Chapter Twenty-Four
James
If every hoofbeat of the massive rented black stallion below him didn’t send a jolt of pain lancing through his head, he’d
still be crying. He ran from the estate, down the long winding drive, and what must have been two miles to Oswestry in a fraught
panic. He left everything behind, save for the clothes on his back and the money in this pair of trousers, which will certainly
be ruined by the time he makes it back to London.
And now he’s riding into the fading sunset, his head aching, body sore, and lungs tight from tears and panic and heartache.
Branwen—his terrifying equine travel companion—keeps the punishing pace he started. It matches the staccato pulse of his heart,
which hasn’t let up since Lady Harrington collapsed while Bobby—
James fights back a dry sob, forcing himself to focus, lest he steer himself and the enormous horse into a ditch in the dying
light. Lady Harrington’s horrified shriek won’t leave his ears, but it’s the image of Bobby’s heartbroken face that keeps
blurring with the road in front of him. In that split second, as James’ fragile peace tore apart, he saw his decision in Bobby’s
eyes before he made it. In the quick shuttering of his hope, in the tightening of his face, in the way his hands fell away
from James and his body stiffened.
Bobby knew that James would run. And James did nothing to prove otherwise.
He was finally surrounded by the friends and family he’s always wanted, who accepted him, encouraged him, even. Had seemingly
found the one man who’s ever fully understood him, maybe even trusted him—and he fled at the very first sign of danger. Like
he always does.
He hates himself, and he hates the world, and he maybe hates Bobby just a little for showing him that life could be different—life
could be glorious—if he wasn’t such a dreadful coward.
He thinks he might actually love...
It doesn’t matter. In under an hour he’ll be back in London. Back in his stable, safe, wretched life. There will be nothing
to fear, and no one to ruin, and he’ll be able to go back to being exactly who he was six days ago.
The thought wrings another heaving sob from his chest, and he almost loses his grip on the reins. He squeezes his thighs together,
holding onto Branwen as best he can. He wants the life he just left. He wants the friends, and the family—his fragile peace
with Beth, his camaraderie with Albert, his sporting repartee with Gwen.
And he wants—he wanted—he had Bobby Mason. Not the schoolboy fantasy, not the season’s antagonist, the real Bobby Mason. Human,
and halting, and honorable. A man who could be—could have been—the kind of partner James has never let himself dream about
before. The bloody best friend kind of love that Prince talked about. It was new, and tender, and burgeoning, and in one moment it was gone.
Now he’s sitting on a massive horse at the servants’ entrance to his late uncle’s townhouse. He never asked to be named heir to the Demeroven title. He never asked to sit in parliament. He never asked to be anything more than a gentleman’s weak stepson, living a simple life in the country.
He’s been fighting all season to prove himself worthy of a life he frankly hates, and for what? He’s given up his pride, and
his freedom, and now—now he’s left everything behind to protect this house, this title, this family. But instead of doing
right by the title—like he promised Beth he would—instead of building something new, he’s run back to the old, horrible, miserable
same he left six days ago.
James clenches his jaw. He can feel the gaping maw in his chest, a gripping grief he knows won’t ever be filled by a title .
He takes a shaky breath, unsurprised to find he does still have tears left to cry. He’s angry, he realizes. Angry at himself.
Angry at his stepfather for making him feel so small he’s forgotten what it felt like to take up space. Angry at the world
for making him choose between love and duty.
He sits there, heaving in air, unsure of what he wants, or how to fix what he’s broken. Unsure of everything but the rage
rippling through his chest and the grief clawing at his stomach.
Reginald steps out of the servants’ entrance, placing down a crate of empty milk bottles. He turns, wiping his hands on his
apron, and nearly falls over at the sight of James mounted on Branwen in the little servants’ courtyard.
“What the bloody hell?” Reginald exclaims, closing the door with a snick before stepping forward to stare up at James. “Where
did you— Why are you— Whose horse is this?”
“Tack house in Oswestry,” James rasps out, blinking down at him.
“You’re paler than a ghost. Get down from there,” Reginald insists, quickly tying Branwen’s reins to the tack post in the
courtyard. He then steps up to steady James as he slowly dismounts, every muscle in his body screaming out in protest.
James hits the ground and stumbles, trying to get his balance back. He’s never ridden so hard or so long before. And the six days of overzealous sex certainly didn’t help. His thighs and arse feel like they’re made of twisted lead, and he leans into Reginald there in the dim light from the kitchen windows.
“What happened?” Reginald asks, slowly guiding James over to rest against a stack of crates opposite the door.
James struggles to drag his voice up his throat, exhaustion falling heavily over his shoulders, the adrenaline of the five-hour
horse ride beginning to wane. He should feel relieved to have arrived. But he doesn’t want to be here. He’s never wanted to
be here.
The only place he’s ever wanted to be is the one he just fled.
“James,” Reginald presses.
“Screwed everything up,” James admits. “Ruined everything, just like he always says I will,” he continues, jerking his chin
toward the windows to the study along the back of the townhouse.
Reginald peers at him in the dim light, his face tight and worried. “I’m sure you didn’t ruin anything. Come inside—I’ll feed
you, and we’ll get you to bed. It’ll look better in the morning.”
“No, it won’t,” James says on a hoarse scoff. Things can go back to normal, but they’ll never be better.
“Nonsense,” Reginald says, hauling him up and shuffling them back to the servants’ door.
James lets himself be led inside. What’s the use in arguing with Reginald? Eventually he too will see James for the failure
he is—the coward. Everyone does. Because he shows them. Because he runs. Because he’s scared .
“Come on,” Reginald coaxes, bringing him into the kitchen.
But before James can protest or acquiesce, there’s a loud cough from the doorway. Stepfather steps into the kitchen in a haze of smoke. He’s wearing the late viscount’s watch, smoking jacket, and, if James isn’t mistaken, his slippers.
“And there he is. Back early, yet again,” Stepfather says, his voice overloud in the small kitchen, eyes gleaming with malice.
“Why am I not surprised?”
James stares up at his stepfather, watching more than hearing as he slips into his favorite familiar rant. James is weak, James is pathetic, James is unworthy. He’s heard this speech thousands of times; it’s almost a part of him. It’s his stepfather’s voice in his head every time
he’s scared, every time he’s unsure.
That’s the voice he heard today when Lady Harrington screamed—the voice that told him to run. Told him to be scared, and panicked,
and cowardly.
And he listened.
Bobby’s words ring in his ears now. Too afraid of his stepfather to take what he wants. Too scared to be deserving of all
he’s been given. Always running away.
He watches his stepfather yell while Reginald holds him up. His stepfather is nothing more than a gentleman grasping at viscount,
coveting a life that was never his to have—resenting James his whole life for the title James himself never even wanted. And for the last three years since the late Viscount Demeroven
passed, Stepfather’s been growing comfortable and slovenly on James’ inheritance. Never doing a single thing himself. Pretending
he’s orchestrating the viscountcy, but really, he’s just drinking James’ whisky and smoking his cigars, merely playing at
power.
It’s taken James far too long to realize it, but watching him now, he sees his stepfather is living on stolen glory. Not a single member of parliament has ever mentioned him; no one cares about him. He is a pathetic, greedy, power-hungry man, who only has power so long as James is cowering from him. His power is James’ to bestow, not the other way around.
The knowledge settles on his shoulders like battle armor. James may not be ready to take what Bobby has offered—to commit
to a relationship and all its ensuing pitfalls in the reality of London, to be brave and sure and bold in love. But he wants
to be.
He wants to deserve the friends and family and lover he just left behind. He doesn’t know if he can, if there’s a life he
can architect for himself that gives him Bobby—if Bobby will even have him—and keeps them all safe while making good on the
title that goes with this horrible house. But he could try.
Right now, right here, in the absence of that loving life, with nothing to barter or lose, he can be brave enough. For this,
at least, he can be brave enough.
“You’re a piss-poor viscount, you know,” Stepfather says.
“And you’re nothing,” James hears himself say, stepping out of Reginald’s hold.
He slides his shoulders back, ignoring the screech of his muscles, and pulls himself up to his full height. And when he isn’t
slouching, cowering, would you look at that—he can look his stepfather clean in the eyes.
He steps forward, and his stepfather reflexively steps back in surprise.
“What did you say, boy?” Stepfather demands, his smirk falling.
This is the fight he can win. This is the stand he can take. And everything else... will come after.
“I want you out of my house,” James says loudly, advancing again. Pride swells in his chest as his stepfather retreats, allowing
James to stride out into the foyer, with its muted echo.
“Your house?” Stepfather exclaims, gesturing to the crowded foyer full of hideous paintings and busts. “Suddenly it’s your house, is it?”
James looks around. He sees Reginald standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching with bated breath. This is his horrible house. “This is my house. This is my title. I’m not the little disappointment of a boy you said I was when you married my mother and took her money.”
“Shut your mouth or I will make you,” Stepfather snaps, stepping toward James, balling his fists, going red in the face.
But James is sober, and Stepfather isn’t. All it takes is a well-placed side step to send his stepfather careening as he throws
a punch, the momentum of his own fist throwing him to the floor.
His stepfather lies there, winded and enraged, and James stands over him. “I want you out of my house. You have disgraced
our family—tried to put my aunt and cousin on the street to slake your own ego—and embarrassed our name all over town, pretending
at power everyone knows you lack. You are the disappointment, and I want you to go back to your own lands and be happy with
your lot.”
His stepfather tries to rise, but the drink and his own slow reflexes leave him sitting there, dizzy. “When I get up, I’ll—”
“Do exactly as I say,” James insists. “Or I’ll cut off your stipend.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” his stepfather spits.
“Wouldn’t I? It’s mine to bestow. I will arrange for Mother to have unfettered access to her dower from my father, should
she wish it. She can go with you, if she so chooses. But she is more than welcome, and I’d say encouraged, to remain here with me. But that is
her decision.”
He hears a soft rustle from the stairwell. No one in this fam ily will be controlled by his stepfather any longer, if that’s what they wish.
“You...” his stepfather starts, swiping out at James’ leg.
James simply kicks his wavering hand away. “Sober up, pack your things, and you’ll take the horse I hired back up to the country.
If you go quietly, I’ll have no reason to go to the authorities about your betting and your mistreatment of my mother. She
can divorce you, if that’s what she wants. Lord Havenfort knows some of the best solicitors in the city, and Lady Ashmond
would be happy to help her.”
“You shut up about my wife,” Stepfather says.
“Mother?” James calls, taking a chance.
“I’ll be staying here,” his mother says, her voice faint, but firm. “Get out, John. You heard my son.”
James smiles and turns back to his stepfather. “Understood?”
Stepfather glares up at him, but doesn’t respond.
“Reginald will be staying with me. Any of the staff who wants to return with you are welcome. Be packed and out of here by
morning, or I’ll call in the constable.”
With that, he turns on his heel and makes for the stairs, watching in amusement as Reginald leads a flurry of maids out of
the servants’ hall, all of them in their pajamas and hastily tied robes, eagerly grabbing things to pack. Reginald winks at
him.
When James reaches the top of the stairs, he finds his mother standing in her morning gown, staring at him with wide eyes.
“In a few weeks, we’ll sell this place, and you and I will pick out a new townhouse, which you can have your run of during
the year, if you like,” he says, feeling a true smile come over his face. “You’re welcome back at the estate as well once
the season’s over. But I’ll decorate the townhouse, at least the first floor.”
His mother lurches forward, wrapping him in her arms. “You wonderful boy,” she whispers, and he feels his chest unclench.
“It took me too long,” he whispers back.
She pulls away, brushing the hair from his eyes. “You are braver than me, and that is more than enough. I’ll sleep in the
guest room tonight, if you don’t mind. And you can have the primary bedroom tomorrow, if you want.”
“Would you prefer I take it?” he asks.
“I would.”
“Then we’ll switch. We can order anything you like, within reason,” he adds as her eyes light up.
“We’ll have breakfast before you go out tomorrow?” she suggests, a little meekly. They haven’t dined together in weeks.
“I’d like that,” he says honestly, squeezing her hands. “For now, though, I’m going to rest. It’s been a long day.”
“Was everything all right at the Masons’?” she asks.
James hesitates only for a moment. “I’ll tell you at breakfast,” he decides.
Maybe he’ll tell her everything, maybe nothing. But that’s tomorrow’s problem. And they’ll weather it together, whatever he
decides.
For now, he turns and strides down the hall, closing the door to his room so he can collapse face-first onto his bed. He’s
taken the first step toward making things right—toward righting his own life—and that is something.