. Albie’s taking their late father’s seat in parliament. Albie’s doing everything important. All that’s left for Bobby is the social season. He’s meant to be making a good impression for the family name, but he’d rather be absolutely anywhere else.
He turns and strides back to the drink station to slug back another whisky. But the burn of the alcohol against his tongue turns his stomach and he only drinks half the dram before placing it back on the table. The doctor wasn’t positive it was the drink that killed their father, but it certainly didn’t help.
The thought curdles in Bobby’s throat and he turns to search some more for Beth and Gwen. He doesn’t want to think about his wretched father tonight. Nor the mess he left for Albie to clean up.
He just wants to hide away with his cousin and Beth. Let himself be buoyed by their happiness. Neither Gwen nor Beth needs to think about finding a husband. Uncle Dashiell and his new aunt Cordelia, Beth’s mother, have made it quite clear they’d be happy to have Beth and Gwen under their roof, protected and insulated against the ton forever. Two young women, in love, hiding in plain sight.
If only his father hadn’t been such an absolute brute, perhaps Bobby could have arranged something similar. Ignoring the fact that he hasn’t yet found a man he’d ever consider settling down with, of course.
But now it’s no longer a possibility. His father is dead. And he’s one carriage accident away from being the reigning Viscount Mason. He needs another drink, sod what the doctors said about his father.
He turns to make for the drinks table again, but finds his path blocked by a deluge of satin and skirts. Lady . . . Chiswith (he thinks) and her daughter have snuck up on him and now stand between him and the sweet relief of alcohol.
“Your father was such a lovely man, Mr. Mason. I know I speak for my husband as well in extending our deepest condolences,” Lady Chiswith says, her narrow face crinkled in sympathy that makes Bobby itch.
His father was so far in the opposite direction of “a lovely man” that it’s almost comical. “Thank you,” he manages, looking briefly to Lady Chiswith’s daughter, who’s fanning herself with a blue feather monstrosity.
“Miss Chiswith would be more than happy to take your mind off your tragic loss, if you feel as though you have enough strength for dancing,” Lady Chiswith says.
Bobby notices Lady Chiswith’s daughter paling in mortification. He can relate. No need to put them both through misery. “I’m afraid I haven’t the strength,” Bobby says seriously, trying to project Albie’s pleasant, polite smile at the woman. He’s sure it doesn’t come off half so well on his face. “Another time,” he adds, looking at the daughter.
Her shoulders relax and he silently pats himself on the back. He bows and quickly retreats, striding across the room as if he has somewhere to be. But even with that dance dodged, he sees hungry maternal eyes tracking him from every cluster of attendees. Like he’s a piece of fresh meat. Which he supposes he is, though he’s hardly a prize.
The second son of a lightly disgraced gambler with an alcohol problem—surely there’s someone better for the many daughters at the ball tonight. But the wandering, watchful eyes say otherwise, and, oh dear, he needs to find the safety of his cousin and Beth, now.
He searches for a flash of blond but can’t see Gwen anywhere. Beth’s far too short to find from this far away. He about-faces again, considering heading out to the small terrace, before he nearly bumps into Demeroven.
The shorter man hovers just outside the hall to the velvet-lined parlor, where many of the gentlemen and parliamentarians have set up camp for the night, far from the fray. Demeroven should still be inside. Bobby can just see Uncle Dashiell’s head in the chamber beyond.
Instead, Demeroven has nearly pressed himself back against the wall, blocking Bobby’s more furtive path out to the terrace. And though he’s not Beth or Gwen, Demeroven is still better than the roving mothers.
“All a little much?” he asks, focusing on Demeroven’s discomfort instead of living in his own.
Demeroven’s head snaps up, those wide blue eyes staring up at him like he’s just appeared out of thin air. “Oh, um, a tad,” he says, his voice stiff.
Bobby nods toward his side and Demeroven moves jerkily so Bobby can slip into the gap between him and the pillar that mostly blocks them from the rest of the room. Together they watch the swirling dancers. It’s a little quieter here and Bobby lets himself relax.
He’s been wracking his brain, but he doesn’t remember meeting Demeroven at Oxford, though they were only a year apart. He thinks he would remember if they’d been introduced. It would be hard to forget Demeroven’s striking gaze, patrician nose, and the sharp line of his jaw. Though perhaps he’s clenching his teeth?
“Anything good on the agenda, you think?” he asks, gesturing back toward the clustered parliamentarians, hoping to put him at ease.
Demeroven glances at him before staring back at the floor. “Not really.”
Bobby waits, but the man doesn’t elaborate. “I thought the Medical Act sounded interesting,” Bobby tries again. Anything but talk of marriage.
Demeroven just shrugs. “It’s all a lot of chatter, really.”
Bobby stares at him, surprised. “My brother says the briefing Uncle Dashiell gave him was rather interesting.”
“I guess,” Demeroven says, looking unconvinced.
Bobby clicks his tongue. If he were about to sit in parliament for the first time, he wouldn’t be dismissing all the upcoming bills as prattle, but . . . he’s sure there’s a weight of responsibility that might make it all seem onerous.
He’d rather sit through a hundred boring sessions in the Lords than dance, but fine.
“You know, the Matrimonial Causes Act last year has had a dramatic effect already. Did you see Lady Ashmond earlier? She seems to be much happier as a divorcée.”
“Good for her,” Demeroven says.
Bobby blows out a breath. This is Beth’s cousin. He has to extend him some grace.
“Well, I hope you find an act that piques your interest,” Bobby says, forcing lightness into his voice. “I’d hate to think you’d be bored to tears all season.”
Demeroven toys with his cuff links, eyes fixed toward the ground. “Every time anyone brings up a point that’s remotely interesting, somehow the conversation turns to the events for the season and the racing bets. Endless talk of racing bets. How men who make our laws can be so enthralled with mindless, vulgar gambling, I’ll never know,” he says in a rush.
The man is certainly making it difficult. “Surely there must be something of interest. I hear the games of whist at the club get rather competitive,” Bobby says.
“I don’t gamble,” Demeroven reiterates.
“You don’t have to gamble to play whist,” Bobby replies, trying not to take it personally. “Uncle Dashiell says you were good at maths. You must like cards.”
Demeroven shrugs again, shoulders slightly hunched. “I’m decent at whist, but I won’t abide playing for money, not with them, anyway.”
Bobby watches the way his glance shifts back to the parlor, disdain on his otherwise handsome face. That won’t do. “You’ll have to get better at pretending.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s no way you’ll survive at the clubs with that attitude. Find something, low-stakes games, darts—anything—to make you seem approachable, or you’ll be marked for the season.” Demeroven’s shoulders stiffen and Bobby winces as he tightens his jaw again. “I only meant . . . Well, you’ll need to find a way to survive at the clubs is all. Connections are important. I could suggest a few clubs that are less . . . lordly, if you like.”
He starts to say more, but the flat look Demeroven turns his way sours the words in his throat. He was only trying to help, for God’s sake, no need to look at him as if he’s dirt on the man’s shoe.
Still struggling for any way to keep the conversation going, Bobby turns at a touch to his elbow. He wilts in relief to find Beth at his side, smiling up at him while Gwen offers her hand to Demeroven.
Demeroven nods stiffly at them. “Lady Gwen, Miss Bertram.”
Bobby nearly pushes the man into his cousin’s arms, watching Demeroven sedately escort Gwen onto the floor. They make a striking couple once they get moving, his lithe build and her tall, stately frame, twirling gracefully. It seems unfair that Demeroven should be both that attractive and a good dancer, especially when Gwen’s always complaining that Bobby’s dancing skills pale in comparison to Albie’s. He has gotten better over the last year; she just refuses to acknowledge it.
“You two getting along?” Beth asks, sidling into Demeroven’s empty space.
Bobby looks down at her, rolling his eyes at her eagerness. Always wanting them all to get along, to be happy—dreadfully loving of her. But he can’t resist her big brown doe eyes. And with her rich brown hair falling in ringlets from her braided bun, she’s almost angelic.
“He’s . . . fine,” Bobby lies, looking back at the dance floor. Can’t miss Gwen, her blond hair styled in much the same way, a head taller than most of the girls, and inches taller than Demeroven, for that matter.
“Do you think you could invite him to visit the clubs with you?” Beth asks.
Bobby turns back to her, eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Well, he doesn’t know anyone. And I remember how lonely I was in the first few weeks of the season. It would be nice for you to introduce him to a few people, help him make friends.”
Bobby bites his tongue against the honest retort—that most of his friends have up and gotten married, the poor lads. Cunningham is still about, and Prince, somewhere, though he thinks he’s heard that Prince has gotten engaged too.
“I’m not sure he’d like the clubs I attend,” Bobby says instead. It’s enormously true, but feels safer than baring his own lonely soul.
It’s not that Beth wouldn’t understand, but she has Gwen. A constant friend, a live-in companion—the love of her blasted life. And he’s just . . . second fiddle to his brother, who barely has any time for him anymore.
“I’m sure he’d find them interesting,” Beth counters. “Please? I’d hate to see him fall in with the wrong crowd.”
Bobby sighs. Albie would tell him to do it—help ensure that Demeroven votes with the liberals, sympathetic to Uncle Dashiell’s positions. Help erase the stain of the previous Viscount Demeroven—Beth’s late, horrible father. A new voice for a new generation.
And if even Beth—who has every reason to resent Demeroven for coming of age, inheriting her late father’s estate, and nearly leaving her and her mother destitute last season—can find it in her heart to help him, how can Bobby refuse?
He spins the new gold signet ring Meredith got him, engraved with his initials, around on his finger and watches Gwen and Demeroven continue dancing into another set. He supposes showing Demeroven the town wouldn’t be the worst way to spend a season. He’s handsome and learned, even if he seems to be a dour, reticent chap. Bobby has always liked a challenge.
“What do I get if I do this for you?” he asks, looking back at Beth.
“The pride of a job well done and a possibly enduring friendship isn’t enough?” Bobby narrows his eyes and she laughs. “How about my undying gratitude?”
Bobby huffs, pretending at greater exasperation just to see her eyebrows crease. He so loves riling her up. Almost as fun as getting Gwen angry.
“Fine.”
“Oh, thank you!” Beth says brightly, wrapping her arm through his. “God, doesn’t she look beautiful?”
He watches her watch Gwen, her eyes wide, a small smile on her face. Doting, in love, besotted.
Gwen’s not the most graceful of the dancers, but there’s something in the confident way she carries herself—and maybe a little in the way Demeroven is an actually adequate partner. “She does,” he agrees. “And so do you.”
“Oh, don’t bother—Gwen has been laying it on all night.”
“Yes, what a hardship, to be beloved,” he says.
She laughs and squeezes his arm. “Shall we find you someone to sing your praises too?”
Bobby fights a shudder. “No, no, turning Lord Demeroven into the toast of the ton is more than enough of a project this season, I think.”
Beth hums, giving her attention back to the dancers.
It’s not making laws, or making a difference, but shaping Lord Demeroven into a moderately respectable lord is something, at least.
* * *
James
He closes the heavy front door to the townhouse and rests his forehead against the cool wood. If he never attends another ball in his life, he could die a happy man. Between the politics, the dancing, and the endless stream of mothers and daughters he disappointed with his utter lack of social flair, he’s exhausted.
Dancing with Lady Gwen and his cousin Miss Bertram wasn’t terrible, but spending the night surrounded by their chatter, with Lady Gwen’s cousins Lord Mason and the younger Mason chiming in, was almost dizzying.
He’s not sure if it’s the hour, the faint buzz of alcohol in his system, or the lighting, but he thinks his mother may have purchased yet another bust. The statues and paintings all seem to meld together in the narrow, tall space of the foyer. It’s oppressive.
But it isn’t as if he tried to stop her. At least it gives her something to focus on, now that she’s here and separated from her friends back home. His stepfather couldn’t wait to get to the city, but he knows his mother took much solace in the community she’d made in Epworth.
She may have purchased herself an entire set of evening ball gowns for the season, but she didn’t even make it out of bed today. Her lady’s maid, Miss Marina, said it was a headache, but he thinks it’s likely just melancholy. They don’t deal well with change, he and his mother.
His stepfather, on the other hand—
“’S that you, Demeroven?”
James winces, considering making a break for it up the stairs rather than facing the smoke-filled haze that is his stepfather’s study. What should be his study.
But if he doesn’t face the man now, he’ll be banging down his door tomorrow, bright and early, demanding a full report. So James shuffles across the narrow hall and into the study, coughing at the smoke. The man could at least crack a window.
The space is filled with heavy, half empty bookshelves. His stepfather brought down his own dark, dour chairs to face the enormous desk left behind by the late Viscount Demeroven. The room has a strange, out-of-time feeling, half full, half considered, half his stepfather’s and half a dead man’s. There’s nothing of James in here at all.
His stepfather looks up from yet another financial ledger. Ever since they arrived, he’s been nose-deep in the late viscount’s London accounting, not that he truly knows the first thing about managing an estate. Though neither does James, really.
His stepfather’s beady eyes peer through the haze, his round, ruddy face set in a scowl. “You’re home early,” he grunts.
James bites back the automatic retort that he is a man of age now and needn’t answer to his stepfather any longer. He’s in control of the title now. He’s the new Viscount Demeroven. His stepfather’s—the gentleman Mr. Griggs’—reign as regent to the estate is over. James is about to sit in parliament, for God’s sake. This is, in fact, his house now.
But the words never manage to pass his lips. Instead, he shrugs, like an insolent little boy.
His stepfather frowns and takes a swig of the late viscount’s brandy. “Did you meet Lord Henchey?”
James shakes his head. “No. Lord Havenfort introduced me to a fair few, but they were all his lot.”
His stepfather groans. “You let that man walk all over you, didn’t you? I told your mother you didn’t have the backbone for it.”
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, Miss Bertram, 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 met someone.”
“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.”
Reginald reaches out for his own scone with a frown. “Your mother won’t be happy.”
“I went, didn’t I?”
Reginald gives him a disapproving look. James crushes a bit of scone between his fingers, agitated.
“There’ll be other balls,” he says.
Reginald bobs his head. “Of course, of course.” He takes a bite of his scone and chews thoughtfully. It almost lulls James into a false sense of security. “And Mr. Mason?”
James groans again and drops his head. “Stop it.”
“You’ve got to give me something,” Reginald insists. “All those summers when you were home from Oxford, waxing poetic, and you never even talked to him. Surely, surely, you spoke tonight.”
James squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself, before looking up to meet Reginald’s rampant curiosity. “He’s fine.”
“Fine?” Reginald huffs. “That’s all I get? My years of loyalty, my sympathy biscuits, my words of wooing wisdom—”
James shushes him, his shoulders going up as he glances back toward the foyer. But all is quiet, which means, for better or worse, no one is coming to save him.
“Tell me you at least plucked up the courage to talk to the man now that you’re tangentially connected.”
James blows out a breath and looks back at Reginald. “We talked.”
Reginald glowers at him. “Out with it, Viscount.”
The title makes him wince and straighten his shoulders all at once. He’s a viscount now. He can face his cook’s teasing. He danced, he rubbed shoulders, he . . . made possibly the world’s least charming impression on blasted Bobby Mason—
“Well?” Reginald prompts.
“He’s nosy,” James decides, returning to picking at his scone so he won’t have to look Reginald in the eye. “And Lady Gwen says he’s a poor dancer. My cousin likes him, but it seems he’s truly just a pretty face.”
He trails a finger through the remains of his scone in the ensuing silence, hoping perhaps Reginald will take that as enough truth for the night and leave him be. Instead, when the silence has lasted long enough that it’s uncomfortable, James raises his eyes to find Reginald waiting, entirely unconvinced.
“That’s it? The great Bobby Mason, wonder of Oxford, protagonist of half your stories, is just a stuffed shirt? Surely not.”
James shrugs. “Don’t know what else to tell you,” he says, playing at nonchalance. “He’s gotten pretty muscular since school.” Reginald’s mouth twitches and James hurries to add, “And all he wanted to talk about was the Medical Act.”
“That’s not enough substance for you?”
“And the clubs,” James says quickly. “He kept telling me I’d need to learn to gamble.”
Reginald furrows his brow and James works to keep his face blank. He probably didn’t need to lay it on quite so thick about the gambling, especially given what Lord Havenfort told him about how the late Viscount Mason wasted away the Mason fortune before his untimely death. But he doesn’t want to talk about the clubs, doesn’t want to think about having to hobnob with more of these men in small, crowded spaces. Doesn’t want to consider them judging him and finding him as lacking as his stepfather does.
And since he doesn’t like to frequent the usual clubs, he hardly thinks he’ll get along with Bobby Mason, who seems to be all about them. Better that he never discovers how little Bobby Mason could care for him.
Not that he’s been dreaming of meeting the man since school, only to find himself tongue-tied and anxious to the point of rudeness in the face of his beauty up close. No. He just simply doesn’t care what Bobby Mason thinks. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks. It’s easier that way.
“Well, if Bobby Mason isn’t the catch we thought, were there any other pretty faces to consider?”
James glances back toward the hallway to the foyer again and waits, listening. But they’re still safely alone.
“Not really,” he says, turning back to Reginald. “Wasn’t a lot of time to look or talk to anyone outside of Lord Havenfort’s lords, and they’re . . .”
“Not who you’re looking to meet,” Reginald agrees. “Well, Thomas’ standing invitation is still there. He would love to have you at the club, introduce you to some nice gentlemen.”
James feels his shoulders coming back up. “Right.”
Reginald’s eyes soften. “It’ll be just like back home, only fancier. You’ll see.”
“I guess,” James says, thinking of the small back room at the Inside Inn near Epworth. The comfortable chairs, the worn wooden table, the back door that led out to the woods. Safe, guarded, secluded.
He can’t imagine how Reginald’s brother, Thomas Parker, could possibly create a space that secret or comfortable in London. His club is supposed to be the safest refuge for men of a certain persuasion in the city. But James doesn’t know how that can be true when it feels like there are eyes everywhere.
“Give it some thought, that’s all,” Reginald says. He pushes back his chair and gets up. “It’s not like you’re going to meet a nice man elsewhere.”
James nods and looks back down at his plate, the crumbs of his scone too closely resembling the shambles of his life.
“What would you like pressed for tomorrow? I’ll tell Gabriel on my way to bed.”
James lets out a low moan. He’d almost forgotten. “I don’t care.” He puts his head back into his hands.
“Come now, it’s your very first day. We need to make a good impression.”
James is tempted to tell him to sod off, but he knows Reginald is right. Even if just to keep his stepfather off his back, he needs to make some effort. “Nothing my mother bought me. Classic, elegant, simple.”
“Aye-aye,” Reginald says merrily, drawing James’ gaze up to find him posed, hands on his hips. “We’ll make you the best-dressed young lord in parliament. On my honor.”
“Sod your honor,” James says gruffly, laughing despite himself as Reginald lets loose a low, rumbly chuckle. The man’s too charming for his own good.
“Get some sleep, yeah? Gabriel will have everything ready come morning.”
James forces a smile and watches Reginald head out the servants’ door and down toward his room. Tonight was exhausting, and tomorrow promises to be even worse. Him, a sitting lord? Him, making laws? Him, the blockhead who couldn’t even be charming to the man he’s fancied since university—how is he ever supposed to impress the House of Lords?