“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’sscared.
“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 ahaze 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 Jameshiswhole 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, whoonly 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 ishishorrible house. “This ismyhouse. This ismytitle. 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.
