It's In His Kiss

He had to bother the man. Because the Lord knew, the man bothered him.

He felt this way whenever he saw him. Or at least when they were forced into conversation. And Gareth knew that he had to end the contact now, before he did something he might regret.

Because he always did. Every time he swore to himself that he would learn, that he’d be more mature, but then it happened again. He saw his father, and he was fifteen again, all smirky smiles and bad behavior.

But this time he was going to try. He was in Bridgerton House, for God’s sake, and the least he could do was try to avoid a scene.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, trying to brush past him.

But Lord St. Clair stepped to the side, forcing their shoulders to collide. “She won’t have you, you know,” he said, chuckling under the words.

Gareth held himself very still. “What are you talking about?”

“The Bridgerton chit. I saw you panting after her.”

For a moment Gareth didn’t move. He hadn’t even realized his father had been in the ballroom. Which bothered him. Not that it should have done. Hell, he should have been whooping with joy that he’d finally managed to enjoy an event without being needled by Lord St. Clair’s presence.

But instead he just felt somehow deceived. As if the baron had been hiding from him.

Spying on him.

“Nothing to say?” the baron taunted.

Gareth just lifted a brow as he looked through the open door to the chamber pot. “Not unless you wish me to aim from here,” he drawled.

The baron turned, saw what he meant, then said disgustedly, “You would do it, too.”

“You know, I believe I would,” Gareth said. Hadn’t really occurred to him until that moment-his comment had been more of a threat than anything else-but he might be willing to engage in a bit of crude behavior if it meant watching his father’s veins nearly burst with fury.

“You are revolting.”

“You raised me.”

A direct hit. The baron seethed visibly before he shot back with, “Not because I wanted to. And I certainly never dreamed I would have to pass the title on to you.”

Gareth held his tongue. He would say a lot of things to anger his father, but he would not make light of his brother’s death. Ever.

“George must be spinning in his grave,” Lord St. Clair said in a low voice.

And Gareth snapped. One moment he was standing in the middle of the small room, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides, and the next he had his father pinned up against the wall, one hand on his shoulder, the other at his throat.

“He was my brother,” Gareth hissed.

The baron spit in his face. “He was my son.”

Gareth’s lungs were beginning to shake. It felt as if he couldn’t get enough air. “He was my brother,” he repeated, putting every ounce of his will into keeping his voice even. “Maybe not through you, but through our mother. And I loved him.”

And somehow the loss felt all the more severe. He had mourned George since the day he’d died, but right now it felt like a big, gaping hole was yawning within him, and Gareth didn’t know how to fill it.

He was down to one person now. Just his grandmother. Just one person he could honestly say he loved.

And loved him in return.

He hadn’t realized this before. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to. But now, standing here with the man he’d always called Father, even after he’d learned the truth, he realized just how alone he was.

And he was disgusted with himself. With his behavior, with what he became in the baron’s presence.

Abruptly, he let go, backing up as he watched the baron catch his breath.

Gareth’s own breathing wasn’t so steady, either.

He should go. He needed to get out, away, be anywhere but here.

“You’ll never have her, you know,” came his father’s mocking voice.

Gareth had taken a step toward the door. He hadn’t even realized he’d moved until the baron’s words caused him to freeze.

“Miss Bridgerton,” his father clarified.

“I don’t want Miss Bridgerton,” Gareth said carefully.

This made the baron laugh. “Of course you do. She is everything you’re not. Everything you could never hope to be.”

Gareth forced himself to relax, or at least give the appearance of it. “Well, for one thing,” he said with the cocky little smile he knew his father hated, “she’s female.”

His father sneered at his feeble attempt at humor. “She will never marry you.”

“I don’t recall asking her.”

“Bah. You’ve been lapping at her heels all week. Everyone’s been commenting on it.”

Gareth knew that his uncharacteristic attention paid to a proper young lady had raised a few eyebrows, but he also knew that the gossip wasn’t anywhere near what his father intimated.

Still, it gave him a sick sort of satisfaction to know that his father was as obsessed with him and his doings as the other way around.

“Miss Bridgerton is a good friend of my grandmother’s,” Gareth said lightly, enjoying the slight curl of his father’s lip at the mention of Lady Danbury. They had always hated each other, and when they’d still spoken, Lady D had never ceded the upper hand. She was the wife of an earl, and Lord St. Clair a mere baron, and she never allowed him to forget it.

“Of course she’s a friend of the countess,” the baron said, recovering quickly. “I’m sure it’s why she tolerates your attentions.”

“You would have to ask Miss Bridgerton,” Gareth said lightly, trying to brush off the topic as inconsequential. He certainly wasn’t about to reveal that Hyacinth was translating Isabella’s diary. Lord St. Clair would probably demand that he hand it over, and that was one thing Gareth absolutely did not intend to do.

And it wasn’t just because it meant that he possessed something his father might desire. Gareth truly wanted to know what secrets lay in the delicate handwritten pages. Or maybe there were no secrets, just the daily monotony of a noblewoman married to a man she did not love.

Either way, he wanted to hear what she’d had to say.

So he held his tongue.

“You can try,” Lord St. Clair said softly, “but they will never have you. Blood runs true. It always does.”

“What do you mean by that?” Gareth asked, his tone carefully even. It was always difficult to tell whether his father was threatening him or just expounding upon his most favorite of subjects-bloodlines and nobility.

Lord St. Clair crossed his arms. “The Bridgertons,” he said. “They will never allow her to marry you, even if she is foolish enough to fancy herself in love with you.”

“She doesn’t-”

“You’re uncouth,” the baron burst out. “You’re stupid-”

It shot out of his mouth before he could stop himself: “I am not-”

“You behave stupidly,” the baron cut in, “and you’re certainly not good enough for a Bridgerton girl. They’ll see through you soon enough.”

Gareth forced himself to get his breathing under control. The baron loved to provoke him, loved to say things that would make Gareth protest like a child.

“In some ways,” Lord St. Clair continued, a slow, self-satisfied smile spreading across his face, “it’s an interesting question.”

Gareth just stared at him, too angry to give him the satisfaction of asking what he meant.

“Who, pray tell,” the baron mused, “is your father?”

Gareth caught his breath. It was the first time the baron had ever come out and asked it so directly. He’d called Gareth a by-blow, he’d called him a mongrel and a mangy whelp. And he had called Gareth’s mother plenty of other, even less flattering things. But he’d never actually come out and pondered the question of Gareth’s paternity.

And it made him wonder-had he learned the truth?