His Royal Favorite (22 page)

He whispered, “My God, I love you.”

Ben didn’t say it back, didn’t ask why. He just pulled James close, and it was easy to pretend that he was safe in Ben’s arms, that nothing could touch him now.

***

James might not become king.
As much as Ben tried to accustom himself to the idea, he couldn’t manage it.

He lay in bed next to James, the hour well past midnight. Neither of them could sleep but they had settled into a mutual pretense of it, curled together in the hopes that their exhaustion would triumph over their concerns.

Half the time, Ben found himself regretting that Niall had died years ago, long before Ben would ever have had the chance to punch him in the face. James was so guarded, so careful, until he let those walls drop, and then he was as utterly tender and hopeful as anyone Ben had ever known. To think of anyone seeing that gentle side of James and then cruelly using that for his own profit . . . it was disgusting. What kind of vermin did you have to be, to do a thing like that?

How lonely James must have been. He was a discerning judge of character, most of the time; a cheap hustler like Niall Edgerton could only have fooled him because James had wanted to be fooled, because he had needed so badly to be loved.

But that anger merely riled Ben without meaning anything. Niall’s recklessness had turned him into roadkill years ago. Ben trusted Kimberley Tseng’s judgment on potential media pitfalls, so if she wasn’t too concerned about this, he assumed he probably didn’t need to be either.

Besides, their other great worry was so much vaster that it dwarfed anything Niall could have done in life or death.

James had spent his whole life learning to become a king. He’d been denied a normal childhood and adolescence, been denied any privacy, all of that, just so that he might someday fulfill the artificial and antiquated role of monarch. Now that he had dared to tell a normal human truth about himself, that destiny was being snatched away.

The old Ben, the man he’d been in Africa, sneered in his mind:
It’s not like he’s had it so hard. Living in a palace, being a millionaire.

But he now knew it wasn’t as simple as that. No amount of wealth or privilege could entirely compensate for—Ben struggled for the right words—for the way James had been made to believe that his own life did not wholly belong to him.

He stroked his fingers through James’s hair. James murmured, “This is hopeless.”

“We have to try to sleep.”

“I know. But it’s still hopeless.” He turned over to face Ben, so that they lay chest to chest, thigh to thigh. James’s soft cock and balls rested along Ben’s pelvic bone. “I know I ought to be more worried about my crown. A hell of a lot more worried. But instead I keep thinking about Niall, about what’s on those recordings of his. I realized I don’t much care if anyone sees me naked or hears me having an orgasm. What I can’t bear is the thought of everyone in the world seeing just how big a fool I was.”

Ben kissed his forehead. “Everybody’s a fool for love.”

“Not you.”

“Especially me. I daydreamed about you for months and then hooked up with you again because I thought I could just walk away unscathed. Tell me that’s not foolish.”

It worked; James smiled a little. “You ought to have realized this would be a mess.”

Ben shrugged. Anything he said would have to be an acknowledgment that they were, in fact, in an enormous mess, which was a point they didn’t need to belabor if they were ever to get any sleep.

James said, “A fool and then a prince no longer. Well. Still a prince: My title by birth can’t be taken away. But no more Prince Regent, and no more Prince of Wales.”

“They shouldn’t do that to you. You should get to be king.”

“Oh, come on, Ben. You’ve never believed in the monarchy, not really.”

It took a few moments for Ben to be sure of his answer. “I don’t believe in the idea of a king, no. But I’ve come to believe in the king you could be.”

“That may be the loveliest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Ben rolled James onto his back, grinning down at him. “You turned me into a monogamist and a monarchist. Forget being king. Maybe you should be a magician.”

“Abracadabra,” James whispered.

They kissed gently, then more insistently. Ben felt James’s cock twitch against his groin, then thicken to full hardness so quickly they both smiled through the kiss. Ben murmured, “As long as we’re not sleeping . . .”

“Mmmm.” James pulled Ben down against him. “Don’t you mean, as long as we’re up?”

By now Ben was getting hard too. “Your weakness for bad jokes—
oh
.” James had just wrapped his hand around Ben’s erection. “Oh, yeah.”

It was swift and sweet, the lovemaking of people who were both very devoted and very tired. Ben lotioned them up as quickly as he could without fully disentangling himself from James’s arms. His fingers interlocked with James’s as they pressed their cocks together, thrusting into their shared grip. Ben let his head fall against James’s shoulder, shivered as he heard James’s groans change pitch as he came closer to the edge, and came into James’s palm with a warm rush that drowned out every other thought in his mind.

In the sticky aftermath, James finally fell asleep, but Ben lay awake a while longer, watching him.

Once he had wondered what the point of monogamy was. Having sex with only one person the rest of your life? It had seemed dull at best. Yet with James Ben was discovering different shades and flavors of pleasure, those that only lay on the other side of deep knowledge and deeper love.

I really could stay with him forever
, Ben thought.

But could he stay in this palace forever? In this regimented, artificial life? That, Ben still didn’t know. The very idea made him restless and unhappy; things were better for him in public life, but better wasn’t the same as good.

Then he remembered everything James had said today about the regency’s end and his inability to survive a likely challenge by the Church. Before, Ben had been too stunned by the news and too angered by the homophobia to even get to his own feelings about James leaving the succession, the palace, all of it, forever.

As he lay there considering it, James dozing next to him, Ben felt the first flickers of what could only be called hope.

***

James knew his best hope of avoiding a challenge from the Church lay in extending the regency. The longer he held power, the more accustomed people would be to his sexuality, and the more dramatic a step it would be for the Archbishop of Canterbury to ask him to stand down. The Church of England, being very English, tended to avoid drama. It was scary to have to rely on discretion more than virtue, but there you had it.

But the call came only two days later, on Thursday morning.

James brought Kimberley and Ben along to Buckingham Palace for support: tactical in Kimberley’s case, moral in Ben’s. However, as the king was “unfit for company,” as Richard put it, Ben was forced to remain downstairs. The rudeness of that set James even more on edge, but he held his tongue while Ben gave him a look that clearly meant
save your ammunition.

So four of them took the ancient, creaking elevator to the third floor in deeply awkward silence: James, Kimberley, Richard, and the king’s personal physician. Mostly James pitied poor Dr. Okenedo, who clearly wanted to say something but had no idea what. Kimberley remained at James’s side, as slim and sharp as a folded switchblade. He tried to call upon fond memories of the king, the memories in which he was truly a grandfather, but there were so few of these. His father’s deviations from tradition had estranged Prince Edmund from the king before James was even born. Only his earliest childhood recollections were free of tension and strain, and those probably only because he’d been too young to pick up on anything unspoken.

Finally they entered the king’s study. This was a typically grand and cavernous space, complete with 18
^th
century gilding and cherubs on the high ceiling. An enormous, ornate desk piled high with papers (but no computer) sat in pride of place, but the king instead sat on a chaise longue nearer the door. He wore a bathrobe over striped pajamas and held a large-print copy of some magazine or other in his shaking hands. It seemed to James that he’d physically shrunk since they’d last met; there was nothing left of the terrifyingly cold figure he’d always known before. This was just an old man, small and weak, for whom it was impossible to feel anything but compassion.

“Grandfather,” James said softly. He squatted by the king’s side, the better to take his hand. “It’s good to see you.”

The king’s milky eyes slowly focused on James. He stared for a long second, then said, “They tell me you’re a poofter.”

So much for sentimentality.
James rose, only barely managing not to roll his eyes. “Back to your old self, I see.”

“Some men turn out that way, it’s true,” the king said to the room, oblivious to James’s reaction. “I blame public schools. Yes, it’s the public schools that do it. They’re churning out sodomites. Now, where’s my tea? Wasn’t someone supposed to get me my tea?” The king grabbed his cane and thumped it on the floor.

Dr. Okenedo busied himself calming the king while James turned to go. Kimberley fell in step beside him—but so did Richard, who said, “Obviously, he’s himself again.”

“Yes, that rapier mind has again been unsheathed,” James replied. “I suppose you’ll be setting up a meeting with the appropriate officials?”

Richard’s glow of self-satisfaction was hot enough to sear. “It’s already set. They’ll be here in about”—he made a show of checking his watch—“forty-five minutes.”

Richard throwing James’s old joke back at him felt like a slap in the face, one that truly stung, because it was the only one of these humiliations that he deserved.

Kimberley stepped in, smooth as ever. “When can we expect an announcement?”

“They’ll make the decision tomorrow, but said it would be unseemly to rush it through before the weekend,” Richard sniffed. Obviously he’d tried to move faster. “The announcement will be Monday morning, the transfer of power in the afternoon.”

“Very well,” James said, working to match Kimberley’s businesslike example. “I assume the king will not be taking on anything like a regular schedule of appearances. Of course I’m happy to continue to do my part, but they may wish to distribute some events differently. If his team needs to meet with mine to work that out, we are of course at their disposal.”

Far be it from Richard to allow a simple retreat with good grace. He stepped closer. “You will of course need to make time next week for another meeting. I’ve already alerted the Archbishop of Canterbury. He thinks we should all speak as soon as possible. Tuesday would be best.”

You couldn’t let it rest one goddamned day, could you, Richard
? But James held on to his temper. “Ms. Tseng will be in touch to set something up.”

Although Richard was clearly disappointed not to have gotten a rise out of James, he seemed to realize he had to let it go. He smiled thinly and said, “Enjoy your weekend.”

Your last as heir to the throne
didn’t even need to be said.

***

After James and Kimberley went upstairs, Ben was shown into a sitting room and offered tea. He didn’t particularly want any, but drinking a cup would be something to do, so he said yes. Then he was alone in the vast cold, ornate room, staring up at various oil portraits of long-dead ancestors, none of whom would have had the slightest idea what to do with him.

This forbidding environment was one James had been expected to submit to since he was a small child. No wonder James had controlled himself so harshly. No wonder he still found it difficult to express emotions he thought others might disapprove of.

An enormous side door swung open, and Ben turned, expecting a servant with his tea. Instead, in walked the queen of England.

“Your Majesty,” he said, rising to his feet.

“Mr. Dahan. I understand my son ordered you left behind here. He has never understood that propriety should not supersede courtesy. Please be seated.”

Had this been a show of friendliness, Ben would have been astonished, but the queen remained as frosty as ever. She simply felt that things had not been done properly, he realized, and she wished to amend that. He sat, trying to think of something absolutely safe to say. “It’s good to know your husband has recovered, ma’am.”

She gave him a look that would have turned the Sahara to snow. “Do you refer to the king?”

Personal terms were forbidden, of course; Kimberley had briefed him on all this, but there were so many stupid rules to remember.
What the fuck
, he decided. “Unless you have another husband hidden upstairs, ma’am.”

The queen didn’t find his comment amusing—but it didn’t anger her, either. She seemed to appreciate a bit of pushback, and Ben figured almost no one else ever provided it. “I can’t imagine you’re pleased about the latest developments. James will no longer be Prince Regent.”

“I understand this is how these things work, ma’am.”
And if I could actually get him out of this mess you call a family, you have no idea how happy I’d be.

“As long as we’re speaking, perhaps you could settle a question I’ve been thinking about for a while.” She took her own seat across from him, upright in an ornately carved chair, dressed in her usual severe dark colors. Ben remembered a drag queen he’d seen doing his Queen Louisa routine—far more accurately than he’d realized at the time—and had to fight not to laugh. She continued, “Why have you been so little seen until recently?”

This wasn’t her being supportive; her gaze remained utterly cool. Ben ventured, “I realized that life with James meant life in the public eye. I would avoid that if I could, but I can’t, so I’ve adjusted accordingly. Ma’am.”

“But if you wished to avoid publicity, why take up with James in the first place?”

The “first place” had mostly been about James’s red mouth, which was not a subject Ben intended to raise in Buckingham Palace. “Your Majesty, I love James despite his position, not because of it.”