That odd sensation returned, clobbering him with the force of a fist.
“I beg your pardon?” he demanded hoarsely. “Say it again.”
* * *
Julianna ranher tongue over lips that had gone suddenly dry. “You have a daughter.”
She waited for his reaction, as tense as a coiled watch spring. This was not the manner in which she had imagined revealing Emily to Shelbourne. He was half-naked, his bare chest and muscled abdomen on display, distractingly gorgeous and barbaric all at once. And they were in his chamber. She had wanted a civilized discussion. A reasonable discourse. Calm, measured speech. Clear answers. Rational decisions.
Instead, everything was the opposite, just as she had feared.
All her reasons for keeping Emily a secret returned. She ought to have kept her existence from Shelbourne longer, she feared. She would have done, but she was getting desperate. Indeed, for some time, she had been convinced she would never tell him. Or that she would be able to keep Emily a secret until enough years had passed that Shelbourne would no longer care. That he would not bother to seek either Julianna or their daughter out in America.
But she had not anticipated the Shelbourne she would find on her return to London. The devil she knew was a devil indeed, but one who was a distant, cold stranger. He did not resemble the man who had stolen her heart with his careless grins and wicked teasing and passionate kisses.
His grip on her arm tightened with almost painful intensity. “A daughter?”
Her heart pounded fast, so fast. “Emily.”
“Emily?” he spat.
There was such vitriol in his voice, she flinched. “Yes, Emily. That is… Her name is Emily.”
“She is yours?” he demanded, so still it was unnerving.
“Yes.”
“And mine? You are saying youbore my child. Is that correct?”
The rage vibrating from him made her think she never should have made this revelation. It was too much. But she could not have gone on as she had been, living with Emily and her mother in New York, pretending her daughter was not her own.
That life had been abysmal.
Painful and wretched.
Everyone thought her the pretty debutante, an English lady. A curiosity. She was sought-after. Admired. Not one of the American social elite with whom she dined, shopped, gossiped, and danced knew she had a secret daughter at home. A sweet baby with dark ringlets and green eyes and Shelbourne’s stubborn chin; the image of him, it was true, much to her consternation. A baby who was walking and saying words and who knew nothing of her papa because Julianna had only discovered she wasenceintewhen she reached New York and the seasickness never stopped.
“I—yes.” She bit her lip, watching him.
Terrified.
Not that he would hurt her. Shelbourne may have many faults, but violence was not among them.
Terrified of his reaction. Of what he would say. Of the possibility she could admit she was the mother to his daughter and he would still send her out the door, telling her never to return. That he would not agree to a marriage of convenience and she would be forced to find someone else to marry her in the next three months. Someone who would be kind to Emily and accept her as his daughter.
None of the men whose acquaintance she had made thus far had been that sort of man. Not one of them could have understood the choices she had made. And the shock at finding out she had a child out of wedlock—it would have sent any one of them running.
Shelbourne released her at last and turned, stalking away from her, raking his fingers through his hair in his agitation. She remained where she was, watching him, uncertain of what to do next. What to say, if anything.
He braced his hands on the fireplace mantel at the opposite end of the chamber. For a long moment, he remained thus, body diagonal to the floor as he held himself up with all his weight, the muscles of his shoulders and back rippling, his head bowed.
“Shelbourne?” she asked hesitantly, afraid to move.
His response was a roar. He shoved himself away from the mantel, then picked up the ormolu clock resting in the center and hurled it into the grate. The sound of breaking glass and crashing brass echoed in the room.
In one swift motion, he swept the assorted bric-a-brac from it as well. Frames, figures, she knew not what—all went crashing to the floor. More broken glass, more destruction.
He was in his stockinged feet. And she was breathless, hoping he would not walk through the shattered remnants and injure himself.
