And no, things aren’t all right. And no, Bobby isn’t sure if they can really make a true, loving life for him the way they’re all promising. But damned if he won’t try.
And if James can’t be part of it—he has nights and nights to weep over that. Today, he’s not going to let James steal any more of his joy.
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 bloodybest friendkind 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 atitle.
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.”
