A glimmer of hope had the fury in his belly simmering to something more manageable.
Yes, she deserved to hear the truth. And once she knew the whole sordid tale, surely she would let him into her life again.
To be her friend? That blasted voice taunted him. Is that what you want?
Because it was all he could give. Hadn't he sworn off marriage years ago? It wasn't an option, not if he wanted to avoid the same dismal fate of his parents.
And yet…
Clarissa's laugh caught him off guard. It was light and melodic, and… Not a genuine laugh. More of a polite chuckle. But it was enough to make him ache.
He wanted to see that smile shining up at him, and watch her eyes dance and hear her voice lilt, and see her hands gesture wildly when she got caught up in a story, and?—
He wanted her. There was nothing else for it.
No, he needed her. And not as his friend. He needed all of her. Heart and soul. In his life. By his side.
The realization might have been utterly alarming if it hadn't come about so naturally. Rather like realizing one was hungry or thirsty.
I need food. I need drink.
I need Clarissa Whitfield.
It hit him with such clarity, he found himself taking a step in her direction. But then?—
"Christopher." The voice came from his left, and every muscle in his body went tight.
His father stood beside him, impeccably dressed, and holding a glass of wine. The Duke of Ashworth surveyed the garden with a benevolent expression.
"Father," Kit said. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"They're friends of your mother's. I could hardly decline." The duke took a sip of wine.
Kit stayed silent. His father wouldn't have come here, and he certainly wouldn't have sought him out, if he didn't have something to say.
"I've had a letter from your mother," the duke said.
His mother wrote to the duke infrequently, and only when something threatened her comfort. "And?"
"She's heard the rumors. About your..." The duke waved a hand vaguely. "Situation."
"My situation." Kit's voice was flat. "You mean the situation in which I'm taking responsibility for?—"
"Keep your voice down." The pleasant tone didn't change, but something shifted behind the duke's eyes. "Your mother is concerned that if the true circumstances were ever to become public, it would reflect poorly on her."
Kit stared at him.
"On us," he added. "On our family."
Our family. It was almost amusing how the man could say those words with a straight face. The duke never gave “our family” a second thought—unless one of their actions reflected poorly on him, or affected his sway in Parliament, or infringed on his income in some way.
"She has a position to maintain abroad. As do I here." The duke turned to face him with a warm look. Anyone glancing over would see a loving father offering counsel to his son. "You've handled this well, Kit. Better than I expected, frankly. The ton believes the child is yours, and that suits everyone."
Kit's jaw clenched but he forced himself to relax. He even managed a mild tone when he said, "It doesn't suit me."
"It suits the family. Which is what matters." The duke placed a hand on Kit's shoulder. "Your mother has made her feelings very clear. Gossip about a mistress is one thing, but a child… There are provisions in our marriage settlement that she would not hesitate to invoke."
Kit understood. His mother's family had money. The kind of money that came with leverage. If the Duchess of Ashworth decided to make her husband's life difficult, she had the means.
