Longing. Hurt. Betrayal. Desperation.
Ara’s heart nearly stopped beating. Or perhaps it was beating so fast it threatened to stop. His hand was on her neck, huge and hot, caressing and threatening all at once. The Clay she had once known—or rather the Clay she had thought she’d known—would never have hurt her.
Not physically, anyway.
This Clay was a world away from the young man who had gently wooed her with his wit and humor and lively smiles. Of course, she now knew he had merely shown her the face he wished her to see so he could gain what he wanted.
He had taken everything from her: her heart, her innocence, her trust. And had left her with a bitter, empty shell. How dare he reappear eight years later, demanding to know he was the father of her son? Where had he been when she had been frightened and banished from her father’s home, unknowing of where to turn, when she had disgraced herself and had to find a way to live through the consequences of her actions?
He had left her when she needed him most.
She did not owe him anything, least of all the truth. If he had wanted to be a part of Edward’s life, he should not have gone away. He should not have fled to the Continent. He should never have left her waiting on the day he had promised they would run away together to be married.
Tears stung her eyes as she shook her head, not looking away from his dark intensity. “No.”
“No?” he repeated as though he could not believe her refusal. “Then tell me I am not his father, Ara.”
She swallowed, her gaze straying from his. She stared at the protrusion of his Adam’s apple. “You are not Edward’s father.”
“Look me in the eye when you lie to me, damn you,” he growled, releasing her neck and taking her chin in a firm grip instead. He forced her head back, until she could not look anywhere but at him. “Try again.”
“Freddie was his father,” she said instead, for that much was true.
Freddie had promised to raise Edward as his own, and he had held firm to his vow. He could not have loved Edward any better had he been the product of their own marital bed, and Ara knew it. He had been a good man. Compassionate and munificent. Unlike the man before her.
Clay sneered down at her now. “I will give you one more opportunity, Duchess. Tell me the truth, or I shall take the matter to Chancery Court. I will petition that Edward is my rightful son, and you have wrongfully kept him from me. I will attest to our affair, and the date of the lad’s birth will lend credence to my claims. I will also have him removed from your custody and placed into mine.”
She had not considered the possibility he would wish to take her son from her. The thought of such a private matter going before the court made her ill. If the court sided with him, Edward would be disinherited and she could lose her son. And the court always favored the rights of the father above those of the mother. Her mouth went dry, a sharp stab of fear cutting through her.
Surely, he had only issued such threats to force her to give in and admit Edward was his son.
“You would not do something so reckless,” she countered. “My reputation would be ruined. Edward’s inheritance would be called into question.”
“I don’t give a damn about your reputation, madam. I care about the truth you’ve been hiding for eight bloody years.” His expression was as rigid as the big, powerful body keeping her pinned to the wall. “I will not let you leave this chamber until you admit it.”
Anguish mingled with her fear. “You cannot take my son from me. I will not allow it.”
“You have already taken him from me for seven years,” he countered. “It will be your turn to see how it feels to have your child robbed from you, and you will be helpless to stop me. Is that what you want, Ara? Is that what you will force me to do?”
His questions hung in the air, sharp and angry and damning.
She could hold fast to her assertion Freddie was Edward’s father and pray Clay would not do what he warned and take the matter before the court. Or she could reveal the truth and hope he would be merciful. Why had she allowed him to give Edward lessons? Why, oh why, had her foolish tongue slipped, revealing his age? She should have known better. This entire, sordid mess was her fault.
And it seemed there was no good resolution.
No option save one.
“Ara? Answer me.”
“You are his father,” she whispered.
There.It was done.
Eight years of holding in her secret, and in a scant handful of seconds, the truth had been revealed. It felt simultaneously freeing and terrifying. Freeing because the weighty guilt that had been her constant companion, lurking in her heart whenever she thought of the father Edward would never know, could at last be banished. Terrifying because she had confirmed what Clay had only suspected. He could still attempt to take Edward from her. He could still ruin her.
He released her so abruptly she almost fell to her knees on the parquet before he turned to stride away from her. Blinking, she raised two fingers to her chin where his touch had been. She still tingled from the contact. Her body was a quivering mess of agony and dread and a tiny, unwanted surge of longing.
What would he do?
