His Royal Secret (13 page)

“If you open a restaurant, let me know. I’ll be sure to visit.” Ben took another sip of the wine. “After today, I might be willing to come on as head waiter. It would have to be less stressful.”

“Why was today so awful?”

At first Ben was reluctant to answer. He liked the arrangement they had, with few words and lots of sex. Then again, James already knew a great deal about him, didn’t he? That would teach Ben to gamble with chess.

So Ben began talking about mergers and sources who didn’t return phone calls and Fiona’s constant refrain that he should add more information to the story and yet somehow make it shorter. The words seemed to multiply each other, turning what he’d intended to be a brief summary into a full-fledged vent. James nodded, petted the corgis, and topped up Ben’s wineglass as he listened. Once Ben was done with his meal, James put the dishes in the sink and then guided Ben into yet another new room: a parlor, as comfortable and unpretentious as the kitchen. Ben sank gratefully into an easy chair with the remainder of his wine. “The story’s in. It’s solid. But I feel like I’ve spent the day going through a meat grinder.”

“You look completely knackered.” James stepped away to shoo out the dogs. “Go on, Glo. Your food’s in there.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Ben murmured. He felt so heavy, as though he might never rise from this chair.

“I didn’t want them underfoot.”

Before Ben could ask why the dogs were suddenly a problem, James leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, then very softly on the lips. He sank down onto his knees in front of Ben’s chair, locking his gaze with Ben’s as he set to work on Ben’s belt and zipper.

“Just lie back.” James’s voice was doing the melted-caramel thing again. “Relax.”

Ben leaned his head against the cushioned chair, spread his thighs to let James get closer, and groaned as he felt James’s fingers against his cock.

James bowed his head, and warmth and wetness swallowed Ben completely. He wound his fingers through James’s hair, guiding him as he sucked. Ben felt as though he were being swept away on a slow, inexorable tide—he could remain heavy and motionless, let arousal flow around him and through him, drawing him out of his weary limbs until he only felt the pulsing tip of his cock, circled by James’s tongue.

Now James had hit just the right rhythm, as though synchronizing with Ben’s heartbeat, with every throb, and Ben couldn’t hold back any longer. He gave in to it completely, moaning as pleasure turned him inside out, and he came in James’s mouth.

For a few moments he could only sit there, hardly able to move; then James rose, kissed him once on the lips (mouth tasting of sex), and took a sip of Ben’s wine. “There,” James said, as though he were proud of himself. In Ben’s opinion he had every right to be.

He smiled up at James. “Wonderful pasta, fantastic wine, and a blow job from the reigning Prince Regent? This is a very friendly country.”

“I’ll pitch that to the tourism council, see what they think.”

“It’s my turn next,” Ben promised, though he wasn’t sure how he could manage to return the favor. That would almost certainly involve moving. Right now he felt pleasantly boneless, as though he could sleep for days.

“Why don’t you lie down?” James brushed back Ben’s hair.

“If I do that, I’ll fall asleep.”

“That’s all right.” There was a pause, during which Ben didn’t know whether or not he should object. But James continued, more briskly, “You don’t have to work Saturdays, correct? Besides, as long as nobody saw you come in, it will look less odd, your going out in the morning rather than the wee hours of the night.”

Well. If it was for propriety’s sake.

Ben leaned on James’s arm the whole way to the bedroom. He remembered taking off his shoes but not much beyond that; sleep claimed him instantly. When he woke just at dawn, he first thought that he should probably get his things and go. But then James stirred, and Ben remembered that he hadn’t even gotten the man off yet. He awakened James by going down on him, bringing him to orgasm without so much as one word spoken between them. Afterward, James fell asleep again almost immediately, which amused Ben for the few minutes it took him to drift off again as well.

Which was how he wound up rising for breakfast after 9 a.m., still in the palace.

Pleasant drowsiness evaporated as Ben realized he’d let himself get caught in the ever-present domestic trap.

“Who’s hungry?” he heard James calling from the kitchen. Ben was about to object to being called in this way—it sounded like summoning a child to breakfast before school. But he felt foolish when James continued, “Who wants her food this morning? Is it you? Is it you?”

Maybe you could try not overreacting to James talking to the dogs
, Ben thought.

He found his shorts and padded into the kitchen, where James was swaddled in a plush robe of some sort and spooning some sort of beefy mush into the dogs’ bowls. The natural thing to say was
Good morning
; instead Ben said, “You don’t have the butler do that?”

“Good heavens, no. If the butler fed the dogs, within a couple of months they’d be the butler’s dogs. They’re animals, not fools.” The corgis chomped away, oblivious.

“What are you feeding them? It smells like chateaubriand steak.”

“Might well be—the cut, anyway, not the sauce. Their food is made by the same cooks who make mine, and with much the same ingredients. Spoiled little gluttons.” James turned to Ben with a smile. “Our breakfast is going to be much less grand than theirs, I’m afraid. Scrambled eggs? Or we’ve got some fruit.”

“Toast and coffee will do.”

“Right.”

James set to work doing something complicated with a French press. Ben stood near the table, not precisely sure how to behave. Finally he decided having James wait on him was a bit much; he could see the toaster for himself. “Where do you keep the bread?”

But when James pointed toward what turned out to be a ceramic dish specially made to store freshly-baked loaves, Ben thought that was worse. Fixing breakfast side by side: definitely domestic. Still, he went ahead and made the toast.

What is it they call that children’s game here? Playing Wendy houses. Don’t you let him get away with it. And don’t fall into that trap yourself.

So once they were seated, Ben said, “You manage this rather smoothly for someone who—how did you put it? Doesn’t indulge often.”

James raised one of his perfectly arched eyebrows. “What, making coffee?”

“Having overnight company in the palace.”

“It’s hardly a complicated procedure.”

“You’re not worried someone will see me walking out this morning?”

“Somewhat. But plenty of people come in and out of the palace during the day. Unless someone is specifically watching for you, there’s no reason you’d attract notice.”

Ben went back to his toast. That sounded a little more like it: couching things in terms of safety. Convenience. Those were their terms.

But then James said, “Feeling better?”

“What?”

“You were worn out last night. Glad you came here regardless.”

Instead of replying, Ben shrugged. It had been weak of him, allowing himself to be looked after last night. To be
coddled
. Worse would be if James decided he liked the coddling. Best if they just didn’t mention it again.

His irritation must have been obvious, though, because James continued, “Is there some problem?”

Ben struck. “For someone who’s so chickenshit about coming out, you’re rather blithe about our chances of being discovered.”

James had pale skin that flushed beautifully when he was turned on—or, as Ben was now discovering, when he was angry. “I’ve spent my whole life being watched by the press. By now I know what they look for and what they don’t. And did you just call me ‘chickenshit’?”

“It’s an American term.”

“I know what it means. But I can’t believe you’d say that.”

“Well, I can’t believe you’ve chosen to live a lie.” All the pent-up frustration Ben had felt about this wouldn’t be held back any longer. “You’re one of the wealthiest men in the world. You’re as safe from oppression as anyone could be. But you hide your true self out of fear of what people will say.”

“Fear of what people will say?” James laughed. “Are you kidding? I’ve been called a coward for failing to enlist in the military even though I was medically ineligible. I’ve been called a traitor for becoming regent while the king still lives, even though it was necessary. And I feel sure you’ve heard them call me weak for not breaking it off with Cass. People gossip about what I wear, what I say, where I go, where I don’t go, and everything I do. They always will. Horrible things are going to be said about me every day of my life and long after I’m dead, regardless of how I act. I long since learned not to give a damn.”

“And yet you’re still not out,” Ben retorted. “Homosexuality hasn’t been illegal in this country for, what, forty years? And gay marriage is about to be legalized here, as soon as the House of Lords passes it.”

“The House of Lords doesn’t pass laws, per se—oh, never mind. I’m not afraid of being thrown in the Tower, Ben. And I’m aware that public opinion has shifted dramatically in the past couple of decades. If I were a private citizen, yes, I believe I’d be out. But I’m not.”

“You’re in a better position than most private citizens.”

“Am I? Let’s see.” James rose from the table, the better to count off his points on his fingers. “First of all, the primary job of the monarch, these days, is to reproduce. Which I’m not going to do. That’s going to make people nervous. Second, people who would happily embrace a gay friend or even a gay son will pause when presented with a gay king. The monarchy represents tradition and continuity, and homosexuality doesn’t fit into that tidy image.”

“So what? Force them to see reality.”

“I’m forcing
you
to see reality. As Prince Regent, I’m not only the head of state for the United Kingdom, I’m also the head of the Commonwealth of Nations. Some states in the Commonwealth would accept a gay man as their symbolic leader, but some of them definitely would not. Does Uganda opt out? What about Malta, Rwanda, Pakistan? Does the Commonwealth survive their departures? If not, what happens to the various trade agreements that currently exist within that framework? Does Great Britain lose the influence it has in those states over questions of human rights?”

This caught Ben up short. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Obviously not.” James’s eyes blazed. “Also, since you brought it up, the gay marriage question. One thing the royal family absolutely must do is remain neutral on all political matters. Nobody can know my position on any political issue, not ever. If I come out before the House of Lords rules on gay marriage, that becomes a de facto political statement, and I may have violated the constitution.”

“All right,” Ben said. “This is more complicated than I realized. I see that now.”

But James was off, venting obviously not only for Ben to hear but also just to get it out. “The House of Lords will act sooner or later, probably sooner, and probably in favor of gay marriage. So that’s not a permanent barrier. The rest I might choose to take on as I wished. But there’s one point that’s not gotten around as easily. You see, as monarch I’ll also become Supreme Governor of the Anglican Communion. While the Church of England accepts gay parishioners and gay clergy, the Anglican churches in many other nations do not. All branches have thus far refused to fully sanction gay marriage, and it is entirely possible that they would refuse to have a gay man as the symbolic head of the church. What happens then, I don’t know. But it probably ends in either religious schism or my being asked to abdicate as unfit to lead the state church, and therefore the state.”

This time, Ben was careful not to speak until James had remained silent for a few moments. “Why not step aside, then? Does inheriting the throne mean that much to you?”

“In some ways,” James said. He was steadier now. “The monarchy meant a great deal to my father, so upholding his ideals means a lot to me. But there’s more to it than that.”

“Like what?” Ben wondered how much more there could possibly be.

James turned to face Ben. The anger had drained away from him, leaving behind something sadder, and stronger. “Can I rely on your discretion?”

“You’d better hope so, hadn’t you?”

“This secret isn’t mine.”

Slowly, Ben nodded.

“It’s my sister. She’s—not well.” James sat down again, as though he needed to brace himself to say this. “You’ve probably heard the tabloids howling that she has a drink problem.”

Ben had privately thought drugs more likely, but he simply nodded.

“Nothing could be further from the truth. She rarely drinks anything stronger than Lapsang Souchong. But Indigo has problems that go far deeper than alcoholism. Or am I underestimating alcoholism? I don’t know.”

“Indigo?”

“Sorry. That’s what she prefers to go by, Indigo.” James ran one hand through his hair, and by now he looked older than his years. The last of his anger had finally vanished. “Let’s not get into particulars. It’s enough for you to know that she’s not well, and she’s unlikely to be well anytime in the near future, if ever. If I were to abdicate, the throne would go to my sister. She can’t handle that. Not now, and probably not ever. It would be the worst thing I could do to her.”

“Couldn’t Ame—Indigo step aside as well?”

“Officially? Yes. But that would throw the monarchy into an even greater crisis than my abdication alone. Indigo would be keenly aware of that. She’d feel that she had failed me, failed our parents, ruined everything. I don’t think she’d ever recover from the blow.” With a sigh, James finished, “So there you have it. I must remain Prince Regent. I must be crowned as king. And I must keep my secrets close. That’s it.”

Privately Ben wondered whether James wasn’t exaggerating some of the difficulties, nor could he imagine what the royal family considered a more damaging secret about Princess Amelia than the drink and drug rumors that swirled around her. However, he didn’t doubt James’s fears for his sister, or his sincerity. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I was being such a shit.”