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As he walked in, he could hear thumping from the kitchen and the unmistakable smell of lasagna cooking in the oven: James was indeed here. But someone else sat cross-legged on the sofa with a corgi in her lap. Taken aback by the unwelcome surprise, he needed a moment to recognize the figure with her hair in messy pigtails, wearing a Wonder Woman T-shirt. He said, "Princess Amelia."
"You may call me Amelia," said Indigo, who apparently hadn't chosen to share her nickname with him just yet. Despite her casual appearance, she was speaking to him quite formally . . . and, he realized, carefully. "May I call you Ben?"
"Please do."
At that moment James hastened in, a glass of red wine in one hand and hair mussed. To judge by the tomato-stained apron he wore around his waist, James was entertaining himself by cooking their dinner personally. "Ben, hello. Indigo's come to see us--but you're already talking, aren't you? You know, Indigo, Ben and I met in Kenya. You were so interested in hearing about Africa. You two should chat about it!"
James was trying so hard to help that he was making the situation even more awkward. Ben said, "We'll be fine. Dinner smells wonderful."
"Should get back to the pasta." James handed Ben the glass of wine, which Ben knew would be the perfect vintage. It hit him anew how pleasant life with James could be in these simpler moments, and he quickly drew James in for a swift kiss. James smiled up at him, then took himself off to the kitchen.
Indigo's careful civility seemed to have been thrown off-balance by the sight of Ben kissing her brother. Her cheeks were flushed pink, as though she'd just glimpsed something far more intimate. "I--I came by not that long ago. I should have given you two more warning."
"Quite all right," Ben said, though at the moment he would rather have been venting to James than making small talk with his sister. The girl was trying, and it was difficult for her; Ben wanted to respect that. He could put Warner aside for a while. That would be a relief.
After a few moments, she ventured, "What happened with the newspapers yesterday was horrible."
Did she have to go straight to the most sensitive subject of all? Ben forced himself to hide his irritation. "Yes. It was."
Her lower lip trembled. "I remember when they printed photos of our father, after the plane crash. He'd been in the water a while by then. It was awful."
Ben felt a rush of pure horror. What had happened to him yesterday--the exact same thing had happened to James. Ben had known that. He had gawked at those photos for himself. And yet he hadn't thought of it once in the past two days.
What kind of a selfish asshole am I?
"I just wanted to say that I understand," Indigo finished.
"I--thanks. I appreciate that."
She nodded. And then they sat there, formality gone, but both enclosed in the ghastly social vacuum that followed any conversation about dead parents.
Indigo finally said, "What have you done?"
"What do you mean?"
"To take your mind off it."
"Spent time with James. Watched a movie."
"James always helps," she said very seriously.
Apparently she wasn't going to let go of the subject yet, so Ben asked, "What did you do, when it happened to you?"
"I grabbed the biggest book on my shelf I hadn't yet read and plowed through it. Nearly nine hundred pages, but I still read it in two days."
She couldn't even have slept. "Which book?" Ben asked, out of politeness.
But she said, "Dune," and his interest piqued.
"By Frank Herbert? I love that book."
"Really?" Indigo smiled again. She looked less guarded this time.
"Yeah. I bet I've read it half a dozen times."
"What about the sequels?"
"I liked Dune Messiah well enough, and Children of Dune was okay, but after that--"
"It just gets weird," Indigo said very seriously, and after that they were off and talking about whether Chani's death from childbirth made any sense in a world with technology so advanced. Then they were comparing what other genre series they'd both read, and by the time James emerged from the kitchen again, Ben and Indigo were debating Neil Gaiman.
"He's a genius!" Indigo protested.
Ben finished swallowing his wine to say, "Yes, but that doesn't change the fact that he doesn't know how to end a book."
James smiled at them in dumbfounded wonder. "Neil Gaiman? I've heard of him."
"Yes, because he's a national treasure." Indigo pointed at her brother and said to Ben, "This one loves science, but forget science fiction or fantasy."
"I know," Ben said. "I already tried to get him to read The Left Hand of Darkness. No luck."
"We can discuss my shortcomings as a reader over dinner," James said, shooing them both into the kitchen.
Indigo turned out to be a delightful young woman, once she'd relaxed enough to talk. Science fiction was virtually the only interest they had in common, and really she was more of a fantasy fan . . . but it was enough to start on. Ben could catch a glimpse of her resemblance to James here or there, mostly when she laughed.
When they said good-bye to her after the meal, Ben called her Amelia. She didn't attempt an embrace, but she did hold on to his hand for a few moments before she left.
Together he and James stood still, listening to her steps on the stairs. Once they were truly alone, James said, "That was amazing. She adores you! I've almost never seen her take to someone else like that. Prince Zale, maybe. And him she has a crush on. Oh, no. Do you think she has a crush on you? Surely not. Though I could understand, of course."
"James, why didn't you say something yesterday?"
"About Indigo coming to dinner? I didn't know. She only sent word half an hour before she showed up."
"Not that. About--the photographs. Your father, after the crash." Ben still couldn't believe his own idiocy. "The fact that you'd been through this also."
"Oh." James honestly seemed bewildered. "That didn't matter, compared to what had just happened to you."
"Of course it matters."
"I would've felt selfish."
"What, admitting you'd been hurt as well? I just wish--we should have talked about that too." Ben brushed James's hair back from his forehead; it was getting a little longer, attractively floppy.
"I was trying to think of you first," James said as he hugged Ben. "You needed that last night, I thought."
Ben didn't want to be the one who needed help, or coddling, or protection. But saying so would sound as if he were criticizing James again. Right now they were holding each other, and he was still buoyed by wine and good food and pleasant conversation. That was comfort enough. He didn't want to ruin it. Instead he snuggled James close for a while.
The whole time he imagined he could feel the bit of paper folded in his pocket--Warner's number, and a decision, waiting for him. Already it seemed too late to speak of it. Already it seemed to belong to him alone.
***
Some of James's engagements were not wholly official in nature, but obligatory all the same. Usually they involved a friend or relative's charity effort, one to which James was invited socially rather than in his role as Prince Regent. Of course he could have simply declined, but he knew that his appearance added luster to the event, that people attended in hopes of seeing him, and that their donations would be all the more generous if he actually appeared.
One of those beckoned only a few days after the publication of those photos of Ben's parents. A reception at a gallery featuring ghastly pop art, rhinestone-bedecked plungers and neon-painted skulls, that sort of rot: James would have longed to cancel regardless. Now, especially, he would have liked to get home early to greet Ben, who had been so quiet and troubled ever since.
Still, James couldn't start slacking, not while his throne hung in the balance. Besides, the charity supported people with motor neuron disease, and surely that was worth his time even if the neon skulls weren't.
As his car drove toward the gallery, James b
raced himself. Here, he wouldn't be dealing with the public; he'd be dealing with other members of the aristocracy, the people he'd gone to school with, the rarefied few invited to socialize with him. Supposedly these were his friends, though really only a handful fit that description. For the most part he found them snobbish, superficial, and dim.
If you lose the aristocracy, forget winning over anyone else, James reminded himself. Besides, at least this time he wouldn't have all the women throwing themselves at him.
He wasn't announced when he entered--it wasn't that sort of event--but the moment James stepped into the cavernous gallery space, dozens of sleekly clad attendees clutching wineglasses seemed to turn toward him at once. The hostess, a distant cousin named Lady Wilhelmina, came to him immediately.
Air kiss. "Your Royal Highness. James," she crooned. "How lovely of you to attend. Everyone wants to congratulate you!"
"How kind of them," James said. This was normally where he and his cousin would detach, but instead Wilhelmina held out her hand toward a young man standing nearby. This man had blond hair, chiseled features, and an almost uncanny ability to make instant, unswerving eye contact.
Wilhelmina said, "James, you must meet Lorcan Montmorency. Lorcan, His Royal Highness the Prince Regent."
"It's an honor, Your Royal Highness," Lorcan said, almost breathless. "You can't imagine what it's meant to other gay men, your coming out."
"I ought to have done it sooner." James was slightly thrown. "But I appreciate that."
"And you enjoy modern art too. We'll have to talk later, sir." Lorcan's hand tightened around James's, a swift but intimate squeeze. "I'm looking forward to it."
Before James could do more than react, an old school friend had walked up to say hello--and to introduce his younger brother, who was slim and dark and sultry, his eyes focusing on James's lips. "James, you remember Fergus, don't you? You've always been an idol of his."
Then there was Crispin. And Kenneth. And a full-grown man who apparently didn't mind being known as Davy. On and on they came, each one more attractive than the rest. James handled the introductions as smoothly as he always did, but inside he was reeling from the suddenness of the turn.
The aristocracy hadn't even hesitated. As easily as they'd offered up their straight daughters, they were now offering their gay sons, baiting the hook in whatever way they thought would work.
It was all James could do not to laugh. They've released the Hounds!
Of course, it was also--just a little--well, enjoyable. James had been flirted with often enough in his life, but virtually never by anyone he'd have wanted to be flirty with. The men vying for his attention now were gorgeous, impeccably dressed, schooled in charm; some of them were even intelligent and well worth talking to.
"Little ridiculous, isn't this?" said Kenneth, who had ginger hair, a gentle smile, and a slight dusting of freckles across his nose. He was referring to one of the neon skulls.
"It's not my style," James said tactfully. Even the most innocuous comment could be turned into news fodder, and thus an insult that might hurt the artist. "Then again, I'm terribly old-fashioned when it comes to art."
"Me too, sir." Up until now, their conversation had been as blank and useless as the average patter at this sort of event. But then Kenneth added, "My secret vice is a passionate love for the pre-Raphaelites."
"Oh, I adore the pre-Raphaelites." In James's bedroom hung a small Millais. "I know it's all creamy and dreamy and a bit trite, but--"
"The colors," Kenneth said. "And the love of beauty for its own sake. People will laugh at them, sir, but they've got more poetry than the PoMo monstrosity in this gallery tonight."
This was precisely the kind of conversation James would have liked to continue, but he realized that he was not only being flirted with, but also in real danger of flirting back. He managed to excuse himself gracefully and returned home to Ben that evening feeling both innocent and elated.
"Can you believe it?" he said as he divested himself of his suit. Ben stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb as James spoke. "They turned quick as that! I'd thought it would take them much more than three weeks to get used to the idea of a gay heir to the throne, but I guess not."
"Guess not," Ben repeated.
Blithely James went on. "It's not as though I hadn't seen other attractive men at events before--or figured out they were gay--but I couldn't ever act on that, you know? Not and be sure of keeping things secret. So I always tried not to talk to them at all. Not even to see them, if I could help it."
"Not like tonight," Ben said. "Tonight you could talk to them all you liked."
James realized how he sounded, a little too late. "Ben. No. I wasn't--I didn't flirt."
Ben shrugged. "Sounds as if you did."
"I didn't!" Two emotions mingled within James: fear that he'd wounded Ben, and . . . yes, anger. He'd finally been let out of the cage that had imprisoned him his whole life, and all Ben wanted to do was put the bars back. "Am I never going to be allowed to so much as speak to another gay man again?"
"I'm not in the business of policing who you talk to," Ben snapped. "But where are you going to draw the line? You can do whatever you want, now. So do you flirt? Do you kiss them in back rooms like the one you took me to? Are you going to tell yourself it's okay to let them blow you as long as you don't return the favor? I'm sure you could find some takers for that."
James knew he could. Enough women had offered, over the years. "Do you honestly think I'd be unfaithful to you the first chance I got?"
"I don't think you have any idea what you'd do."
That came uncomfortably close to being true, echoing in the delight James had felt--still felt--at finally receiving romantic attention that didn't feel like a joke. It upset him enough that he said something he knew he shouldn't have: "Don't worry. I'm not going to start cruising gay clubs and dancing with other men. Or do you want me to give you the same promise you gave me? It's okay to sleep with someone else, as long as I make sure to tell you all about it?"
They stared at each other for a few long seconds. Ben jerked his head back, as though he'd only now heard James, and he went for the door of his room. "I think we're done for the evening."
"Ben, don't go." Already James regretted every word he'd spoken.
But Ben didn't stop. "We have separate rooms for a reason," he said, just before slamming the door behind him.
James sat down heavily on his bed. Only now did he realize that the same cage he'd escaped from was the one that had just closed around Ben.
***
Sleeping in Clarence House without James turned out to be miserable.
The palace was cold and drafty, which Ben had recognized before but appreciated anew after a long night tossing and turning beneath coverlets that weren't quite warm enough without another body by his side. No doubt there were other blankets to be had, thick and luxurious, but Ben didn't search for them. Instead he lay there, chilly and wretched.
Listening to James go on and on about all the other attractive men available to him now--that had been torture. Not because Ben seriously doubted James: He didn't. Anyone harboring thoughts of cheating wouldn't burble on the way James had. Yet the idea of other men even making James laugh filled Ben with futile rage.
He'd always had a possessive streak. It was one of the things Ben loathed about himself, knowing that trait had no place in a life he'd intended to be free of commitments. So, ever since Warner, he'd been ruthless. As soon as Ben found himself becoming jealous about other men in a boyfriend's orbit, he'd dump the boyfriend and become single once again. Maybe it was a cold way to live, but it had worked for him, until now.
James was the one person Ben couldn't leave behind. But--whether James realized it yet or not--he could leave him.
Why shouldn't he? These other men would be British. Aristocrats, used to wealth and this strange life that Ben still found so bizarre. They could adapt their schedules to James's needs instead of hurrying
off to get to the copy desk on time. They wouldn't be angry, bitter men who were still hanging on to their ex-boyfriend's phone number.
Sooner or later, one of them would fit Kimberley's description of the "ideal man" to be a Prince Regent's consort, right down to the Plantagenet blood.
And what James had said was true. Ben had lorded his freedom over James, not out of cruelty but out of a desire to prove to himself that he wasn't really in love, that he could do whatever, or whomever, he wanted. Ben had known his words hurt James, and yet he'd spoken anyway. As upsetting as tonight had been, deep down, Ben knew he deserved it.
With a sigh, Ben put his hands over his eyes and prayed for sleep, in vain.
He rose the next morning feeling sheepish, and he prepared himself for a well-earned cold shoulder as he walked toward the kitchen. Instead he found James waiting for him with a cup of coffee. His smile was so tentative it bruised Ben's heart. "Good morning," James said softly, holding out the coffee like an offering.
Ben took the coffee, then leaned in and kissed James. "I'm sorry about last night."
"Me too." The relief on James's face was obvious. "Going on the way I did was insensitive."
"I overreacted."
James slid his arms around Ben's waist. "You're the only man I want. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, I do." Ben didn't doubt that was true, at least for now.
They kissed and made up, eating breakfast side by side at the cozy kitchen table and saying no more about the spat. Ben walked out to the waiting car reassured of James's fidelity, but nonetheless feeling somewhat shabbier than before.
By now Kimberley Tseng only briefed Ben on tabloid headlines if they were especially odious. His skin had thickened, these past three weeks. Today he got out of the car without more than a flicker of interest in the headline BENJI THE FREELOADER.
"I put the facts in my story that first day," Roberto said a half hour later, angry on Ben's behalf. "I said you still keep your apartment. You pay your rent."
"I do." Ben found himself thinking wistfully of his flat. He'd thought he'd be staying there again by now. What a fool he'd been. "But they've figured out I'm more or less living with James, and they don't like it. Therefore I must be Eurotrash fleecing the prince for his riches."
