His Royal Secret (15 page)

Gently James said, “I hope you like him.”

Indigo shrugged, shrinking deep within her oversized blue plaid shirt, but she did a poor job of feigning diffidence. “I just hope he likes me.”

“He will if he has any sense,” James replied.

Hartley handed Indigo her tea and added, “And if he has any eyes.”

Afterward, as James walked through Kensington Palace in search of Kimberley (who would know the proper form for the invitation), he wondered whether this could possibly work. Would Zale turn out to be the rare sort of man who would understand Indigo’s character and sympathize with her problems? Or would he be a mere bounder, trying to link his fading royal house with the far more famous and wealthy British monarchy? Unfortunately, James knew which was more likely.

Royal life held many ironies. As Prince Regent, James wielded enormous power—under the constitutional bargain that he would never use it. As the future monarch, he had riches and privileges the vast majority of people could only dream of, and yet he lacked basic freedoms most individuals took for granted, such as the right to choose his own profession, or live where he wished. And every member of the royal family was avidly desired as a potential lover or spouse. (James had appeared in teen girl pin-up magazines, to his embarrassment.) However, they lived lives that made good romantic relationships difficult, if not impossible.

For proof of that, James had to look no further than his own parents.

Mum and Dad had been a love match, and in some ways, the most important ways, they had indeed loved each other all their lives. But James remembered how things had been between them the last few years: the longer silences, the increasing darkness within his mother’s gaze.

Princess Rose had been the media’s darling. They had approved of her aristocratic heritage and made it sound as though she went into medicine only as a way of expressing her nurturing spirit. What the media had rarely reported was how poor his mother’s family had been. Yes, they’d lived in a castle, but a castle so derelict that Mum had told him rain often ran through the roof. She hadn’t studied medicine only because it was a way to heal the sick. Mum had also needed to make a good living.

More than that, Mum had been truly clever. Dad had possessed a bright mind, but James knew that his intelligence, and Indigo’s, came primarily from their mother. Medicine had provided Mum with intellectual stimulation . . . something the role of “princess” could never do.

For a few generations now, the royal family had mostly been thick as planks. Nicholas had also avoided this part of the inheritance, probably because Grandmother had sense, but mostly James’s family were interested in horses and food and clothes and self-importance and not much else. It was a mercy, really. Their duties allowed for so little variety, so little mental challenge, that the monotony could be overwhelming. Stupidity was the best defense.

James got through it by keeping up with his scientific journals, by reading challenging novels for pleasure, by talking with Indigo and—for now, at least—with Ben. Indigo had her artwork as a creative outlet. Mum hadn’t coped even that well.

Dad had tried to help, but even as an adult he failed to see what James had understood clearly as a child: Princess Rose was bored to the point of desperation, and no amount of familial love or public adulation could entirely compensate. An icon, they called her. A goddess. She would rather have been a GP. By the end of Mum’s life, some of the spark had faded from her forever, and everyone close to her knew it.

Sometimes James had seen his father looking at his mother so wistfully it broke his heart. Dad had been too immersed in royal life to fully understand the damage it could do. However, James had seen the truth, because he saw it through his mother’s eyes.

This was just one more reason the limitations on his relationship with Ben were for the best. If James found it hard to endure this life sometimes—despite being raised to it, despite always knowing it was his future—then Ben would find it unbearable. They could only come together in this one way, and James was grateful for that.

But it was hard not to want more.

Two nights later, when Ben next came over, they prepared dinner together. Well, they did if reheating Beef Wellington brought up by the chefs and opening wine counted as preparing. As Ben slid the pan in the oven and James wrestled with the corkscrew, Ben said, “Looks like you’ve had a busy week. Google Alerts lit up with your name constantly.”

Ben had him on Google Alert? Interesting. “Opened one museum and one bank. Presented at least half a dozen awards, for what I don’t recall. Visited with patients in a pediatric oncology unit, which ripped my heart into shreds—oh, God, I can’t even talk about it. Next day, toured an organic farm, which was lots of cows and loamy soil and fields at harvest. Altogether pleasant. Spent that evening at a dinner to raise funds for a seeing-eye dog organization. Today, chaired the committee meeting for my charitable trust, then visited a primary school with an innovative program for dyslexic students.”

“Very busy, then.”

That was actually about average, maybe even slightly better than average, as James hadn’t once been called upon to go more than a few miles outside London. The Google Alert must have been new. He said only, “What about you? Did you do anything exciting this week?”

“Nothing much.” Ben didn’t look over as he set the timer. “Worked. Wrote. Went out to a club one night.”

“A club?”

“You know. A gay club.”

James felt a flush spreading across his cheeks, so he turned his face back to the bottle that was refusing to uncork.

His information about gay bars came mostly from the Internet, partly from Niall Edgerton. Both sources had said that casual sex was easily had there. That was the whole point of going, Niall had insisted. After their split he had occasionally taunted James with hints of the wild exploits he now enjoyed with men more uninhibited than the prince who so miserably sat in the offices of the Royal Philatelic, writing out the latest check.

Apparently Ben also felt the need for something more.

“Hey,” Ben said. “Are you upset?”

“Not at all,” James replied, aware he was being spectacularly unconvincing. “We aren’t . . . I mean, I’m not going to try to police your free time. You have the right to do whatever you want.”

“Yes. I do. Which is why I wouldn’t bother lying to you about it.” Ben took the bottle and corkscrew away from James, and he met James’s gaze evenly. “Nothing happened at the club. I danced. That’s it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. If I sleep with someone else, I’ll tell you the truth, because in this day and age I think you’ve got a right to know a little about your partners’ behavior. But I won’t do anything unsafe, for me or for you. And this week, all I did was dance.”

James wanted to be happy that Ben hadn’t been with another man, but the speech he’d just heard was at least as dismaying as comforting. If Ben slept with someone else, did he want to know? Not really. When they were together, James preferred to pretend they could go on eternally just like this.

“There,” Ben said, and the cork popped free. “Got it.” He smiled at James so warmly that the awkwardness faded.

It wasn’t as though he thought he’d have Ben forever. At least he had someone who respected him enough to be honest. If it hurt when Ben found someone else, James would bear that when it came. He had spent his entire life learning how to put his personal feelings aside when reality couldn’t be helped; he was good at it.

For now, Ben was his, all his, and that was enough.

“A gay bar,” James mused as Ben poured with as much grace as any butler. “I’ve always wondered what that would be like.”

Ben shook his head, as if disbelieving. “Of course. You’ve never been to one, have you?”

“How could I?”

“It’s impossible.” Ben looked rueful as they stood together in the kitchen, now each with a glass of a well-aged, ruby-dark Haut-Medoc. “I used to fantasize about that, you know. Running into you in some dance club somewhere. Even then I realized it wasn’t very likely.”

“I like the sound of this. Do I get to hear about these fantasies?”

Ben brushed his hand across James’s chest. “Some other time.”

Some other time
turned out to be that weekend, when they got together again. By now, when Ben came over on a Friday or Saturday, he typically packed a few necessities in his worn-out old satchel; James liked the assumption that Ben would stay over when he didn’t have work the next day. But on that Friday night, Ben didn’t just unpack his usual change of underwear and toothbrush. He’d brought other clothing with him, and a bag from Boots—but they still had plenty of condoms and lube, so what would they need from the chemist’s?

“Take a look,” Ben said with a sly smile.

James shook out the bag to reveal hair products, some sort of cosmetic pencil, and a tube filled with sparkly stuff. He lifted it and read the label. “Body glitter?”

“You were curious about gay clubs, and you wanted to know about my fantasies of having you in one of them.” Ben dropped a kiss onto James’s shoulder. “Well, tonight I intend to show you.”

“. . . we can’t go out.”

“Of course not. This is just, you know, role-playing. I wanted you to have a taste of the fun.”

Role-playing? This wasn’t something James had ever engaged in, or felt much curiosity about. Perhaps that was because parts of his life felt like role-playing already. But as he looked at Ben and saw the eagerness there, James realized that Ben thought of this as a gift. He wanted to make up for something he felt James was lacking, and had gone to some trouble to put the elements together. That was turn-on enough. Slowly, James smiled. “All right, we’ll play.”

Ben held up a CD, blank silver, without even handwriting on it. “I burned this because I wasn’t sure whether or not your music system had Bluetooth.”

“This house is from the nineteenth century, not the Dark Ages. Of course my music system works with Bluetooth.”

“Then let’s get the music started.”

What followed was a half hour of extreme silliness. Dance music the likes of which Clarence House had never known echoed through the hallways. They laughed as they played with each other’s hair—spiking James’s, slicking back Ben’s. At first Ben helped James get ready, recommending what he should wear and applying the eyeliner (which was far more difficult than it looked). But then Ben shooed James off to change.

A few moments later, James stood shirtless in his bedroom, smearing glitter across his cheekbones. He wore jeans tight as a second skin—left over from university and hardly worn since. They fit snugly enough to reveal that he’d followed Ben’s suggestion and gone without underwear.

One single picture
, he thought wryly.
Just one photograph of this and the English crown would collapse.

He’d always thought role-playing would be incredibly hot; instead, it felt faintly ridiculous. But that was lovely too, laughing about sex. That luxury had always been denied him before. So he smiled as he looked at his lined eyes and gelled hair in the mirror, reveling in the absurdity as he imagined the dry report on the BBC:
Today the fifteen-hundred-year institution of the British Monarchy came crumbling down upon the discovery of the Prince of Wales got up like a rent boy.
James grinned at his sparkly reflection.

Then Ben came in, and the whole role-playing thing became hot again.

Ben wore black pants at least as tight as James’s and a mesh shirt. James had always thought mesh shirts looked silly. That was because he’d never seen Ben in one. The sheen of it, the way it revealed and concealed Ben’s chiseled abdomen at once, and the ridges of muscle tapering down from hip bones toward his groin . . . “You look incredible.”

“Shhh.” The music kept thumping as Ben went to the iPod dock. “We don’t know each other, remember? Or we won’t once we start dancing. I’m going to pick you up.”

James glanced around his enormous bedroom, which had an Aubusson rug on the floor and a 150-year-old mural on the twenty-foot ceiling. “Not a very convincing nightclub, is it?”

“Use your imagination. And I downloaded this app—”

At that, Ben fiddled with his phone, and suddenly it began to flicker in multicolored lights. Which was probably as close to a nightclub as they could get, but it also made James start giggling. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

Ben shook his head, fondly exasperated, as he set the phone near a mirror to reflect the lights as much as possible. “I can see I’m going to have to wipe that smile off your face. That’s all right. I like a challenge.” He came up behind James, half embracing him from behind. His hand traced down the center of James’ chest as he whispered in James’s ear, “Let’s dance.”

James started moving to the beat, but after only a few moments, Ben said, “Not from the shoulders.”

“Huh?”

“You lead from the shoulders. Lots of Europeans do. Why is that?”

“I keep telling you, Great Britain isn’t Europe.”

“We’re not having that debate now. Concentrate!” Ben was chuckling, but the way he thrust against James’s ass—Ben’s cock already semihard—got James back in the game. “Remember, you’re dancing for me. You want to seduce me. To show me what it would be like to fuck you.”

“Mmmm.” James closed his eyes as Ben’s hands trailed along his hips.

Ben whispered against James’s neck: “I know you know how to move in bed. God, do you know how to move. Just give into the beat. Move with me.”

James relaxed and let himself move along with Ben. It was easier when he thought of it as foreplay rather than dancing. A lot easier. Natural.

Within a few moments he didn’t have to think about it anymore. He kept swaying to the beat, working his hips, Ben pressed up against him so they moved in unison. As Ben’s hands began to wander—up to brush a nipple, down so close to James’s cock—James lifted his arms over his head.

Ben turned him around then so they were dancing face-to-face. James tried to imagine him a stranger, sexy and exotic, those kohl-rimmed eyes a mystery.