“Enlightened,” she decided to say. Gingerly.
This made the corners of his mouth lift, somewhat wryly. But his eyes were troubled. He seemed tremendously preoccupied.
“And you?” she inquired, carefully.
He didn’t take this up. He audibly pulled in a breath, and released it.
And then another.
“I’d like to show you something.” His voice was soft.
He extended his fist. She realized his fingers were closed around something in his palm.
She understood then that he was breathing to steady himself. He was nervous, she realized, astounded.
And now she was, too.
At last, he uncurled his fingers. She peered down and saw a miniature in his palm.
Her heart twinged sweetly.
It was a little painting of a boy who had lustrous dark eyes, a curly pile of black hair, and elegant bone structure.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
“Is this you when you were just a boy?”
He didn’t reply.
He waited so long to speak that her heart began hammering and she knew.
She knew. She knew before he said it.
“He’s my son.”
The world teetered and flickered, such was her shock.
She couldn’t yet look at Dominic. And she couldn’t breathe. She was riveted by the sweet-faced boy looking up at her from her palm.
“But you... and you’ve... never been married.” She managed to say it steadily.
“I’ve never been married,” he confirmed. His voice quiet.
By-blow.The ugly word that Farquar had used. The rumor Lady Wisterberg had heard, too.
Well, then.
She breathed through this knowledge. In and out. In and out. Accommodating it. On the periphery of her awareness a fear shimmered. She knew she was about to learn something that might devastate her. And yet this was a feeling to which she knew she had no right.
Then she reminded herself forcefully: he didn’t lie. He’d told her he had never been involved with more than one woman at a time. She believed him. He wouldnotbe ravishing her against ivy-coveredwalls at soirees if he was currently supporting another mistress.
But his voice. His posture. Whatever it was he needed to share was delicate, perhaps even volatile, to him.
Suddenly it was simple: nothing she might currently feel was as important as letting him know it was safe to tell her whatever he needed to say.
“He looks exactly like you.” She looked up at him. “The poor sod,” she added gently.
The corner of his mouth tipped, ruefully. Pleased with her.
