Chapter 18
Strictly speaking, Kit had not been "invited" to the garden luncheon.
But he'd come anyway. He told himself it was because his aunt was attending, and he was living in her house, and also because Clarissa would be there and he still owed her an apology—assuming she'd allow him to actually complete a sentence next time they spoke.
But now, as he stood on the terrace watching Clarissa smile up at Lord Hartley…
Well. Kit had to admit that perhaps he was the sort of man who enjoyed torturing himself. This was a new revelation about his own character, and one he didn't particularly care for.
But as he watched them, there was no denying that this was precisely what he was doing. He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away no matter how much the sight made his insides boil.
He'd noted, however, that Clarissa wasn't laughing. She hadn't laughed once in the quarter of an hour he'd been watching them.
He wasn't sure why that fact made him feel a little better. It wasn't like he wished her to be miserable. No, he wanted her to be happy. Just…
Not with Lord Hartley, that was all.
Then with whom? This nagging voice had grown tiresome of late. What gentleman of the ton would he be content to see her with?
He couldn't think of one. Not without stoking this burning fury that seemed to overtake him every time he watched her smile at Hartley.
And she was doing quite a bit of that. Her smile hadn't faded once in all the time he'd been watching her.
Did her cheeks ache? Because that could not be a real smile, could it? She couldn't possibly be enjoying their conversation that much.
With a huff, he set down his empty glass. He could interrupt. Make some excuse and take her away so he could…
What? Apologize? An apology wasn't enough. He owed her an explanation.
A glimmer of hope had the fury in his belly simmering to something more manageable.
Yes, she deserved to hear the truth. And once she knew the whole sordid tale, surely she would let him into her life again.
To be her friend? That blasted voice taunted him. Is that what you want?
Because it was all he could give. Hadn't he sworn off marriage years ago? It wasn't an option, not if he wanted to avoid the same dismal fate of his parents.
And yet…
Clarissa's laugh caught him off guard. It was light and melodic, and… Not a genuine laugh. More of a polite chuckle. But it was enough to make him ache.
He wanted to see that smile shining up at him, and watch her eyes dance and hear her voice lilt, and see her hands gesture wildly when she got caught up in a story, and—
He wanted her. There was nothing else for it.
No, he needed her. And not as his friend. He needed all of her. Heart and soul. In his life. By his side.
The realization might have been utterly alarming if it hadn't come about so naturally. Rather like realizing one was hungry or thirsty.
I need food. I need drink.
I need Clarissa Whitfield.
It hit him with such clarity, he found himself taking a step in her direction. But then—
"Christopher." The voice came from his left, and every muscle in his body went tight.
His father stood beside him, impeccably dressed, and holding a glass of wine. The Duke of Ashworth surveyed the garden with a benevolent expression.
"Father," Kit said. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"They're friends of your mother's. I could hardly decline." The duke took a sip of wine.
Kit stayed silent. His father wouldn't have come here, and he certainly wouldn't have sought him out, if he didn't have something to say.
"I've had a letter from your mother," the duke said.
His mother wrote to the duke infrequently, and only when something threatened her comfort. "And?"
"She's heard the rumors. About your..." The duke waved a hand vaguely. "Situation."
"My situation." Kit's voice was flat. "You mean the situation in which I'm taking responsibility for—"
"Keep your voice down." The pleasant tone didn't change, but something shifted behind the duke's eyes. "Your mother is concerned that if the true circumstances were ever to become public, it would reflect poorly on her."
Kit stared at him.
"On us," he added. "On our family."
Our family. It was almost amusing how the man could say those words with a straight face. The duke never gave “our family” a second thought—unless one of their actions reflected poorly on him, or affected his sway in Parliament, or infringed on his income in some way.
"She has a position to maintain abroad. As do I here.
" The duke turned to face him with a warm look.
Anyone glancing over would see a loving father offering counsel to his son.
"You've handled this well, Kit. Better than I expected, frankly.
The ton believes the child is yours, and that suits everyone. "
Kit's jaw clenched but he forced himself to relax. He even managed a mild tone when he said, "It doesn't suit me."
"It suits the family. Which is what matters." The duke placed a hand on Kit's shoulder. "Your mother has made her feelings very clear. Gossip about a mistress is one thing, but a child… There are provisions in our marriage settlement that she would not hesitate to invoke."
Kit understood. His mother's family had money. The kind of money that came with leverage. If the Duchess of Ashworth decided to make her husband's life difficult, she had the means.
"So you see," his father continued, his voice dropping to a murmur that only Kit could hear. "It's in everyone's interest that this story holds. Mine, your mother's." A pause. "And the girl's."
Kit went still. "What does Clementine have to do with—"
"The girl is a complication." His father's tone grew sharp. "A complication I've been content to let you manage. But if she becomes a liability, I will need to address the matter myself."
His stomach sank at the dark flicker in his father's eyes. "Address it how?"
"A duke has considerable resources, Kit." He squeezed Kit's shoulder. "I trust it won't come to that."
The garden was bright and warm but Kit felt frozen through at the implications.
It was worse than a direct threat because Kit had been raised in this man's household.
He knew full well how cruel the man could be to his heir.
He could only imagine what he could do to an unwanted young woman and an unborn child.
"Do we understand each other?" his father asked.
Kit turned his gaze back toward Clarissa. "Yes. Understood."
So. No telling Clarissa the truth then. No telling anyone.
Perhaps for once his devil-may-care reputation was a boon. No one would question the lie, and so no lies would have to be told.
"Good lad." The duke stepped back. "Do enjoy the luncheon. The chicken is excellent."
He moved away across the lawn, a smile on his face as he greeted an acquaintance.
Kit took a drink before remembering that his glass was empty. He set it back down again. And then he stood there staring at the empty glass for far too long.
Long enough that one person, at least, noticed.
"Are you all right?" The voice was soft and gentle, and so familiar it made his heart give a sharp kick.
Kit turned slowly to see Clarissa standing beside him. And she was giving him an odd look. It was concern, yes. But there was a wariness there, as though he was a stray puppy—but he very well might bite.
She shifted from one foot to the other. "You look as though you've just received bad news."
"Lady Clarissa." He straightened and smiled belatedly. "What a pleasant—"
"Don't." She said it gently. "Don't do that, please. Not right now."
His smile faltered.
She took a step closer. "Are you all right?"
Such a simple question. She'd asked him that before, in the dark of the opera box. And now here she was again, her eyes full of concern.
Even after everything. The rumors, and the mistress, and the way he'd failed her. She'd seen him standing alone and she'd still come over.
He didn't deserve her. But then again, neither did Hartley. He took in her wide eyes and soft lips…
It was possible that no man in all of England deserved her, but Kit was very definitely top of the list. The thought had him looking around to see who was watching. "You shouldn't be talking to me," he said. "Your reputation—"
"Will survive." A flicker of emotion crossed her face. Sadness, perhaps. Or maybe resignation. "I've survived worse than being seen speaking to you at a garden party."
The words stung, though he knew she hadn't meant them to.
"Clarissa." He dropped his voice. "I owe you an apology."
She backed up a step, that concern sliding away until only wariness remained. "You don't."
"I do. For all of it. The way it ended…" He chose his words carefully.
Every instinct told him to explain. To tell her about Clementine and his father. About the fact that the child wasn't his and never had been. The words were right there, choking him with the need to be let out.
But behind them was his father's voice. I will need to address the matter myself. And behind that, the image of Clementine's trembling hands and her frightened face.
Even if he swore Clarissa to secrecy, that would not change the fact that the rest of good society believed it. And she'd be made even more of a laughingstock if she stayed by his side after he'd made a fool of her… In their eyes, at least.
He swallowed the truth. "I never meant to hurt you. That's all I wanted to say."
She was quiet for a moment. "I know." She clamped her mouth shut, but a second later, she started again. "I know you didn't mean to, I mean. You're not cruel, Kit. Whatever else I might think, I never thought you were cruel."
The use of his given name hit him like a fist to the chest. And the rest nearly gutted him.
“I never thought you were cruel.” He wasn't entirely sure he'd even understood how much he'd needed to hear those words from her.
He might share his father's charming smile—but at least he was not cruel.
He found himself tucking those words away. But the words he'd been dying to say earlier welled up again, the explanations and justifications begging to come out.
He heard himself say, "Would it make a difference if I explained?"
She considered this. He watched her turn it over.
"No," she said quietly. "I don't think it would."
He nodded, swallowing down a pang of hurt.
Another silence fell, and that did not sit right. Not between them. He forced a bit of laughter into his voice. "How is your princess story coming along?"
Her smile flickered, but he was heartened to see that it reached her eyes. "Stalled, actually. I'm not sure how it ends."
"The princess could steal the villain's cape," he offered. "It worked well for the opera heroine."
Her lips twitched as she nodded. "The horse would undoubtedly approve of that plan. He hates capes."
"Who doesn't?" he shot back. "And what about the prince?"
Before she could answer, they heard her name being called from nearby. They both turned to see Lord Hartley with his mother, wearing eerily identical expressions of polite waiting.
"Oh. I had better…" She trailed off. "I just wanted—are you sure you're well? I saw… That is—"
"I'm fine." He almost meant it. Because truly, her concern meant everything to him.
Letting her go, watching her walk away… That was the right thing to do. It was best for everyone. And yet, the moment she turned, he found himself calling after her, forcing her to pause.
"For what it's worth," he said, "the princess deserves a happy ending."
She looked back at him then. And she really looked at him, the way she had in those first weeks when she'd been trying to figure him out. He held her gaze and let her see whatever she needed to see. He was too tired to perform.
Whatever she found there made her breath catch. But then she took a deep breath and fixed him with a sweet, if sad, smile. "Goodbye, Kit."
He couldn't bring himself to fake a smile of his own. "Goodbye, Clarissa."