A complication that would never be accepted, even as the vision of Celia as his wife burned a hole in his chest.
“If we were engaged, why would that not be enough?” Clairemont asked, turning back. “I would make sure you had the access you require, that you would be invited and included in whatever you wished in the future.”
Both of Fitzgilbert’s eyebrows lifted. “And risk that the marriage won’t go through? Look at Stenfax. She had him caught. Was only days away from becoming a countess, and she failed. I don’t trust this will go any differently until you slip a ring on her finger. Though your moonfaced devotion to her certainly makes me think she has a better chance at success this time around.”
Clairemont stiffened. He’d always been good and hiding his emotions, but before an enemy he’d just revealed himself. A dangerous prospect.
“What can I offer you to give the information now?” he asked.
“Why are you so determined?” Fitzgilbert asked. “You intend to marry her, I assume. You are publicly courting her. Why not just do the deed and let the information come as it may?” He leaned forward. “Unless you have no intention of making her your bride? Did her telling you about her father turn you from your pursuit? Haven’t had the bollocks to tell her you don’t want to make a bastard daughter of a no one into a duchess? Is this your attempt at softening the blow?”
The control Clairemont had been fighting for throughout the meeting now snapped in two. He cocked back his fist and swung, connecting squarely across Fitzgilbert’s cheekbone and sending him staggering to the floor.
“Did I soften the blow enough?” he growled as the older man struggled to get up. “Celia’s history doesn’t mean a goddamned thing to me, Fitzgilbert. But Iwillhave the information I seek. How much you benefit from it will be entirely up to you.”
He turned on his heel and stalked from the room, from the house, without looking back. Mostly he left to keep from unleashing the street tough inside him and killing the bastard in his own parlor. But as he swung up on his horse and began to ride, all the bravado, all the anger, melted away.
What it left behind was like acid in his veins.
Celia had confessed her past to him. She had done it because she couldn’t bear to lie to him, to use him to further herself. And yet he was doing exactly the same to her. Worse, in fact. His lies could destroy her in every way. His lies would ultimately break her heart, there was no way around it.
Oh, perhaps he could help her by giving her the information she sought regarding her father, but would that lessen the blow when he was gone—dead, in her eyes? Would it make his life any less empty once he was back to being John Dane or whatever character was next in the long line of false identities that punctuated his War Department career?
He knew it wouldn’t. And it was all because of one fact that had become perfectly clear today: he was in love with Celia Fitzgilbert. Entirely, completely and utterly in love with her. He wanted her in his life forever, to know her in every way and to share with her all of even the darkest parts of himself. He knew by instinct that her light would heal those things.
But she wasn’t in love withhim. No, she was in love with Clairemont. A man who didn’t exist. A man John Dane would tear away from her in a blinding moment of pain and destruction.
A blinding moment that would kill some part of him just as much as it killed the false Clairemont. And he would never be the same. Not when he lost her at last.
And there was not a damn thing he could do about any of it.
Celia let her fingers dance over the pianoforte keys, but she heard the stumbles in the notes and winced. It was nearly impossible to concentrate lately and her playing suffered. As did her sewing and all other activities she attempted to participate in. Even Felicity had mentioned she was distracted when they shared tea this afternoon.
But now she was alone and happy for it. At least she could pound at the keys and try not to think about the subject of all her fantasies and fears: Aiden.
It had been twenty-four hours since she confessed everything to him about her past. He had sent her flowers that morning with a short note she supposed was meant to comfort her. But it wasn’t one of his longer letters and she knew she wouldn’t likely be comforted entirely until she saw him next.
Until she knew if his acceptance of her confession had been true or just a kindness meant to spare her feelings.
“Which song are you playing?”
Celia jerked her gaze to the door and found Rosalinde standing there, leaning in the doorway, watching her intently.
“What do you mean?” Celia asked, setting her hands in her lap. “I didn’t think I was playing so poorly that the tune was unrecognizable.”
“You weren’t,” Rosalinde said. “It is only that midway through one chorus, you switched to a different song entirely.”
Celia gasped. “I did? Gracious, I didn’t even notice.”
“You wouldn’t,” Rosalinde said. She stepped into the room and held out a hand to her sister. Celia took it and let Rosalinde guide her to the settee. “You weren’t paying attention, that much was abundantly clear.” Rosalinde touched her cheek. “I have stayed silent long enough, Celia, I can do it no longer. Tell me what has been troubling you these past few days.”
Celia dipped her chin. She and Rosalinde were too close to keep secrets. And she needed her older sister’s counsel now more than ever it seemed. So she drew a long breath.
“What do you think of Aiden?”
Rosalinde smiled slightly. “I knew it was about him. What do I think of him…well, I suppose that depends upon whether or not he has hurt you in some way.”
Celia shook her head. “He hasn’t. Since meeting him, he has been nothing but wonderful to me.”
