Mason frowned deeply. “What are you going to do?”
Robert couldn’t stop trembling. “The only thing Icando, Mason… let her go.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You truly mean to sit here and come to terms with it instead of riding after her?” Mason asked, leaning back in his armchair with his brows raised skeptically.
Robert leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands tightly. The dying fire cast flickering light across his features, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes.
“I have to try, Mason. I told her I wouldn’t control her. That I respected her freedom. That this marriage would never be a cage.”
“Yes, but you love her.”
Robert’s jaw flexed. “I do.”
Mason spread his hands. “Then talk to her.”
“We already talked before,” Robert said quietly. “We had that conversation. We set our terms, drew our lines. I agreed not to ask for more than she could give. She kept her word. So must I.”
Mason’s expression softened. “But things have changed, for you at least. You weren’t in love with her when you made that agreement. Perhaps she wasn’t in love with you either, then. Perhaps… she is now.”
Robert stared into the fire for a long moment, the flames dancing in his reflection. “Then why would she leave?” he asked at last, voice low and aching. “If something had changed, wouldn’t she have stayed and told me?”
Mason sighed. “You two are very complicated, do you know that?”
That dragged a tired half-smile out of Robert. “You think I don’t know?”
That was when Mason stood up, stretching his arms into the air above his head. “Well, brooding by the fire won’t help you. Come on, let’s go knock the sense back into you with some sparring. If you can’t say what you feel, might as well throw a few punches.”
Robert huffed a laugh. “That’s your solution to heartbreak?”
“Works every time,” Mason said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And you look like hell, old friend. Come on. Let’s see if I can finally beat you.”
“You never have,” Robert muttered, rising to his feet.
“Well, maybe now that you’re love-struck and half-mad, I stand a chance.”
The two men stepped into the cool morning air. And though the ache in Robert’s chest had not eased, there was something grounding in the thought of fists meeting leather and breathless silence between blows. A brief escape. And perhaps, amid it all, clarity.
About half an hour, they reached their destination. The boxing room smelled faintly of leather, old sweat, and the faint bite of linseed oil from the polished floorboards. The familiar scent and setting might once have steadied Robert’s nerves, but today, it all felt distant, as if the world had drawn several paces away and left him floating within the husk of his own body.
Mason tossed him a pair of gloves. “Try not to embarrass yourself,Your Grace.”
Robert caught them, though belatedly. The leather slapped against his chest. He did not bother lacing them immediately. His fingers felt clumsy, heavy, as though waterlogged. Every movement was a delayed echo of what it should have been. Still, he forced the gloves on and stepped into the ring.
The first punch came quick. Mason always opened with a feint and then a clean jab. Robert should have known that. He did know it, but his body reacted too late. The jab landed square on his shoulder, snapping him back a step.
“Come now,” Mason taunted lightly, circling him. “You’re moving like a man twice your age and half your wit.”
Robert huffed, raised his gloves again, but it was all wrong. He couldn’t settle into the rhythm. His breath was ragged already, not from exertion but from the turmoil roiling inside his chest. Every blow he attempted felt sluggish, as though his limbs were bound with invisible chains. He struck but missed. Parried, but it was too late.
Another punch grazed his ribs.
“She’s all you’re thinking of, isn’t she?” Mason goaded, ducking a lazy swing. “Your Lady Bird.”
Robert’s jaw clenched. He swung again, harder this time, more out of frustration than any form. Mason sidestepped easily.
“Good Lord, Robert,” Mason said with a breathless chuckle, “if you fought the French like this, we’d all be speaking their damned language.”
