As she looked on, he stalked from the ballroom, slamming the door behind him with so much force it rattled in its hinges. She flinched. And then she gave in to the overwhelming emotions roiling through her. She slid down the wall, her skirts billowing in a puddle of jet silk, and wept the same bitter, wracking sobs she had cried on the day she had discovered Freddie was murdered.
Clay required motion,and he required distance.
Specifically, he needed distance between himself and the Duchess of Burghly, the mother of his child, and the woman who had been withholding his son from him. Because if he did not leave her presence—leave her goddamn house, in fact—he would not be responsible for his actions. Because he had been installed at Burghly House to protect her from Fenian murderers and not to throttle her with his own bare hands.
So, he moved. He made certain his men were stationed and aware of his departure, because even as irate as he was with the woman, he would not have her death on his bloody conscience or his pristine record of service for Her Majesty. And then he walked. His legs ate up the streets of St. James’s Square. He paced. He wandered. He found his way back to Burghly House in a daze. He saddled a horse.
And then he rode.
He rode and rode.
Even when a driving rain unleashed its torrent, he did not halt until finally he found himself ensconced in Leo’s study. His brother, ordinarily unemotional and detached, had taken in his drenched body and thunderous expression and frowned with concern, ordering him to sit while he fetched him a whisky.
Clay did not accept orders from his little brother outside the Special League, so he ignored the directive. Instead, he paced the confines of Leo’s study like a lion stuck inside a cage, which was precisely how he felt. He wanted to rip something apart with his teeth. He wanted to destroy.
“What in the hell has you so agitated, Clay?” Leo demanded, appearing before him with two glasses in hand. He offered him one. “Here you are. Take a head-clearing draught first and then answer me.”
He accepted the whisky and sent the lot of it down his throat. It singed a path to his gut, but he still felt numb. “I have a son,” he announced baldly.
The word felt strange and foreign on his tongue.
Son.
He thought of the lad, and finally, warmth trickled into his heart.
Leo nodded, taking a sip of his own whisky before answering. “The Duchess of Burghly’s boy.”
What in the bloody hell?
He froze. “You knew?”
His brother raised a brow. “You did not?”
“Of course not, damn your hide.” In typical Leo fashion, he gave no answer. Clay’s hand balled into a fist at his side. “Explain yourself, brother. I am not in the mood to play your games today.”
“I saw the boy when I first went to Burghly House after learning of the threats against the duchess,” Leo explained, apparently taking pity on him for the first time in their lives. “He is your image, poor lad.”
He ignored his brother’s slight, focusing instead upon the first half of what he’d said. Clay stalked forward. “You mean to tell me you knew before you assigned me to protect her?”
Leo took another sip of his whisky, eyeing him. “You are awfully thirsty, brother. Shall I fetch you another?”
“Answer the bloody question,” he gritted.
“Yes.”
Clay’s patience snapped, and the last vestige of his control went along with it. He hurled his empty tumbler against the wall. “Damn you, Leo. Why did you not speak up? Why did you not say something?”
Leo frowned. “It was not my place to intervene. I am not responsible for managing your by-blows.”
“Edward is not a bastard,” he roared.
And thank the Lord, too, for illegitimacy was not a curse he would willingly place upon any of his progeny. Though their father the duke had loved Clay’s mother, and he had been raised alongside Leo like an equal, that had not changed who he was to polite society, nor the way he was received or looked upon.
“Forgive me,” Leo drawled with patent insincerity. “How shall I refer to a seed you planted in the womb of a lady without first being wed to her?”
He supposed he deserved his brother’s scorn. He should never have taken Ara before they had married. He most certainly never should have gotten her with child. Nor should he have left without making certain there were no such repercussions. But he had been young and stupid, thinking first with his prick and then with his pride. He had not been able to stomach remaining after Ara’s betrayal.
“Fair enough,” he rasped. “I was wrong to do what I did. I have no defense of my actions. I was young and bloody reckless, and I did not know there would be a child. But for Christ’s sake, Leo, why would you send me there without warning?”
