His Royal Secret (3 page)

“Interesting.” James squared his shoulders, like a man preparing for a fight. “All right, you’re on.”

He wanted Ben’s secrets, and he didn’t want to give up any of his own. Ben understood this because he felt precisely the same way.

This was going to be a very good game of chess.

They elected to ignore the pawns because a few of them had already been taken. That meant Ben had to play more aggressively than usual, which paid off within a few minutes, as he palmed one of the white bishops. As he took it in his hand, he said, “Where’s my prize?”

“Hmm. A secret. Let’s see.” James smiled. “When I was a little boy meeting a new head of state for the first time—the King of Tonga, as it happened—I was so determined to do it well that I made myself nervous. Nerves worked their evil on my guts. So, at the key moment, as I took the king’s hand, I farted more loudly than you’ve ever heard in your life.”

Ben laughed long and hard as James joined in. But when he could speak again, Ben said, “Oh, come on, now. A real secret.”

“What do you mean? That was humiliating.”

“But hardly secret, if you’ve described the decibel level accurately.”

James shot him a look, though he was still grinning. “Hush.”

“I’m beginning to think you aren’t taking this game seriously.” Was it too soon to lean forward across the board? Not if he leaned just a little, just enough to bring him closer than any casual acquaintance would usually come. James’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t move back. Interesting. “That was a pawn’s secret at best. Give me a secret worth your bishop.”

“Can I rely on your discretion?”

Ben smiled. “Best not to rely on me. Best to win more pieces. Get more on me than I get on you.”

If he were going to scare James off, this would be the moment. But James only considered that for a long moment before saying, “You can’t hold back.”

“I won’t.”

Which was a mad thing to say. Ben had spent his life holding back. He’d learned his lessons young and never forgotten them. However, if it meant getting the prince to talk, he could manage. It wasn’t as though he’d ever see the man again.

James returned to studying the chessboard, never looking up. “When they came to tell me my parents had been killed in the plane crash, I was drunk. Not ‘a couple of beers’ drunk—like, getting sick in the rubbish bin, hardly able to stand up. That kind of drunk. It was the first time I’d ever had that much, or anything like that much. University, first term, you know. But it made it all so much worse. That night I couldn’t quite believe anything I heard was real, and ever since then . . . I don’t think I’ll ever think of it without shame. I was pounding back pints of Guinness while my parents drowned in the Coral Sea. At that very moment.”

This was only supposed to be a game.

Ben must have paused a moment too long, because James said, “You were the one who wanted higher stakes.”

“So I was.” He paused. “You realize you weren’t doing anything wrong, that night.”

“I know.” With that, James moved his rook.

Within minutes, Ben had lost a knight. And he couldn’t phone this in. He had to match James’s courage, or at least the value of his wager. “I lost my virginity at sixteen. I wanted it. I thought I was in love. The man I slept with was almost twenty years older than me. At the time I thought age didn’t matter if you cared about each other. Looking back, I know it wasn’t rape by any means, but it was still . . . taking advantage. He should have known better.”

If James had any reaction to Ben’s homosexuality, positive or negative, he showed no sign. “He should have been arrested.”

There were many other reasons Warner Clifton should be in jail, but Ben didn’t feel like getting into them right now. Besides, remembering Warner killed the mood.

And the mood building between him and James as they leaned together over the chessboard, surrounded by the rushing sound of rain, was one Ben wanted to last.

A white rook fell. James said, “I sympathize with the republicans more than they’d ever guess. If they abolished the monarchy tomorrow, I’d accept it. Well. Not tomorrow. I mean, give a man a chance to pack. But you get my meaning.”

The second black knight, gone. Ben’s turn. “I always say that my parents died in an accident. The fact is that they were protesting the demolition of Palestinian settlements in Gaza. The military moved in to put down the protests, and my parents were accidentally killed by their own government. When I left Israel to go live with my relatives a few weeks later, I swore I would never set foot in that country again. And I haven’t.”

Each secret felt like something was being torn away, from him and James both. At first Ben thought this was closer to torture than to flirtation, and wondered why the hell he’d tried to gamble his way into a prince’s confidence—or into his bed.

But as more and more was torn away, Ben increasingly felt as though nothing was left to stand between them. Nothing save decorum, and a chessboard that became barer by the minute.

•   •   •

Now twenty-nine years old, James had had precisely three lovers in his life.

Ridiculous, really. The Prince of Wales had always been and would always be, by default, the most desirable man in the whole United Kingdom. This had held true in eras when the holder of that title had been dramatically overweight, or possessed of a sunken chest, or sporting a jawline so weak it seemed to melt into the neck. He who would be king could have almost anyone he wanted. James knew full well that his security services and his butler would have been utterly private about anyone he took to his bed, female or male. Probably he could’ve got them to smuggle up a goat, were he so inclined, which he was not.

However, while his staff’s discretion could be all but guaranteed, his partners’ could not. James had been ratted out by “friends” his whole life—schoolmates who would trade tall tales about his behavior to any paparazzo for either a few pounds or just the satisfaction of having gotten one over on the schoolfellow they had to address as
sir.
The higher the value of the secret, the less people could be trusted with it. Sexual secrets were the most valuable of all.

So instead of sowing the usual wild oats of a crown prince, James had only three partners to reflect upon.

One of them, Andrew Lord Brackley, probably didn’t even consider himself James’s lover. They’d fooled around together as teenage boys in the stables where they both rode, or sometimes in an unused butler’s pantry in the Brackley summer residence; that was where James had had his first orgasm from another man. But other boys used their hands on each other, rubbed off against each other, and didn’t think of it as anything other than a lark. Andy had never shown any sign he considered it significant. The helpless adoration James had felt had obviously been unrequited, enough so that James never attempted to explore further intimacies. Andy had married a Sloane Ranger named Lettice four years ago, to all appearances out of sincere love. James had attended the wedding with a smile on his face.

Then, in university, there had been Prakash. Virtually no one besides James’s dons understood how deep his interest in the sciences really was, or realized that his First had been genuinely earned. Prakash would have been one of the few students who got it. They had been study partners from virtually the first day, lovers from halfway through their first year; a month after James had been orphaned, loneliness had driven him to risk reaching out, and Prakash had responded with just as much hunger and need. Although James had continued dutifully appearing at country weekends, meeting aristocratic friends for drinks at the pub, his best hours had been spent with Prakash in his suite of rooms—whether studying or “studying.”

It hadn’t been love, not really. They liked each other, but they were so very different. James had sometimes wondered whether they understood anything about each other that couldn’t be discovered in a textbook or in bed. Prakash’s family back in Panaji were deeply conservative, which meant the two of them had been equally committed to absolute secrecy. So at least they could trust each other as they learned how to be lovers, what they wanted from sex, how to give what someone else wanted in turn. When they had graduated, James had returned to royal life, and Prakash had gone on to pursue a doctorate in California. They parted without even discussing whether they would ever meet again; they both knew they wouldn’t.

James had been horribly lonely in the year after university, so lonely he had made his one and only mistake. He let himself be drawn in by Niall Edgerton.

It had been an obvious blunder from the beginning. To begin with, Niall was a servant, an assistant to the Keeper of the Privy Purse. It wasn’t as undignified as bedding a footman, but not much better.

Worse, Niall’s chiseled face and slender body had concealed a manipulative, cruel spirit. James had honestly believed Niall had fallen for him, and in those early, heady days, he’d thought he was caught up in some grand forbidden passion. But then Niall asked for more and more favors, began to jostle for greater authority. James had slowly realized he was being played.

If he had pulled away immediately, he might have minimized the damage. He hadn’t. That gave Niall power, and power went to Niall’s head. He became controlling, both in bed and beyond it. Others on the staff began to comment on his attitude, and while their affair had not yet been exposed, James realized that sooner or later pride would lead Niall to flaunt his connections.

Finally, James had told Niall it had to end, and promised he would be given the most glowing references were he to leave employ at the palace immediately. James had said this feeling as though his heart were breaking. He’d even entertained a faint hope that Niall might see the error of his ways and promise to do better, if only they could give it another chance.

Niall had instead shrugged and said they should talk about money.

The following year was the most humiliating of James’s life. Being blackmailed was about more than losing cash, and he lost quite a lot of that. It was like losing a bit of your soul, check by check. Every single time Niall came demanding more, James had to face anew what a fool he’d been.

And now Niall . . . well, that was over. There was no more to be said. He tried to not even think about it.

James had sworn never to be so weak and stupid again. He could make do with films and fantasies and his own hand. Better that than to make another such mistake. When he took another lover, if he ever did, it would be someone vetted. Trusted. A known quantity whose influence, and potential damage, could be contained.

Certainly it could not be a stranger he met in Africa. A dashing novelist who seemed to have swept in from a more romantic age. A foreigner on the edge of the world.

But Ben took his breath away.

Already James had told Ben more about his inner life than he’d told anyone else—even Cass, even Indigo. Already Ben had told James so much in return, maybe more than Ben himself realized. He was gay too: unashamed, confident, comfortable in his own skin, all the things James wanted so badly to be. Over the course of the two hours they’d spent together, James had gone from merely being attracted to Ben to feeling as if he couldn’t bear not touching him one moment longer.

Concentrate on the bloody game.

He concentrated. He saw his opportunity. And he took it.

James moved his remaining rook into position and said, “Mate in two.”

Ben squinted at the board as though he could somehow change the game at this point, but after another moment he nodded. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” This would probably be a good moment to say he’d lingered here too long, to make a clean, polite break.

Still, his dinner with the team from Médecins Sans Frontières wasn’t for another three hours . . .

A flash of daring made James lean forward with a smirk on his face. “So, where’s my last secret? I’ve earned one, haven’t I?”

“Give me a moment.” Ben pushed back from the table, rose, and went to the bar to top up his drink. “I have to come up with something worthy of your victory.”

The distance between them was slightly bracing. James got to his feet. The rain hadn’t slowed at all; if anything the real world only seemed further away. But reality was out there, waiting to catch him back up in the grind. He would never see Ben again. Already it seemed impossible to him that he’d spoken so openly to a man he’d only known for hours.

Yet, when Ben turned back with his glass of rum, James was under his spell again in an instant.

Ben’s dark eyes met his with almost unnerving directness. “Are you ready for your prize?”

“Can’t wait.”

“My final secret is this.” Ben took another sip of his rum, then said, “I want you. And I know you want me too.”

For one half second, escape was still possible. James could have acted surprised, even as if he didn’t understand what on earth Ben was talking about, and that would have been all the plausible deniability he needed. But he said nothing. He did nothing. He only stood there, heart pounding in his chest, unable to look away.

One more sip, and Ben put aside his glass. He walked toward James, his steps slow but decisive. His eyes never left James’s. He never smiled. When he was close enough for them to touch, his hands closed around James’s shoulders, and then he stopped. He raised one eyebrow, almost mocking, daring James to make a move.

“I don’t—” James’s mouth was dry, and he had to swallow before he could speak. “I don’t often, ah, indulge.”

“How long has it been?”

The last time had been with Niall, already knowing their end was near, hating himself the whole time. “About three years.”

Ben breathed out sharply, as though in sympathetic pain. One of his thumbs brushed against James’s shoulder in gentle circles. “It’s all right.” His voice grew softer than it had been at any other point in the day. “I promise.”

It was anything but all right. Yet James couldn’t care about that any longer, not now that Ben was finally touching him.

I’m taking this. One stolen hour in my entire bloody life—it’s mine,
he’s
mine, and no one else ever has to know.