Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
You are my heir…I am your father…You are my only son…Giovanni Thaddeus Christophe Tabinier Amante, the Marquess of Bath…
These phrases spun around and around in Giovanni’s mind as he walked back to Grosvenor Square.
He was not an orphan. He had a father. More than that, his father was a duke.
He had a title. He was a marquess. He was not nothing anymore; he was more than something.
He was a future duke. The third Duke of Grafton!
A duke outranks a viscount. So does a marquess.
This thought was so sudden and unexpected that it stopped Giovanni in his tracks. He groaned and leaned his head against the cold, black railings of the gate he was passing.
How quickly his mind had arrived at the place he had been desperately trying to avoid since he had heard the words leave Grafton’s lips.
Thinking about how all of this affected his desire for Beatrice.
He was completely correct—a dukedom certainly did outrank a viscount.
When presented with the option between the Viscount of Milton and him, the newly found Marquess of Bath, Silas would not doubt choose him to be Beatrice’s suitor.
What was it that Beatrice had said to him only yesterday? Sometimes things change.
But change was not so easy.
“No,” Giovanni gasped, pounding his fist quickly against the railings, feeling the sting of the metal against bone. “No!”
He could not accept it. He was not a duke—he was a child of the streets, a ragamuffin, an urchin, a street fighter and a pickpocket. He had been a thief on the continent and a killer for hire, too. Was that the kind of man befitting of a dukedom? A title would not simply erase his past.
Besides, the dukedom was the very reason he had been abandoned.
If his father had been a lowly servant like his mother, he would have grown up with two loving, hard-working parents.
His grandfather, the first Duke of Grafton, had effectively ruined his life.
Why would he even consider accepting the title of such a man?
Because it would give me Beatrice, he thought dismally. He wanted her nearly as much as he wanted air in his lungs. This might be his only chance to have her. Who could blame him for taking it?
“It’s not right,” he muttered, staring up at the sky and blinking back tears. “It’s just not right.”
Perhaps it was ego or his damnable pride, but he didn’t want Beatrice to take him because of rank.
He wanted her to love him for what he was, something he was sure she couldn’t do.
Oh, she lusted for him, that much had been made abundantly clear, but she was a determined woman who had been told from a young age that the only way out of their circumstances was to marry well.
She had fought her whole life to escape their past's darkness. Giovanni was the embodiment of it. If he took his father’s name, would he ever be able to trust that she truly loved him and not just his title?
Groaning with the heaviness of his thoughts, Giovanni pushed himself away from the wall and slipped into the gate of the Grosvenor Square house.
He needed time to think. He needed some space away from Beatrice.
He needed to decide what he really wanted.
He sighed heavily and pushed open the front door.
“Hello, Gio.”
Giovanni had a strange experience. As soon as he saw Beatrice standing at the foot of the stairs, one hand resting on the banister, his heart rate rose considerably, but he also felt like it had jolted out of his chest with dread.
He was both happy to see her and distressed.
Not now, he thought desperately, but he could not simply ignore her.
He ran his fingers through his hair and decided to be polite.
“Good afternoon, Miss Klane,” he said, bowing stiffly. He saw how her countenance hardened when he didn’t use her familiar name. He groaned inwardly. He was not sure he had the capacity to fight with her at this moment.
“Where is everyone?” He asked, hoping to distract her.
“Gone to Fallenbrook.” Beatrice twisted her fingers in front of her. “We are to follow tomorrow. We are… alone, for the time being.”
Alone. Giovanni felt a flush of desire run through him, so quick and instinctual that it nearly took him off guard. He immediately flashed back to the study two days ago, to Beatrice’s soft skin under his lips and eager hands exploring every part of him.
She looked just as inviting and flawless today.
Her gown was the softest shade of pink, with a gentle repeating pattern of creamy leaves.
The sleeves came down to her elbows, accentuating her delicate wrists, and the neckline was square and edged with lace, revealing her creamy bosom and prominent clavicle.
How he wanted to take her in his arms right then and there, maybe press her back into the sharp edges of the stairs and explore her body.
Holy God in heaven, what was wrong with him?
He covered his eyes with his hand, trying not to look at her.
He was ashamed of his wanton, unacceptable lust. He wondered briefly if it were possible to die of unfulfilled desire.
“Gio, are you all right?” He heard her soft footsteps coming towards him and her hesitant fingers on his arm.
“I am fine,” he gasped, pulling his arm away as if her touch burned him, but he was not fine.
He was actually feeling frantic as if his heart was beating too fast and his skin was too tight.
He had just met his father, his father, and now he and Beatrice were alone.
The weight of it all was too heavy to bear.
He felt as if he were drowning in an invisible sea.
“You are not,” Beatrice grasped his arm and quickly pulled him into the drawing room. Giovanni was ashamed of how weak he suddenly felt. Of how sluggish his footsteps were and how eagerly he dropped into a soft chair, relieved to put his head in his hands.
“Try to breathe deeply,” Beatrice instructed him above, “I shall fetch some wine.”
He had no choice but to do what she said. Hands trembling, he set them at the back of his neck and stared at the pattern on the Indian rug between his boots. It was as if he did not have enough air to breathe.
I am a marquess, I shall inherit a dukedom, I could marry her.
It makes no difference—she is still Silas’s sister!
Even if you inherit your title now, you shall never be good enough for her—you come from nothing, despite the blood in your veins.
What kind of man abandons his son? Why should I trust him? He says that my mother loved me.
These thoughts chased around and around in his mind, making him feel dizzy.
How was he supposed to untangle this mess?
How was he supposed to make sense of all of this alone?
For the first time in a long while, he felt that same longing he had felt as a child—the longing for a family to confide in, a place to be safe.
He wished he could talk to Silas, but Silas was already on his way to Fallenbrook.
Besides, Silas was the last person he could speak to at the moment.
“Here.” A small glass of fortified wine was pushed in front of his nose, Beatrice’s small, delicate hands coming briefly into view. “This will help.”
He took it and drank greedily, trying not to let his hands shake. Beatrice was right, it did help. The strength of the wine and its deep, syrupy taste was a shock to his system. After a few slow gulps, he felt his breath coming a little easier.
“Thank you,” he murmured, setting the glass beside him and leaning back in the chair, his eyes closed. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“It is quite all right—it happens.” He heard Beatrice hesitantly sitting down beside him on the chaise lounge.
He could feel the rustle of her gown against the edges of the chair, brushing ever so lightly against the leather of his boots.
She was so near, and yet he had promised not to touch her again. But oh, how he craved to.
“Not to me,” Giovanni barked, releasing a burst of humorless laughter.
“The meeting… it didn’t go well?” Beatrice asked cautiously. He hated how careful she sounded, how worried. It was as if she’d stepped into the role of nurse or caretaker, and he despised it. He was not an invalid. There was nothing he despised more in the world than her pity.
“Why should you say that?” Giovanni asked evenly, refusing to open his eyes.
“Because you are upset, Gio,” Beatrice said, her tone a little more impatient.
She sounded less concerned and more like her usual self.
It made him feel a little better. “I’ve not seen you so upset since you lost all that money in Paris on that useless horse, and you thought Silas would turn you out. ”
“That horse was a winner,” Giovanni objected, opening his eyes to glare at Beatrice. “The race was fixed… I know it.”
“Couldn’t prove it, though, could you?” Beatrice retorted, fighting back a smile.
“I didn’t need to prove it,” Giovanni grumbled. Beatrice rolled her eyes at him in a thoroughly endearing way, but didn’t jab back. Instead, she shuffled a little closer.
“So was it?” She asked quietly. “A bad meeting?”
Giovanni looked into her stormy eyes, dark with flecks of color like the ocean's surface at night.
She was so alluring, but she was also his friend.
He had tried to deny it to himself and to her face when she suggested it, but part of it was still true.
Even though she now meant more to him than a mere friend, she was still the person in the world he most desired to share his thoughts with.
She was the one he’d taken into his confidence when he'd lost the horse bet. They had been around each other so long that they simply picked up each other’s secrets.
Though he could not share the truth of his problems this time—he couldn’t reveal to her the secrets Grafton had revealed to him—it wouldn’t hurt to lighten the load with a little friendly conversation.