It's In His Kiss

Which made him instantly suspicious. He had no idea how she had figured out that he had chosen that night to return to Clair House for one last search for the jewels. He must have let something slip, alluded to the trip during one of their recent conversations. He would have liked to think that he was more careful than that, but Hyacinth was fiendishly clever, and if anyone could have deduced his intentions, it would be her.

It was a damn fool endeavor in his opinion; he didn’t have a clue where the diamonds might be save for Hyacinth’s theory about the baroness’s bedchamber. But he had promised her he would go, and he must have had a more finely tuned sense of honor than he had thought, because here he was, heading out to Clair House for the third time that month.

He glared at her.

She smiled serenely.

Sending him right over the edge. That was it. That was absolutely-

“All right,” he said, his voice so low it was almost shaking. “We are going to lay out some rules, right here and right now.”

Her spine stiffened. “I beg your pardon.”

“When we are married, you will not exit the house without my permission-”

“Ever?” she cut in.

“Until you have proven yourself to be a responsible adult,” he finished, barely recognizing himself in his own words. But if this was what it took to keep the bloody little fool safe from herself, then so be it.

She let out an impatient breath. “When did you grow so pompous?”

“When I fell in love with you!” he practically roared. Or he would have, if they hadn’t been in the middle of a building of apartments, all inhabited by single men who stayed up late and liked to gossip.

“You…You…You what?”

Her mouth fell open into a fetching little oval, but Gareth was too far gone to appreciate the effect. “I love you, you idiot woman,” he said, his arms jerking and flailing like a madman’s. It was astonishing, what she had reduced him to. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost his temper like this, the last time someone had made him so angry that he could barely speak.

Except for her, of course.

He ground his teeth together. “You are the most maddening, frustrating-”

“But-”

“And you never know when to stop talking, but God help me, I love you, anyway,-

“But, Gareth-”

“And if I have to tie you to the damned bed just to keep you safe from yourself, as God is my witness, that is what I’ll do.”

“But Gareth-”

“Not a word. Not a single bloody word,” he said, wagging his finger toward her in an extremely impolite manner. Finally, his hand seemed to freeze, his index finger stuck into a point, and after a few jerky motions, he managed to still himself and drag his hands to his hips.

She was staring at him, her blue eyes large and filled with wonder. Gareth couldn’t tear his gaze away as she slowly rose to her feet and closed the distance between them.

“You love me?” she whispered.

“It will be the death of me, I’m sure, but yes.” He sighed wearily, exhausted simply by the prospect of it all. “I can’t seem to help myself.”

“Oh.” Her lips quivered, then wobbled, and then somehow she was smiling. “Good.”

“Good?” he echoed. “That’s all you have to say?”

She stepped forward, touched his cheek. “I love you, too. With all my heart, with everything I am, and everything-”

He’d never know what she’d been about to say. It was lost beneath his kiss.

“Gareth,” she gasped, during the bare moment when he paused for breath.

“Not now,” he said, his mouth taking hers again. He couldn’t stop. He’d told her, and now he had to show her.

He loved her. It was as simple as that.

“But Gareth-”

“Shhh…” He held her head in his hands, and he kissed her and kissed her…until he made the mistake of freeing her mouth by moving to her throat.

“Gareth, I have to tell you-”

“Not now,” he murmured. He had other things in mind.

“But it’s very important, and-”

He dragged himself away. “Good God, woman,” he grunted. “What is it?”

“You have to listen to me,” she said, and he felt somewhat vindicated that her breathing was every bit as labored as his. “I know it was mad to come here so late.”

“By yourself,” he saw fit to add.

“By myself,” she granted him, her lips twisting peevishly. “But I swear to you, I wouldn’t have done something this foolish if I hadn’t needed to speak with you right away.”

His mouth tilted wryly. “A note wouldn’t have done?”

She shook her head. “Gareth,” she said, and her face was so serious it took his breath away, “I know who your father is.”

It was as if the floor were slipping away, and yet at the same time, he could not tear his eyes off of hers. He clutched her shoulders, his fingers surely digging too hard into her skin, but he couldn’t move. For years to come, if anyone had asked him about that moment, he would have said that she was the only thing holding him upright.

“Who is it?” he asked, almost dreading her reply. His entire adult life he’d wanted this answer, and now that it was here, he could feel nothing but terror.

“It was your father’s brother,” Hyacinth whispered.

It was as if something had slammed into his chest. “Uncle Edward?”

“Yes,” Hyacinth said, her eyes searching his face with a mix of love and concern. “It was in your grandmother’s diary. She didn’t know at first. No one did. They only knew it couldn’t be your fath-er, the baron. He was in London all spring and summer. And your mother…wasn’t.”

“How did she find out?” he whispered. “And was she certain?”

“Isabella figured it out after you were born,” Hyacinth said softly. “She said you looked too much like a St. Clair to be a bastard, and Edward had been in residence at Clair House. When your father was gone.”

Gareth shook his head, desperately trying to comprehend this. “Did he know?”

“Your father? Or your uncle?”

“My-” He turned, a strange, humorless sound emerging from his throat. “I don’t know what to call him. Either of them.”

“Your father-Lord St. Clair,” she corrected. “He didn’t know. Or at least, Isabella didn’t think he did. He didn’t know that Edward had been at Clair Hall that summer. He was just out of Oxford, and-well, I’m not exactly certain what transpired, but it sounded like he was supposed to go to Scotland with friends. But then he didn’t, and so he went to Clair Hall instead. Your grandmother said-” Hyacinth stopped, and her face took on a wide-eyed expression. “Your grandmother,” she murmured. “She really was your grandmother.”

He felt her hand on his shoulder, imploring him to turn, but somehow he couldn’t look at her just then. It was too much. It was all too much.

“Gareth, Isabella was your grandmother. She really was.”

He closed his eyes, trying to recall Isabella’s face. It was hard to do; the memory was so old.

But she had loved him. He remembered that. She had loved him.

And she had known the truth.

Would she have told him? If she had lived to see him an adult, to know the man he had become, would she have told him the truth?

He could never know, but maybe… If she had seen how the baron had treated him…what they had both