Playing to Win (20 page)

A rustle came from behind him as the breeze sucked the blinds against the window.

Andrew jerked away at the sound. “Oh,” he said. “It’s just the…” He shut his eyes and pulled away slightly. “Sorry I’m not in the mood for much at the moment.”

“It’s all right.” He touched Andrew’s cheek, running his thumb over the beauty mark in his left dimple. “I just want you to be okay.”

“I am. I will be.” He turned his head to kiss the inside of Colin’s wrist. “Once the window’s repaired tomorrow morning, we can continue where we left off. But with both of us naked.”

“Okay.”

“And then…” Andrew fidgeted with Colin’s T-shirt collar, keeping his gaze on it. “I’d like you to come over again. If you want.”

Colin’s lips curved with relief. “Okay.”

“Monday night?”

“Yeah, good.” Without thinking he asked, “Not the weekend?”

“Weekends are bad for me at the moment. It’s the summer social season, so often I’m away to London, although now it’s August, everyone’s coming to Scotland. Massive dinners and teas at various Highland estates, and of course the reeling parties—the balls,” he added. “It’s Scottish families’ chance to remind our southern friends that not only do we still exist, but we’re as mad and fabulous as ever.”

“So when we went to Edinburgh that weekend…”

“I got an earful from my family, yes. So I need to placate them.” He sighed. “If I can be Lord Andrew Friday through Sunday, then Monday I’m free to be just Andrew. With you.”

“I understand.” Colin did understand, perfectly, where his place was.

Andrew watched him closely. “The thing is, it’s my first social season since coming out. I need to appear normal, which means appearing often. I am sorry.”

Colin felt a tug of sympathy for Andrew’s constraints, though on the surface, the need to attend posh parties didn’t seem much of a burden. “My weekend’s already sorted, anyway. Saturday we’ve a friendly match against Shettleston. Then I’m popping over to see my mum in hospital.” He almost added that Saturday was his birthday, but decided it would only make things more awkward. Instead he kissed Andrew quickly and said, “Try and sleep the now.” Then he rolled over to face the window and hide his disappointment.

After their night in Edinburgh, Colin would’ve leapt at the chance to see Andrew every once in a while. But now, it was no longer enough to be a social side dish, a diversion to fill dull weeknight evenings. Colin needed bigger and bigger hits of this man. Which meant he had to quit him while he still could.

Behind him, Andrew shifted his head, settling into the pillow. Then he slipped his fingertips between Colin’s shoulder and the surface of the sofa. “This doesn’t count as cuddling,” he said. Then his voice softened. “I just like knowing, when I close my eyes, that you’re still here.”

Colin shut his own eyes in surrender. He was hooked, and he didn’t fucking care.

= = =

Plus ça change…
Andrew thought as he whirled around the rustic ballroom, trying to recall the steps to The Bees of Maggieknockater (a reel he and his cousins used to call “The Balls of Maggie Thatcher”).

At London parties, Andrew was free to flirt and dance and hook up with other men of his station. People paired up as they chose—men with women, women with women, men with men. But here in the Highlands, among the tartan aristocracy, any combination but one man and one woman seemed utterly unthinkable.

Still, he rather loved the ancient traditions, how they connected him to the past. Knowing his ancestors had danced these same reels centuries ago made him feel simultaneously small and large, like he was part of something grand without being diminished.

The reel ended with a flourish of fiddles. Andrew joined in the applause and bowed to his partner and favorite cousin, Lady Karen. At the first strains of the Gay Gordons march, Andrew and Karen rolled their eyes at each other and headed for the bar.

“I always sit this one,” she said as she took his arm. “Too much touching.”

“I know! They should provide antibacterial gel stations. Like in hospitals?” At the edge of the bar, drams of whisky were arrayed for the taking. Andrew picked up two and handed one to his cousin. “Or better yet, we all go back to wearing gloves.”

“Gloves, are you mad? It’s a thousand degrees tonight.” Lady Karen fanned herself with the end of her tartan sash as they hurried to grab an empty table. “It’s rubbish we’re required to wear full-length ball dresses. I didn’t spend all that time in Majorca just to cover up this tan.”

“At least you can have your arms and neck bare.” Andrew tugged at his white bow tie, grimacing at the constriction. “And though it may seem like kilts provide good air circulation, my balls are absolutely baking.”

“Mmm, baked balls. Delish.”

“Aren’t they just?” He clinked his glass against Karen’s before collapsing into the red velvet chair beside her. They sipped in silence for a few breathless moments, nodding their heads to the bouncy tune and watching the couples parade by.

Karen examined her lipstick in the blade of a silver butter knife. “So how are you finding reeling parties now that you’re out?”

“It’s like stepping back in time.” He unfurled his fingers toward the ancient swords and shields mounted on the ballroom’s stone walls amongst portraits of long-dead aristocrats posing with horses and hounds. “I still dance only with girls, I still write my name on your dance cards with the wee phallic symbol provided for the occasion.” He picked up a green one that had been left behind on the table. “Look, this year they’ve given us golf pencils. Is that so a guy’s name can’t be erased when someone better comes along?”

“Little do they know, every woman’s eyeliner pencil holds a tiny eraser.”

“Really?”

Karen laughed and shook her head, bouncing her sleek, razor-cut blond bob. “I wish. So if you’re back in the eighteenth century, does that mean your night might not end with a sordid lavatory shag?”

“That only happened once.”

“At least twice. Remember that gallery opening in Marylebone back in April? The afterparty at Chiltern Firehouse?”

“I do not remember it. Which probably means you’re right.” A waiter stopped at their table with a tray of water glasses, which Andrew gratefully exchanged for his empty whisky tumbler. “But you know, I’m rather enjoying this respite from being on the prowl. Just having good times with family and friends, not constantly scanning the room for my next sexual conquest.”

He met his cousin’s eyes, and they both burst into laughter.

“God,” she said, “for a second I thought you were serious.”

“Maybe a little bit.”

Karen gasped. “Have you met someone?”

“I meet loads of someones. It’s what I do.”

“Come on, spill.” She reached over and shook his arm. “There
is
a someone!”

“Everyone is a someone, Karen.” He held his water glass to his rapidly warming face.

“Drew!” When he kept his mouth shut, she sank back in her chair. “Fine, be coy. But don’t forget, you can’t be in the Little Black Book unless you’re single.”

“I’ve not forgotten.” Thinking of the LBB’s publisher,
Tatler
magazine, reminded him of his Wednesday night date with Colin, which in turn reminded him again of the rock through his window—not that it was ever far from his thoughts. Colin’s repair had required a trip to the hardware shop, the purchase of several new tools and materials in addition to the pane of glass, then five hours of trial and error, despite the YouTube videos demonstrating how to do it. The result wasn’t perfect, but it would pass a cursory inspection.

Andrew admired Colin’s dogged determination and cool head as he went about the frustrating task, but now he was having second thoughts about lying to Reggie. Looking back, the cover-up was a childish move, but in the moment, Andrew had panicked.

It wasn’t only Colin’s freedom he’d feared for, but also his own. If Reggie had known about the rock, he would have placed Andrew on lockdown—and probably told Lord and Lady Kirkross. There’d be no more rendezvous with Colin, and probably not even tonight’s ball.

If Andrew was to be a real adult, he couldn’t live in a bubble. But the secrecy meant he needed to solve this mystery himself.

“Karen,” he said, “you haven’t, by some strange chance, shared my home address with anyone?”

“Of course not. I know how paranoid you are. Why, do you have a stalker? Like a real one, besides the people online who’d give their left nut and/or tit to sleep with you?”

“I don’t know.” Andrew had kept the reception-room blinds open in defiance, even at night. But every time he walked in there, he felt jittery, waiting for another crash. “You’ll be at the Perth Ball on the thirtieth?” he asked, changing the subject before it ruined his mood.

“Fuck yeah!” Karen said. “I hear some royals are coming.”

“Ah.” Andrew wondered why the thought of hobnobbing with princes didn’t fill him with as much delight as usual. Perhaps because he imagined Colin’s sneer, something he hoped would be curbed—though not eradicated—at the Sunderlands’ reeling party next month.

The Gay Gordons ended, then the band swooped into the Hamilton House line dance with only a moment’s pause.

“That’s my cue.” Karen checked her dance card. “Oh my God, this guy! He’s so fit.” She leaped up from her chair and beamed at a young blond man heading their way. Karen was right—he was gorgeous.

Andrew gave a wistful sigh, then realized it wasn’t the lack of men to dance with that filled him with longing. It was the fact that the only man he wanted to dance with was a hundred miles away.

He slipped out of the ballroom, then took the stairs up to the gallery, where it was quieter but he could still watch the dancing. He phoned Colin, who didn’t answer, so he sent a text instead:

Just rang you but didn’t leave a voice mail, seeing as it’s the 21st century. Hope you’re having a good evening. -x

Moving past the tables being laid for the two a.m. breakfast, Andrew went to the banister overlooking the dance floor. By the time he reached it, his phone rang with a call from Colin.

Andrew answered. “Hello there. Did I wake you before?”

“Naw, I’m at Polo Lounge,” Colin shouted over the din of club music. “John and Fergus and Liam took me out for my—for my scoring the equalizer.”

“Well done! I wish I could’ve been there.”

“Aye, right.” The background bass thump softened a bit as Colin seemed to move to a quieter location. “A preseason amateur football match is no one’s dream Saturday afternoon.”

“Still, I would love to see you play.” Andrew had sat in the world’s most legendary stadiums—Madrid’s Bernebéu, Old Trafford in Manchester, Juventus Stadium in Turin—often watching players with whom he’d either had or would imminently have illicit rendezvous. As thrilling as that had been, nothing made Andrew’s thighs tingle like the thought of watching Colin dash down a muddy Glasgow amateur football pitch.

“How’s your reeling party?” Colin asked. “Is your dance card full of randy lads in kilts?”

“Only women get dance cards. If I were to reel with another man, the ballroom would probably burn itself to the ground. But that’s Old Scotland for you.
Plus ça change
, you know?”

“Hm.”

“That means ‘the more—’”

“—‘things change, the more they stay the same.’ I know what
plus ça change
means.” Colin’s protest lacked its usual bite.

“Sorry. But no, I’ve not danced with a single man all night. Or a married one.” He tittered nervously at his own feeble joke. “I’m envious, you being at Polo Lounge.”

Colin made a distracted noise, and Andrew’s envy morphed into jealousy. “I’m sorry, are you with someone tonight?”

“Just my mates.” Colin’s voice sounded strangely hollow.

“Are you drunk?”

“Uh-uh. Just…tired…I guess.”

Andrew’s hand tightened on the polished banister. This was going poorly. He shouldn’t have phoned. They weren’t boyfriends, for God’s sake.

On the dance floor below, the Hamilton House ended, giving way to an eightsome reel—which, thankfully, Andrew was not promised for. He tried to salvage the conversation by showing he remembered the other reason this day was important to Colin. “Did you see your mum like you planned?”

“No, I—” Colin paused. “I mean, I
went
to see her, but…no. I didn’t. See her.”

“Was she not well?”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, she’s well all right. Well enough to be discharged, in fact.”

“Splendid.”

“Yesterday, in fact. Without telling her family, in fact.”

Andrew’s gut did a slow roll. “You mean she just—she—”

“Did a runner, aye.”

“My God. So you’ve no idea where she’s gone?”

“I know where she’s gone. Look, it’s really loud here. Can we talk Monday when I come to yours?”

Colin’s flat tone worried Andrew. “Are you all right? Do you want me to come back to Glasgow? It’s a few hours’ drive, but I’m sober—I have to be, or I’ll forget the steps—so I could be on the road—”

“No, you’re the last person I—” Colin stopped himself. “Sorry. I don’t mean that. I don’t mean anything, just…I’ll see you.” He hung up.

Andrew kept the phone pressed to his ear, as if doing so would maintain the connection between them. He shouldn’t have
offered
to come home, he should have just done it. Now he’d spend the rest of the night feeling helpless.

He did not like feeling helpless, unless it was in Colin’s arms.

Andrew sent a quick text to John.
Just talked to Colin about his mum. Look after him for me, would you?

While waiting for a reply, he leaned on the gallery railing and watched his parents on the ballroom floor below as they led the eightsome through “Speed the Plough,” which his mum called the Inverness Country Dance, out of loyalty to her home city. Their faces glowed with exertion and laughter. His mother never looked so radiant as when she danced.

His phone buzzed with a text from John:

Don’t worry, mate, we’ve got him sorted. I’m pure raging at her. I get she’s ill, but of all days.

Andrew frowned as he replied,
What do you mean, of all days?