He flinched, and she knew a moment of triumph that she had at last affected him, piercing his impenetrable armor. He stood, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “I am the man who almost went mad, locked away in prison in penance for a crime that was not mine. The father of your son. You have not forgotten, have you?”
Her knees once more threatened to turn to pudding. But she would remain strong. “I could never forget the father of my son. I could never forget you.”
She searched his expression, his eyes, for a sign of Robin, and found none.
What had they done to him in prison? Torture, he had claimed. His wounded leg gave evidence to that.
“Excellent,” he said coolly. “When we are wed, you will most certainly never forget me.”
Her response was swift, just as certain. “I am not marrying you.”
“You do not have a choice, Duchess. You will marry me or pay the price for your sins. What do you think Uncle Edwin would say if he were to discover his brother’s by-blow is the true father of the next Duke of Longleigh?”
Her blood went cold. Lord Edwin Rutledge, Longleigh’s hated brother, would do everything in his power to deprive Robby of being the Duke of Longleigh.
Finally freed of Longleigh, she could not bear to have to battle his brother. And if she should lose, she would be left with nothing save her widow’s portion. She had not endured years of misery in her marriage to Longleigh just to lose everything.
“You would do that to your son?”
“I want to know my son. I want to be a father to him. I have already lost one child. I’ll not lose another.”
Tears were once more burning her eyes, welling up, slipping down her cheeks. How many times had she dreamt of Robby meeting his father one day? How many prayers had she sent heavenward that it could happen?
And although her heart and mind were in a tumult, upended by the events of the last two days and all the revelations which had been made, she knew what needed to be her first move in this mad chess game they played.
“You must meet him.”
“Lord Edwin?” His lip curled. “I have no wish to speak to that waste of flesh.”
“No,” she said softly, hesitantly. “Your son.”
* * *
Your son.
Precious words.
Precious life.
When he had been locked in that terrifying dormitory in prison, deprived of speech and comfort and name, when he had been treated worse than a damned cow being fattened for slaughter, he had thought of the child. The child he had never been able to know. The sweet, innocent life which had begun.
Two motivations had propelled Adrian during his imprisonment. His child and getting revenge upon the Duke of Longleigh. He had been denied his vengeance because Longleigh had died before Adrian had been freed from prison. But from the moment he had first breathed free air—a deep, satisfying gulp in the sunshine, no mask to cover his face—he had thought of nothing other than the child.
A lad. A son.Hisson.
Painstakingly, Adrian entered the nursery at Haddon House where a governess was presiding over the young duke’s nap. The woman, dressed in somber gray, offered polite confusion at the intrusion and hastily made herself scarce, disappearing from the chamber. Adrian took no note of her as he moved toward the crib where his son was soundly sleeping.
He stopped, looking down.
A head of dark ringlets, an innocent face, thumb raised to his lips, a blanket drawn tenderly to his chin. Adrian’s heart was beating so fast, he feared it would rip from his chest. His hand, gripping the head of his cane, was sweating. He had imagined this moment, all those lonely, dark hours of silence. More than a year’s worth of waiting, of dreaming.
Nothing could have compared.
His cheeks were wet. He reached a shaking hand to trace those curls from the lad’s forehead. So soft. His forehead was warm. The boy shifted, making a sweet sound of comfort.
“His name?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
Emotion he thought he no longer had the capacity to feel.
