He has expelled his stepfather, made peace with his mother, made plans to sell his terrible townhouse, and continued working night and day with Lord Havenfort to assure the passage of the Medical Act. But he hasn’t figured out how to solve the problem that is Bobby.
He sees Bobby tighten his jaw, notes the way his hands are curling and uncurling at his sides, and shakes himself. The problem isn’t and has never been Bobby. It’s Raverson, and men like him. It’s the fear that still grips at James’ gut, anchoring him into unhappiness and duty.
“Didn’t die on the way back, then,” Bobby finally mutters.
James feels it like a blow to the chest. How desperately he’s wanted to hear that voice, and how sharply painful to hear itso cold. Like their week together never happened. Like Prince’s stag night never happened. Here they stand, forced back into the roles they played at the beginning of the season, reluctant partners against blackmail and nothing more.
“No,” James manages, wanting so desperately to reach out and still Bobby’s hands. “And your travel?”
Bobby’s eyes snap back to meet his. “That’s what you want to ask me?” James flinches as anger settles firmly over Bobby’s face. “How was the bloody carriage ride?”
“I—”
“Awful, thanks for asking,” Bobby spits. “I trust you received your belongings.”
“Mr.Tilty brought them by,” James says quickly.
“Good. Reliable, Mr.Tilty. Does what he says he will.”
James fights the urge to sink back against the wall. He wanted to write. He wanted to explain. He’s wanted the opportunity to make things right so badly, but he doesn’t know how. He can’t fix the world. He can’t banish the threat of discovery, of scandal, of imprisonment. He can become whatever type of viscount he likes, but he can’t change the way things are.
“You could have written, you know,” Bobby says sharply.
James blinks back at him. What would he possibly have said?I’m as much of a coward as you thought I was at the start of the season, and worse for convincing us both perhaps I wasn’t?
“You could have given Albie a note.”
“I... didn’t think you’d want to hear from me,” he says honestly.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said all season,” Bobby exclaims.
“What, youwantedan apology in a note?” he tosses back, his whole body tense—old habits. “Some vague platitude? Would it make you less angry? Make you forgive me?”
“It would have been something,” Bobby insists, stepping forward. “You ran off, God knows where or how, with all your things still at the manor. Even just for Beth and Gwen’s sake, you could have written.”
James stares up at Bobby, incredulous. “Like anyone would have wanted to hear from me. Albert has barely attended our sessions with Lord Havenfort.” And at the ones he has, Albert has been quiet and left as quickly as possible. James doesn’t blame him. Albert’s allegiance will always be, should always be, to Bobby.
“Oh, the world isn’t all about you,” Bobby says archly. “Albie and I have had to settle Meredith at the house.”
James shakes his head. Even so, he’s sure Albert is angry with him. “MissBertram and Lady Gwen wouldn’t have wanted to hear from me.”
Bobby opens his mouth only in time for Gwen’s head to pop out of the lavatory. “You’re a right prat,” she says, glaring at James, curls tight against her scalp from the humidity. “And you should have written.”
She disappears back into the lavatory and James stares at the door as it sways on its hinges, the breath knocked out of him. Heleft, and they still—
“No one’s happy with you, but we’d all at least have liked to know you’d made it home,” Bobby says softly.
James turns back to him and finds the anger gone from his face, replaced by a pervasive sadness and heavy exhaustion. He looks how James feels. He never wanted to hurt any of them, least of all this beautiful man.
“And I do deserve an apology,” Bobby adds, rolling his shoulders back.
James sighs softly, his heart leaden, his mind aching, his bodystill tense, even a week later. “You deserve much more than an apology,” he says, looking up to meet Bobby’s wide eyes. “But I don’t know how to give it to you.”
He can see the words hit Bobby’s chest, watches in regret as he takes a step backward. His own chest clenches with pain and sorrow, but he doesn’t know how to fix this. He wants to, though. He wants to find a way.
“I’m sorry,” he says, all he can give, and it will never, ever be enough.
“Me too,” Bobby says. His eyebrows crease and he sucks on his cheek. James wants to step forward, stroke away the tension. “But I guess it’s for the best, right? Solves our Raverson problem, doesn’t it—we just never see each other unless forced.”
