"Clarissa?" Kit's voice from the doorway silenced her.
She turned slowly. He was watching her with a furrowed brow.
With long strides, he crossed the terrace to her. It was the concern in his eyes that was her undoing. When his warm hands gripped her arms, and he peered down at her with those bright blue eyes, she did it. She opened her silly, rebellious mouth, and the words tumbled out of their own accord.
"I love you."
24
Kit was certain he'd heard her wrong.
A torturous evening of small talk and forced laughter had rotted his brain and left him witless. That was the only explanation.
He was hearing things because he could have sworn she'd just said?—
"I love you." She said it again, and her eyes were wide and just as frantic as her tone. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't say it, but I can't not, and—oh, I'm making a mess of this. I know that you have a mistress who you no doubt care for. And maybe you love her, but?—"
"Clarissa—" He tried to intervene. His heart was galloping like a wild horse and his grip on her tightened as he tugged her close.
"No, don't say anything. I shouldn't have said anything." Her words were tumbling out faster now. Her pitch grew higher as her eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry if I've ruined everything, but I cannot do this. I can't go through with this?—"
"Go through with what?" Panic spiked as he tried to keep up. She loved him? But she didn't want to marry him?
He gave his head a little shake as she hurried on, but her words made less and less sense as his mind reeled.
Truly, all he registered was that first part. I love you. The words echoed in his skull.
Did she mean it? Could it be true?
He opened his mouth to cut her off. To ask her to say it again. But before he could?—
"Kit! There you are." His father's words cut through everything.
Even Clarissa's torrent of words.
Her eyes widened in surprise and they both turned to find the duke striding toward them with a broad grin.
The Duke of Ashworth looked every inch the proud father. His smile was broad and warm, his arms were open. He was, Kit thought numbly, putting on a very fine performance.
"My dear boy." The duke clapped Kit on the shoulder. "And Lady Clarissa. What a delight."
He took Clarissa's hand and bowed over it with a gallantry that would have charmed anyone who didn't know him. "I cannot tell you how pleased I am. When I heard the news, I said to myself—at last. The boy has finally shown some sense."
Clarissa's face was white. Kit could feel her panic radiating off her in waves. She'd just said I love you—twice—and now the Duke of Ashworth was beaming at her as though she'd won a prize at a country fair.
And Kit hadn't had the chance to respond to any of it.
"Your Grace." Clarissa's voice was remarkably steady, albeit slightly dazed, as she dipped a curtsy. "How kind of you to say."
"Nonsense. I mean every word." The duke turned to Kit with an expression of such paternal pride that Kit's stomach turned. "This is precisely the sort of decision I've been hoping you'd make."
Kit said nothing. He was watching Clarissa, who was watching the duke, who was watching them both with the satisfied air of a man whose plans had come together.
"I do hope you'll forgive me for arriving late," the duke continued, addressing Clarissa now. "I had business to attend to, but I would never miss such a joyous occasion."
"Of course, Your Grace," Clarissa managed. She glanced at Kit—a quick, desperate look that said help me and I'm sorry and please forget everything I just said all at once.
"You must call me Father," the duke said. "Or at the very least, Ashworth. We're to be family, after all."
