1 Chapter 1

1

Traveling with his husband, Ben decided—as he’d decided many times before—had to rank among the most excruciating experiences of his life. More unpleasant than hostile guns in his face. More frustrating than governmental bureaucracy. Just worse

It wasn’t even Simon’s fault. That was the other problem. Kept him rather definitively from being able to mention all the worse.

Simon himself was unfailingly polite and kind to harried flight attendants and calm about every airport-related gate-change and delay. Simon flew first class—Ben did too, or at least had when Agency money had paid for it—and appreciated good service, which naturally extended to Ben, as his husband. Simon packed neatly and simply, one bag, and didn’tcomplain when the woman in the seat behind him squealed, “Oh, that isyou!” and demanded he sign her napkin.

Ben had turned around too, and glared. She’d sat back down and gone very quiet for the rest of the flight; Simon had given him a reproving headshake, but those winter-blue eyes weren’t really annoyed, so Ben had considered this a triumph.

The excruciating part had nothing to do with how completely and thoroughly and madly he loved his husband. It had everything to do with all the stares.

Everyonenoticed them. Ben, years of Agency subtlety and disguise hardwired into his bones, tried not to twitch every time another person peeked at his face. Some of those persons had phones. With cameras. He’d so far resisted the urge to take them away.

He might be officially retired from the field. Didn’t make being the center of attention any easier. Not when it wasn’t part of a cover, a mission, a job.

Technically they did have a mission. Simon’s brother. In trouble. A plaintive phone call. Blackmail, photographs, embarrassment. Simon and Ben had looked at each other, sighed, and agreed to come over to London for a few days.

Ben was pretty sure it wouldn’t take longer; how much trouble could one generally well-meaning affable viscount get into? The phone call hadn’t been terribly clear; Stephen had been distressed, and distracted. But it seemed personal, not political, which was good; smaller scale.

It wouldn’t’ve been political. No one trusted Stephen Ashley with state secrets; he’d rattle them off to anyone interested, not out of malice but because Stephen liked everybody.

Ben, who did not like everybody, was aware that this dismissal of his brother-in-law was slightly unfair. Stephen was the definition of an English-heritage jolly good fellow, and perfectly nice, and solid through and through. Ben Smith, former Agency operative and current instructor—in history and linguistics and international relations, or at least mostly those areas—had a lot of cynicism, fought off the occasional past-related nightmare, and currently kept trying not to tense up every time someone got too close, stared too long, recognized Simon.

The problem was threefold, and unlikely to simply vanish. First came the fact that he’d married the most attractive man on the planet, possibly on any planet, anywhere. This in and of itself decidedly did not bother him—though he sometimes still wondered howthe pixie-sized living artwork had ended up saying yes to him—but meant that heads turned everyplace they went. In an airport lounge. In a bookshop. On a train. It was that kind of beauty.

Second was the moderate level of celebrity, which should’ve really been first, but people figured out the celebrity afterthey did the looking. And that was only about to get worse, here in London. Here, where Simon wasn’t just a bestselling author—with the added titillating thrill that the novels were all historical romance, juicy and delicious, and not shy about sex scenes—but also technically aristocratic. The second son of a certain duke. A not-insignificant number of steps from the Royal Family.

Simon cordially loathed his father, dislike entirely reciprocated. That didn’t make the relation any less newsworthy, whenever he came home.

Ben had held his hand, getting onto the plane. Again, disembarking here in London. Simon had wrapped fingers around his, slightly cold and very tight, and summoned up a smile for the next person with a phone held up for a photograph.

Third…

…well. They’d be attracting attention even without the first two conditions. He sighed, not audibly. The sharp-footed centipede of annoyance scampered down his spine again.

Within thirty seconds of disembarking from the plane, Simon had tripped over someone else’s luggage, tripped over a secondperson’s luggage while apologizing, nearly stepped in front of a cart full of security officers, and then walked into a post.

A post. An immovable, plainly visible, post.

Ben sighed again. His entire body itched, invisible restlessness crawling under his skin.

Simon was currently staring at the airport’s moving walkway, eyes all forlorn bits of sky. “I’m not certain this is a good idea.”

“It’s probably not.” He took Simon’s bag away. It could balance out his other shoulder. Plus, no one else would get hit by a random oversized carry-on. “Didn’t you fall off an escalator once?”

“Not entirely. Thank you for having such boundless faith in me.” Simon ventured a step. Promptly lost balance at the line between motionless carpet and rolling black vinyl, and managed to catch himself with a small amount of grace plus a helpful handrail plus Ben’s shoulder. “I hate airports.”

“How did you ever survive book tours before me,” Ben said, and took his hand again, walking. “Did you anger any witches? End up cursed?”

“It’s thoroughly possible that my father insulted an evil fairy at some point. He’s certainly insulted everyone else…oh, sorry, that was your foot…I am capable of walking, I swear. I did function for years without you. I said function, there, not live.” That wasn’t living, said those eyes, so blue when they met his, serious behind all the laughter.