Chapter Twenty-Eight
James stared after Eleanor as she disappeared into the mass of bodies, torn between the desire to laugh and the impulse to rush after her, kiss her, and whisper into her mouth what she’d refused to hear. She wasn’t just stubborn. She was impossible.
“What in God’s name has put that stupid smile on your face?”
James spun around, though he’d know that deep, cool voice anywhere. “Your Grace.”
The Duke of Sheffield stood behind him—of course—looking like James was horse dung on his shoe—of course.
A song drifted toward them, though it was more yelled than sung. James caught a few lines about haggis being shoved into a part of Thomas Clark’s anatomy where it probably shouldn’t go. The Duke of Sheffield heard it, too. His lips pursed at the corners.
“These are your people. I shouldn’t be surprised.”
James lifted his shoulder carelessly. “Your people are here, too.”
The duke ignored that. “Do you think you can possibly win?”
“I do.”
“Even if you do,” the duke said in a quiet voice, “this is all you’ll ever be. You were born in the dirt, and you’ll die in the dirt. Why did you think you could be anything else?”
Once, this would have cut James to the quick. It still cut, it still hurt, but not as deeply. It was a flesh wound, not a mortal one.
“Did you love my mother?” he asked, just as quietly.
“Excuse me?”
“You must have,” he said. “A long time ago, maybe, but you must have. Because she loved you, and I don’t think she would have fallen in love without encouragement.”
“That isn’t—”
“Do you ever look at your wife and picture a Highland lass? Do you ever hear her laugh and think of another woman? Do you lie next to her and hear someone else’s breathing? You must. She wouldn’t have loved you if you didn’t care about her in return. You must.” His brogue was seeping out at the edges, but for once, he didn’t ruthlessly contain it.
He was the son of a Highlander. Denying that was the same as denying his mother’s love.
The duke didn’t answer, but the paleness of his face, the harsh brackets around his mouth, told James that he wasn’t wrong.
“She was beneath me,” he said. James could tell he believed this, fully.
“You are a very pathetic man,” James returned. And this, he believed fully.
His stomach might still lurch a bit when he saw the Duke of Sheffield. He still might admire his clothes and his power and his cool, cool confidence, but all of those things were starting to look a little empty, now that he knew what it was to feel whole. They looked like dressing to disguise a hollow heart.
And James was starting to realize he’d rather have a full heart than all the extravagant dressings in the world.
He wanted happiness.
He wanted Eleanor.
“Thomas Clark is going to tear you apart,” the duke said.
James grinned. “He’s welcome to try. I’m resilient. I take after my mother.”
With a disgusted noise, the duke left, and James warmed up for the fight.
…
Thomas Clark was one quick bastard. Almost as soon as the referee stepped out of the way, he darted forward and managed to hit James in the stomach. Luckily, James was quick, too. By the time the punch landed, he was already dancing away, and the force was indirect.
He narrowed all of his focus onto his opponent. He blocked out the cheers and jeers of the crowd. Blocked out the knowledge that Eleanor was watching him. The world narrowed to him and Clark and their fists.
They danced around each other for several minutes, eyeing each other’s weaknesses, measuring, testing.
James feinted one way, then lunged another, and landed a hard blow against Clark’s jaw, but the motion brought him within Clark’s reach. The other man pressed him into a headlock and ripped out a chunk of his hair. James was starting to feel faint when he managed to jab Clark in the ribs with his elbow.
He pushed away from him, putting some distance between them. His scalp burned unpleasantly.
“Bastard,” he said for good measure. The other man hadn’t done anything that wasn’t allowed, but still, it hurt like the devil.
Clark grinned.
The next time Clark came for him, he didn’t back away fast enough. Clark’s knuckles smashed into his mouth, and he felt his lip cut against his teeth. He tasted iron.
“First blood!” Clark shouted.
This was met by the triumphant cries of people who’d bet against James on first blood, and the disappointed shouts of the people who’d bet for him. He wiped his bloody mouth. It didn’t matter. Plenty of boxers had won first blood and lost the fight.
He couldn’t let an early misstep shake him.
If he did that, he’d be done before he’d even started.