His Royal Favorite (9 page)

“Mr. Crispin? Ben Dahan with Global Media.”

“It
is
you.” One split second was all it had taken for a titan of industry to completely derail. “You’re the Prince Regent’s boyfriend? The one in the papers?”

“I—my personal life doesn’t come into this, Mr. Crispin. I wanted to talk about the silver markets in—”

“How did you meet him?”

“That’s not relevant. Let’s not get offtrack.”

“Relevant to what? You want to talk about silver, I want to talk about the single biggest news story in the whole world. Which one of us is offtrack here?”

Absolute lunacy, but why did it seem to make a certain sort of sense? “Mr. Crispin. I’m not the subject of this story.”

“You’re the subject of every other story. Come on, just tell me something good and then we can talk about silver.”

Ben tried another tack. “I find it difficult to believe a businessman like yourself would be so concerned with gossip, Mr. Crispin.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Crispin said, suddenly lofty. “But if my wife finds out I talked to you and didn’t get any good dirt, I’m through!”

***

“Breakfast with the leader of the opposition went well?” Nicholas asked as he and James lunched together in a private upstairs room in Nicholas’s favorite restaurant in Mayfair.

“Extremely well, actually.” Not that James showed any favoritism in matters of politics, which was completely forbidden—but he’d still been less sure of his welcome with the opposition. Instead he’d been warmly congratulated and assured of support.

“And the medal ceremonies?”

“A few of the more elderly ones seemed surprised to see me,” James admitted. Had they thought Prince Richard would take over as heir immediately? Perhaps. And yet—“After the first moments, though, that awkwardness went away. It all went quite smoothly. More than usual, as a matter of fact.”

“The papers have been beside themselves, the red tops especially, but TV’s been very favorable for you.” Nicholas grinned. “You’re going to pull this off. You know that, don’t you?”

“Too early to say.” Yet James could feel hope bubbling inside like newly opened champagne. “I hope you haven’t been pestered much.”

Nicholas paused. “Not by the press.”

By Richard, he meant. James took a moment to consider how to phrase his next sentences. Nicholas didn’t share Prince Richard’s old-fashioned outlook or his lust for the throne, but Richard was still his father, and Nicholas was a loving son. James simply said, “If this doesn’t go the way I’m hoping—well, you should realize that I think you would make a very fine king.”

“Kind of you to say, but I rather hope we never find out.” Nicholas looked slightly seasick. He’d always fought to have as much freedom as his royal role allowed. If he moved up in the line of succession, as Prince Richard so hoped, that freedom would be curtailed forever.

James raised his water glass. “To never finding out.”

Nicholas clinked his glass against James’s, then said, “Isn’t that bad luck? Toasting with water instead of wine?”

“Don’t be superstitious.” He had enough to worry about that afternoon without fretting over old wives’ tales.

The first public event was by far the hardest. James’s stomach clenched in fear as he stepped out of his car, but then he was greeted with the same polite applause, the same smiling officials, the same flowers as ever. It took him five minutes to believe that it was all coming off, another hour to realize that it was coming off
well
.

Either those who disapproved had stayed home, or else not that many people disapproved. James knew the odds were in favor of the former, but he also knew that the many TV cameras were recording him carrying out his duties just as before, to Britons who seemed as happy to meet him as ever. If that image kept being broadcast night after night, he’d be able to prove that he could still be a good king.

No one was unpleasant to him. No one! In fact, most people were even more eager to please than usual, falling all over themselves to smile and nod at everything he said, lest they be considered homophobic. Essentially, everyone had been transformed into a Dog for a day, and all the Dogs had become Puppies—positively wriggling with the need to be friendly, and beyond any sensible conversation. This added a slightly absurdist twist to the day, but he could manage.

See? There wasn’t any reason to worry
, James told himself. He’d been afraid of people shouting insults or some sort of demonstration, but nothing like that had materialized. Eventually something would—James understood as much—but the longer he had to brace himself, the better he’d handle it. He had to handle everything well, or else.

Or else what?
That thought intruded just as he returned home, walking past Glover to head into the private area of Clarence House.
What does it matter if you handle it all perfectly? You already know the Archbishop of Canterbury is against you. What point is there even trying?

Once again, his training let him put his deeper worries aside. He couldn’t control that; he wouldn’t think about it.

Besides, he had other things to think about. For the first time ever, he was coming home to Ben.

Please let it not have been too bad for him. Please let Ben not regret his choice, or hate me for letting him do this. Please let him be all right.

“Hello!” he called as he came through the door, which brought Happy and Glorious running to him, as usual. But this time it brought Ben too.

Ben appeared in the hallway wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips, revealing that deliciously tapered waist, and a T-shirt that might have been painted on. “There you are.” He looked so happy that it made James’s heart soar. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

All the day’s tensions faded in the warmth of Ben’s arms; James could feel himself smiling against Ben’s shoulder. So this was what it was like, coming home to the person you loved.

“How did it go?” Ben said.

“Not bad, actually. Not bad at all. And you?”

“It was . . .” Ben’s voice trailed off, and James once again felt the cold spear of dread in his heart. Had it been terrible? Did Ben already have second thoughts? But then a smile spread across Ben’s face. “It was utterly ridiculous.”

“Really?” James started laughing out of relief, but Ben’s stories only made him laugh harder. They were silly with each other while they ate together in the kitchen, the corgis looking up at them lovingly in hopes of a scrap.

Seeing Ben face down the world for him was one thing. Seeing him smiling afterward—that was a higher order of miracle altogether.

“
Benji?
Honestly,” James said between bites of chicken. “You couldn’t be any less of a Benji.”

“Thank you,” Ben said.

“No offense to the many Benjis of this world. I feel sure they are delightful men, one and all. But you’re not among their number. I could never get this turned on by a Benji.”

“Are you sure? We might have to test this proposition.” With his free hand, Ben reached down to stroke James’s thigh. “See how much I turn you on tonight. Then tomorrow night you have to call me Benji and we’ll see how it goes.”

James started laughing again. “I enjoyed our first round of role-playing much more than I’d enjoy seduction-by-Benji.”

“Oh, yeah. Gay nightclub night.” Ben gave him one last squeeze, then went back to his sandwich. It was still startling for caresses and sex to be an ordinary part of his life, James thought, but in the best way. “You asked to play again sometime, didn’t you? And I’ve let you down.”

“Wait until the right inspiration strikes.” James hoped he sounded suave and tantalizing instead of giddy with anticipation.

“Okay. Or if inspiration strikes you, don’t be shy.” Ben’s eyes danced, and James realized he wasn’t the only one eager for their next game.

That night didn’t involve role-playing or any kink whatsoever. Just being together without fear or furtiveness was still a new, intoxicating delight. They watched the night’s media bundle from Kimberley in good spirits, nestled in each other’s arms, joking about how the BBC was now on Day Four of “The Prince Regent Is Still Gay.”

Afterward James drew Ben back into the bedroom, his bed this time, doling out kisses only every few steps, as though he were leaving a trail for Ben to follow. They undressed each other slowly, taking the time to stroke and kiss every exposed inch of skin, even the back, the shoulders, the knees. James clambered on top of Ben, the better to slick them both up; together they slipped their cocks between each other’s thighs and rocked back and forth, gently, only gradually building to a nearly simultaneous climax. In the aftermath they kissed until they could hardly catch their breath.

Nothing could be more romantic
, James thought afterward, as Ben spooned behind him, drowsy and almost asleep.

Nothing except this lasting forever.

He was getting ahead of himself, and he knew it. Still, now that they’d taken the most momentous step of all—what were their limits? Were there any?

At this early stage, the public was still unsure about Ben. James hated knowing the rest of the nation had a say in who he spent his life with, but that was the price of the crown. Still, the coverage hadn’t been too bad so far, and over time it would probably get better. They might accept Ben yet.

But accept him as what? A boyfriend was one thing. Could James and Ben ever marry? The Anglican Church didn’t sanction gay marriage and seemed unlikely to budge on this point anytime soon. That wouldn’t forestall a civil ceremony at some point. In that case, Ben could never become Prince Consort, but—

Stop this
. James stifled that line of thought and used all his discipline to put it out of his head. He and Ben had only been together for slightly more than five months. They’d only lived together for a few days. Thinking of forever was premature in the extreme.

Enjoy what you have
, he told himself.
Don’t ask for anything more. This alone is greater happiness than you ever expected to have in your lifetime.

***

By the next morning, Ben was in high spirits.

Yesterday had been ludicrous, but it had been endurable. The minor bruises to his ego had been expertly bandaged by lovemaking with James, and Ben awakened not only ready to take it on again but almost eager to do so. Honestly, it was worth the trouble just to have the stories to tell James, and after all, it wasn’t forever.

So he only felt amusement when Kimberley Tseng appeared early the next morning with the tabloid du jour—the
Sun
—which seemed to have gotten in touch with someone Ben had known in Australia. The headline read,
BIG BEN!
Beneath it, a subhead snickered, TAKE A LOOK AT THE NEW CROWN JEWELS?

The cover photo showed Ben on a friend’s sailboat, with his arms stretched overhead and wearing only a swimsuit. A very small swimsuit. Small and tight, and a very pale blue that revealed shadows and shapes with extreme clarity.

All three of them stared at this page in silence for a while. Finally Ben offered, “Speedos were completely normal swimwear for men in Australia. At least when I lived there.”

“Really?” James said.

“Really,” Ben said, then waited one beat before adding, “they called them ‘budgie smugglers.’” For this he was rewarded with the sight of James trying hard not to giggle.

“I realize there’s nothing actually prurient about the photo,” Ms. Tseng said. “So will the majority of the public. I just . . . thought you ought to be aware that this is out in the world.”

“Heavens,” James said as he took the paper from Kimberley. He looked at Ben in mock-hope. “Please tell me you still have this swimsuit.”

“You know, I think I do.”

“Buckingham Palace has a pool, and we have another date.” James’s blue eyes danced with humor as he handed the
Sun
back to Ms. Tseng. “This isn’t that bad, is it, Kimberley?”

“Not really, sir. Obviously it would be better if it weren’t out there, but it’s far from the most damaging photo that could ever turn up. In some respects it’s even, ah, impressive. Well. Shall we start our day, Your Royal Highness?” She spoke so coolly that she and James were almost out of the room before Ben realized what she’d just said.

Ben fought his way through the phalanx of reporters in front of Global Media again. If anything, there were even more of them, several of them waving copies of the risqué cover; for starting the day with a bang, there was nothing like having to run a gauntlet of photos of your own package first thing in the morning. By now every single one of them called him Benji.

“What were you wearing when you met the prince, Benji? Something like this?”

“You take it up the ass from him? Is that how you like it?”

“Come on, Benji, give us a smile!”

“Who’s the boy in the relationship? Who’s the girl?”

Oh for God’s sake
, Ben thought as he hurled himself into the salvation of the revolving doors.
Just keep your face neutral.

His story on South American metals came out and was instantly picked up by every paper and service in the Western world, so far as Ben could tell. This would have been more heartening if he’d felt like anyone read past his byline. Normally he could get a good sense for a story’s impact by monitoring his inbox, but overnight that had transformed from a workable way for him to interact with the public into an endless font of crazy.

“Where are you?” Roberto said around lunchtime.

“I’ve sorted through . . . 482 e-mails out of, ah, 5,296.”

“You’ve got more than five thousand e-mails?”

“That’s what I had first thing this morning,” Ben admitted. “I haven’t dared refresh it.”

“How are they breaking down?”

That morning Ben had begun keeping a tally on neon orange Post-it notes, but he’d quickly realized he’d run out of Post-its before this was done. Still he had a rough idea. “About half of them hate me for violating Leviticus, for ‘turning the prince gay,’ or something else that lets them call me a fag. Another fourth are propositioning me. Most of those seem to be women, strangely enough. The rest are a mix of warnings about AIDS, anti-Semitic vitriol, attempts to extort money based on past affairs that never happened, random GIFs that I assume are supposed to be funny, and endorsement offers.”