“She doesn’t—”
“You’re uncouth,” the baron burst out. “You’re stupid—”
It shot out of his mouth before he could stop himself: “I am not—”
“You behave stupidly,” the baron cut in, “and you’re certainly not good enough for a Bridgerton girl. They’ll see through you soon enough.”
Gareth forced himself to get his breathing under control. The baron loved to provoke him, loved to say things that would make Gareth protest like a child.
“In some ways,” Lord St. Clair continued, a slow, self-satisfied smile spreading across his face, “it’s an interesting question.”
Gareth just stared at him, too angry to give him the satisfaction of asking what he meant.
“Who, pray tell,” the baron mused, “is your father?”
Gareth caught his breath. It was the first time the baron had ever come out and asked it so directly. He’d called Gareth a by-blow, he’d called him a mongrel and a mangy whelp. And he had called Gareth’s mother plenty of other, even less flattering things. But he’d never actually come out and pondered the question of Gareth’s paternity.
And it made him wonder—had he learned the truth?
“You’d know better than I,” Gareth said softly.
The moment was electric, with silence rocking the air. Gareth didn’t breathe, would have stopped his heart from beating if he could have done, but in the end all Lord St. Clair said was, “Your mother wouldn’t say.”
Gareth eyed him warily. His father’s voice was still laced with bitterness, but there was something else there, too, a certain probing, testing quality. Gareth realized that the baron was feeling him out, trying to see if Gareth had learned something of his paternity.
“It’s eating you alive,” Gareth said, unable to keep from smiling. “She wanted someone else more than you, and it’s killing you, even after all these years.”
For a moment he thought the baron might strike him, but at the last minute, Lord St. Clair stepped back, his arms stiff at his sides. “I didn’t love your mother,” he said.
“I never thought you had,” Gareth replied. It had never been about love. It had been about pride. With the baron, it was always about pride.
“I want to know,” Lord St. Clair said in a low voice. “I want to know who it was, and I will give you the satisfaction of admitting to that desire. I have never forgiven her for her sins. But you…you…” He laughed, and the sound shivered right into Gareth’s soul.
“You are her sins,” the baron said. He laughed again, the sound growing more chilling by the second. “You’ll never know. You will never know whose blood passes through your veins. And you’ll never know who didn’t love you well enough to claim you.”
Gareth’s heart stopped.
The baron smiled. “Think about that the next time you ask Miss Bridgerton to dance. You’re probably nothing more than the son of a chimney sweep.” He shrugged, the motion purposefully disdainful. “Maybe a footman. We always did have strapping young footmen at Clair Hall.”
Gareth almost slapped him. He wanted to. By God, he itched to, and it took more restraint than he’d ever known he possessed not to do it, but somehow he managed to remain still.
“You’re nothing but a mongrel,” Lord St. Clair said, walking to the door. “That’s all you’ll ever be.”
“Yes, but I’m your mongrel,” Gareth said, smiling cruelly. “Born in wedlock, even if not by your seed.” He stepped forward, until they were nearly nose to nose. “I’m yours.”
The baron swore and moved away, grasping the door-knob with shaking fingers.
?
??Doesn’t it just slay you?”
“Don’t attempt to be better than you are,” the baron hissed. “It’s too painful to watch you try.”
And then, before Gareth could get in the last word, the baron stormed out of the room.
For several seconds Gareth didn’t move. It was as if something in his body recognized the need for absolute stillness, as if a single motion might cause him to shatter.
And then—