No one had ever spoken a word of her visit to him. He supposed they would not have. His father had been furious with him for dallying with the daughter of a man he loathed.
“Why did you go there?” he asked, though he knew he ought not. Her reasons no longer mattered. She had allowed another man to raise his son for seven years and had every intention of perpetuating that lie now.
“Because I was a fool.” Her tone was bitter. “I have long since grown weary of answering your questions, Mr. Ludlow. I have a great deal of correspondence awaiting my attention, so if you will excuse me?”
Did she truly believe, even for an instant, he had believed a word of her nonsensical denials? That he would allow her to scurry away so she couldwrite letterswhen the most important question of his life went unanswered? Did she not think he had wits about him or eyes in his head? The truth did not need her voice, for it was in everything, and he could not believe he had not seen it sooner. Perhaps he had been too blinded by the task assigned him. Perhaps he had been too distracted by her. Whatever the case, he knew now, without her acknowledgment, the lad was his bloody son.
But he wanted to hear the truth from her. She owed it to him.
She moved to squeeze herself between him and the wall, attempting a side step so she could slink away. There was no way in hell she was going anywhere until she confirmed what he already knew. He blocked her, kicking out a booted foot, his long leg trapping her. Unfortunately, the movement also brought their bodies even closer together, until she was flush against him.
“I will not excuse you, madam,” he warned, his hand moving from her heart to her throat. His fingers curled lazily about her neck, his thumb dipping into the hollow where her pulse thrummed a frantic staccato. “Do not think for a moment you will be leaving this chamber until I have my answers.”
“I have already given you your answers,” she insisted, swallowing in a ripple against his thumb.
“No, my dear Duchess.” He shook his head slowly. “You have given me falsehoods.”
Her lips parted. “Let me go or I shall scream.”
He almost laughed, but levity was not in him. Not when he felt so torn up inside he could scarcely gather his thoughts. “Scream away, madam. You will only send my men raining down upon us, and then we shall both have to explain why we are here against this wall.”
“Because you are holding me prisoner,” she gritted, lashing out at him for the first time by striking his chest with the heels of both hands.
For such a small thing, she had a surprising strength. But she was no match for his larger frame, just as he had never been any match for her cunning betrayal. “Nay, Duchess. We are here in this battle because you insist upon deceit. I will give you one last chance to be honest with me. Who is the father of your son?”
She stared over his shoulder. “My husband, Mr. Ludlow.”
Stubborn to the end. Did she think she could fool him? Or did she fancy he would relent and believe her lies? Was she that arrogant, or simply that desperate? He searched her face, seeking an answer and finding none. Here was the woman he had once loved, a woman, as it turned out, he had never truly known at all. Time had worn by, but she was as calculating and selfish as she had been all those years ago.
He stroked her throat slowly, moving from her pulse to her jaw, and then back down, once, twice, thrice. Again and again, for now that he was touching her—part caress, part threat, he could not seem to stop himself. She was pale and soft, her skin luxurious as velvet.
“Such vulnerability here,” he said lowly, the pent-up anger inside him wanting to alarm her. “You are completely at my mercy, Ara.”
He could not bring himself to refer to her by her title. Not now. Not with so much unspoken between them, the memories of everything they had shared and what they had been to each other pulsing in the air.
Her eyes flew back to his, wide and vibrant. Solemn. “I have always been at your mercy.”
There she was wrong, for in truth, it was the opposite. He was at her mercy, as ever. From the moment he had first seen her pale face and vibrant hair in the forest, he had been helpless to resist her. She had been like a sylph, wild and lovely and so very intriguing. He’d lost his heart to her. Believed in her, in their love.
But love was a myth.
And Ara had chosen a life of comfort and ease instead of him.
The rage inside him had abated, as had the shock. In their places was a desperate need of knowledge. He wanted her admission. Her acknowledgment. Enough of her lies. He wanted—deserved—to know the truth.
And so did the lad.
“Tell me the truth,” he commanded her. Begged her. He lowered his head until his forehead almost touched hers. “Tell me I am Edward’s father.”
Chapter Twelve
“Tell me Iam Edward’s father.”
Clay’s demand resonated in the chamber, so forceful and stern it echoed through the ballroom. It repeated itself all around them, haunting, insistent.
Dogged.
Though she tried not to be affected by the emotions she thought she heard in his voice, she was.
