“You have no right to give my son anything,” Ara said then, dragging his gaze back to her face with her venom.
“I did not think the gift would be so poorly received,” he said drily, crossing his arms behind his back and taking a wrist in one hand.
It was not a gentlemanly pose, but it was necessary if he wished to refrain from doing something foolhardy like touching her. Or something ludicrous like taking her in his arms. Or something as bloody stupid as kissing her lush, pink lips and backing her up against a wall so he could ravish her mouth as the savage inside him longed to do.
“Blades are dangerous,” she argued. “He is only seven years old, Mr. Ludlow.”
Seven years old. Why had he never given a thought to the lad’s age before? Of course he was young, but not so young he could not be entrusted with a blade. Why, Clay himself had been similar in age when his father had first taken him on a hunt. Seven years was almost a lifetime. It was almost eight years, in fact, which was the last time Clay had seen the lad’s mother. Since he had kissed her. Held her. Lain with her.
Clay froze.
Holy God.His mind sprinted through facts, attempting to make sense of the ugly, jumbled mess that had only just begun to take shape.
Seven years old. Dark hair. Gangly limbs. Tall.
Clay had seen the pictures of the Duke of Burghly, and while he had not been able to discern how light the man’s hair had been, his facial structure was clear. The lad did not resemble Burghly in the slightest. Indeed, the lad resembled…sweet Jesus…he resembled…himself.
Seven years old.
Seven.
Years.
Old.
Why had it never occurred to him before this moment? Why had he never realized?Good God, all the signs were there. He had seen himself in the lad. How many times had he looked upon him and been reminded of himself as a youth? And not just that. They had bonded. They had connected.
The boy was his son. The duke. The lad.Bloody hell, the name Clay called him mattered not. Only one thing did. One truth he was beginning to think irrefutable: Ara’s son washisson.
The only time they had made love, he had lost control and spent inside her. It had been but the once, and he had not thought a babe would be likely. And then, after she had betrayed him, he had never thought of a babe at all. He had tried to think as little of Ara as possible.
But now… Now, his heart thumped madly in his chest as if he had run a great distance. Now, it seemed such a circumstance had not been as unlikely as he had believed. It seemed he had left behind a part of himself on that night, one he had never dreamed existed.
He struggled to calm himself, for he did not yet possess enough facts—enough ammunition—to serve him. “The lad is seven years old,” he repeated slowly, lingering on the number, his eyes burning into hers, looking for the slightest hint of a reaction.
Her nostrils flared. “Yes, Mr. Ludlow. My son is seven years of age, far too young to be entrusted with a dangerous blade he does not know how to wield.”
“When is his birthday?” he asked with deceptive calm.
“Why?” she asked, her full lips pursed into a thin line.
Damn it, he did not have the patience for her games.
“When?” he repeated through gritted teeth.
“I do not need to linger here and subject myself to your interrogation, Mr. Ludlow.” She pinned him with a glare, grasping her skirts in the hand that did not contain his knife and giving them an agitated twitch as she spun to present him with her back. “If you will excuse me, I have many important matters awaiting my attention, sir.”
No.
He was not allowing her to leave this chamber until he had answers. Until he knew, irrevocably, that what he already suspected was true.
No. Bloody. Way.
He followed her, seized her waist in his hands, and forced her to face him once more. She gasped, her head tipping back as he spun her more harshly than he would have needed to, her fingers finding purchase on his shoulders. Violent anger careened through him. If she had kept his son from him…if she had lied…for years…eight fucking years…and allowed the lad to believe another man was his father…
“Is there something you would like to tell me, Your Grace?” he asked, unable to keep the barely leashed violence from his tone.
She was so small in his hands, like a bird, so fine-boned and slim. He could crush her with such ease. He was a large man, he knew, and he was ever cognizant of his size, but she had driven him to the edge of reason. He would never hurt her, but if she feared him, so much the better.
