It's In His Kiss

Gareth froze. Lord St. Clair-his father, his uncle, whatever he should call him-was standing at the top of the steps leading to Clair House. His key was in his hand, and he had obviously spotted them just as he was about to enter the building.

“This is interesting,” the baron said. His eyes glittered.

Gareth felt his chest puff out, some sort of instinctive show of bravado as he pushed Hyacinth partly behind him. “Sir,” he said. It was all he’d ever called the man, and some habits were hard to break.

“Imagine my curiosity,” the baron murmured. “This is the second time I have run across you here in the middle of the night.”

Gareth said nothing.

“And now”-Lord St. Clair motioned to Hyacinth-“you have brought your lovely betrothed with you. Un-orthodox, I must say. Does her family know she is running about after midnight?”

“What do you want?” Gareth asked in a hard voice.

But the baron only chuckled. “I believe the more pertinent question is what do you want? Unless you intend to attempt to convince me that you are just here for the fresh night air.”

Gareth stared at him, looking for signs of resemblance. They were all there-the nose, the eyes, the way they held their shoulders. It was why Gareth had never, until that fateful day in the baron’s office, thought he might be a bastard. He’d been so baffled as a child; his father had treated him with such contempt. Once he’d grown old enough to understand a bit of what went on between men and women, he had wondered about it-his mother’s infidelity would seem a likely explanation for his father’s behavior toward him.

But he’d dismissed the notion every time. There was that damned St. Clair nose, right in the middle of his face. And then the baron had looked him in the eye and said that he was not his, that he couldn’t be, that the nose was mere coincidence.

Gareth had believed him. The baron was many things, but he was not stupid, and he certainly knew how to count to nine.

Neither of them had dreamed that the nose might be something more than coincidence, that Gareth might be a St. Clair, after all.

He tried to remember-had the baron loved his brother? Had Richard and Edward St. Clair been close? Gareth couldn’t recall them in each other’s company, but then again, he’d been banished to the nursery most of the time, anyway.

“Well?” the baron demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

And there it was, on the tip of his tongue. Gareth looked him in the eye-the man who had, for so many years, been the ruling force in his life-and he almost said-Nothing at all, Uncle Richard.

It would have been the best kind of direct hit, a complete surprise, designed to stagger and strike.

It would have been worth it just for the shock on the baron’s face.

It would have been perfect.

Except that Gareth didn’t want to do it. He didn’t need to.

And that took his breath away.

Before, he would have tried to guess how his father might feel. Would he be relieved to know that the barony would go to a true St. Clair, or would he instead be enraged, devastated by the knowledge that he had been cuckolded by his own brother?

Before, Gareth would have weighed his options, balanced them, then gone with his instincts and tried to deliver the most crushing blow.

But now…

He didn’t care.

He would never love the man. Hell, he would never even like him. But for the first time in his life, he was reaching a point where it just didn’t matter.

And he was stunned by how good that felt.

He took Hyacinth’s hand, interlocked their fingers. “We’re just out for a stroll,” he said smoothly. It was a patently ridiculous statement, but Gareth delivered it with his usual savoir-faire, in the same tone that he always used with the baron. “Come along, Miss Bridgerton,” he added, turning his body to lead her down the street.

But Hyacinth didn’t move. Gareth turned to look at her, and she seemed frozen into place. She looked at him with questioning eyes, and he knew she couldn’t believe that he’d held silent.

Gareth looked at her, then he looked at Lord St. Clair, and then he looked within himself. And he realized that while his never-ending war with the baron might not matter, the truth did. Not because it had the power to wound, just because it was the truth, and it had to be told.

It was the secret that had defined both of their lives for so long. And it was time that they were both set free.

“I have to tell you something,” Gareth said, looking the baron in the eye. It wasn’t easy, being this direct. He had no experience speaking to this man without malice. He felt strange, stripped bare.

Lord St. Clair said nothing, but his expression changed slightly, became more watchful.

“I am in possession of Grandmother St. Clair’s diary,” Gareth said. At the baron’s startled expression, he added, “Caroline found it among George’s effects with a note instructing her to give it to me.”

“He did not know that you are not her grandson,” the baron said sharply.

Gareth opened his mouth to retort, “But I was,” but he managed to bite off the comment. He would do this right. He had to do this right. Hyacinth was at his side, and suddenly his angry ways seemed callow, immature. He didn’t want her to see him like that. He didn’t want to be like that.

“Miss Bridgerton has some knowledge of Italian,” Gareth continued, keeping his voice even. “She has assisted me in its translation.”

The baron looked at Hyacinth, his piercing eyes studying her for a moment before turning back to Gareth.

“Isabella knew who my father was,” Gareth said softly. “It was Uncle Edward.”

The baron said nothing, not a word. Except for the slight parting of his lips, he was so still that Gareth wondered if he was even breathing.

Had he known? Had he suspected?

As Gareth and Hyacinth stood in silence, the baron turned and looked down the street, his eyes settling on some far-off point. When he turned back, he was as white as a sheet.

He cleared his throat and nodded. Just once, as an acknowledgment. “You should marry that girl,” he said, motioning with his head toward Hyacinth. “The Lord knows you’re going to need her dowry.”

And then he walked up the rest of the steps, let himself into his home, and shut the door.

“That’s all?” Hyacinth said, after a moment of just standing there with her mouth agape. “That’s all he’s going to say?”

Gareth felt himself begin to shake. It was laughter, he realized, almost as an aside. He was laughing.

“He can’t do that,” Hyacinth protested, her eyes flashing with indignation. “You just revealed the biggest secret of both of your lives, and all he does is-are you laughing?”

Gareth shook his head, even though it was clear that he was.

“What’s so funny?” Hyacinth asked suspiciously.

And her expression was so…her. It made him laugh even harder.

“What’s so funny?” she asked again, except this time she looked as if she might smile, too. “Gareth,” she persisted, tugging on his sleeve. “Tell me.”

He shrugged helplessly. “I’m happy,” he said, and he realized it was true. He’d enjoyed himself in his life, and he’d certainly had many happy moments, but it had been so long since he’d felt this-happiness, complete and whole. He’d almost forgotten the sensation.

She placed her hand abruptly on his brow. “Are you feverish?” she muttered.

“I’m fine.” He pulled her into his arms. “I’m better than fine.”

“Gareth!” she gasped, ducking away as he swooped down for a kiss. “Are you mad? We’re in the middle of Dover Street, and it’s-”

He cut her off with a kiss.

“It’s the middle of the night,” she spluttered.