Demeroven pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do you have to do this?”
“What?”
“Keep pointing fingers when I’m trying to stop?” Demeroven says, scrubbing his hand down his face before meeting Bobby’s eyes.
Bobby feels his defenses rising again despite himself. “Stop? You’re the one accusing me of knowingly endangering the family, when it was you not telling me who Raverson was that put us in this position.”
“Only because you can’t seem to properly vet your paramours,” Demeroven says, stepping toward him.
Bobby steps back, trying to put space between them as their animosity swirls around them, feeling less like animosity and more like something else he doesn’t quite want to name.
“Raverson was hardly a paramour. And he came on to me,” Bobby says.
“And you had no control? Couldn’t take even a moment to study his history before you let him into your pants?”
“What, do you vet all of your... engagements before having a go? Pause the action to go and interview people about them?” Bobby asks, glancing toward the flap of the curtain, but he doesn’t see movement on the other side. “You’ll barely discuss D’Vere, let alone anyone else. Do you expect a man to wait for you while you poke about in his life?”
“If he’s truly interested, he would wait,” Demeroven says haughtily.
Bobby feels his chest tighten. He’s so unnervingly smug. “Right. Because you’re such a prize, any man would fall over himself to wait around until you deem him worthy.”
“Any man worth my time would be doing his own research,” James insists.
It burrows against Bobby’s gut; no one has ever been willing to wait for him. If they had been, perhaps he wouldn’t have snuck into the curtains with Raverson. Perhaps one of his lovers would have stuck around, instead of going off to get married. No one has ever wanted him enough to care about the repercussions, because it’s always just been one night, if that.
But Demeroven is staring at him, his eyes narrowed, like he can hear Bobby’s pathetic thoughts. He’s not going to let this man think himselfbetterthan Bobby, just because he’s clearly met better men.
“So you’ll do your research for a paramour, but can’t be bothered to step in when your aunt and cousin are being treated abominably, is that it?” Bobby spits out.
“Shut up,” Demeroven hisses, his eyes darkening. Bobbytakes another step back, surprised. “I didn’t know. If I had, I would have fucking done something.”
Bobby can see the truth of it on Demeroven’s face, can see anguish and anger and self-loathing. But he can’t seem to stop his mouth. “Would you really? Or would you just have let your stepfather—”
“Don’t you say a word about my stepfather,” Demeroven snarls, stalking forward again. Bobby’s back hits the pavilion wall with a light whump. “You couldn’t understand what it’s like, having so much responsibility heaped on your shoulders all at once, when the year before they told younothing. You think your life is hard: ‘Woe is me, I’m a second son, I’m bored and have nothing to do.’ You cannot fathom what I’ve dealt with, the lengths at which I need to go to protect my family, to rehabilitate my name.”
“Goddammit, Demeroven, we’re aiming for the same thing,” Bobby manages, holding back a plethora of ruder responses.
He hates this. He hates that Demeroven is right. That he’s seeing clearly while Bobby’s been oblivious. And more than anything else, he hates how sodding good Demeroven looks all hot and bothered.
“You accuse me of making this into a competition, but you cannot stop yourself from reminding me that you are more important. And yet you want the responsibility of this blunder to be mine alone. You slept with him too,” Bobby says roughly.
“Before I knew better!” Demeroven exclaims, the sound ringing around them.
They both glance toward the tent flap, but there’s nothing but the stuffy air in their little alcove and the distant roar of the crowds.
“I could have known better if you’d bothered to tell me,” Bobby says, his voice low.
“When would you have listened?” Demeroven mutters.
“If you’d tried even at all to get to know me, we could have been friends,” Bobby hears himself say. He’s hot, and he’s frazzled, and he’s getting so tired of fighting about this.
“I know you,” Demeroven counters.
“You don’t,” Bobby insists. “You could have. Instead you’ve concocted this idea that I’m some kind of sex-crazed deviant determined to ruin you.”
“I’d never let you ruin me,” Demeroven says and Bobby feels himself flush.
“Right. Right, my mistake. I’m sure I would never pass the safe paramour exam,” Bobby grits out. “Or would I just be refused the test altogether? Too lowly for you to trifle with,” he hears himself say.
