by Julia Quinn
Gareth generally had little use for large balls; they were hot and crowded, and much as he enjoyed dancing, he’d found that he usually spent the bulk of his time making idle conversation with people in whom he wasn’t particularly interested. But, he thought as he made his way into the side hall of Bridgerton House, he was having a fine time this evening.
After his dance with Hyacinth, they had moved to the corner of the ballroom, where she’d informed him of her work with the diary. Despite her excuses, she had made good progress, and had in fact just reached the point of Isabella’s arrival in England. It had not been auspicious. His grandmother had slipped while exiting the small dinghy that had carried her to shore, and thus her first connection with British soil had been her bottom against the wet sludge of the Dover shore.
Her new husband, of course, hadn’t lifted a hand to help her.
Gareth shook his head. It was a wonder she hadn’t turned tail and run back to Italy right then. Of course, according to Hyacinth, there wasn’t much waiting for her there, either. Isabella had repeatedly begged her parents not to make her marry an Englishman, but they had insisted, and it did not sound as if they would have been particularly welcoming if she had run back home.
But there was only so long he could spend in a somewhat secluded corner of the ballroom with an unmarried lady without causing talk, and so once Hyacinth had finished the tale, he had bid her farewell and handed her off to the next gentleman on her dance card.
His objectives for the evening accomplished (greeting his hostess, dancing with Hyacinth, discerning her progress with the diary), he decided he might as well leave altogether. The night was still reasonably young; there was no reason he couldn’t go to his club or a gambling hell.
Or, he thought with a bit more anticipation, he hadn’t seen his mistress in some time. Well, not a mistress, exactly. Gareth hadn’t enough money to keep a woman like Maria in the style to which she was accustomed, but luckily one of her previous gentlemen had given her a neat little house in Bloomsbury, eliminating the need for Gareth to do the same. Since he wasn’t paying her bills, she felt no need to remain faithful, but that hardly signified, since he didn’t, either.
And it had been a while. It seemed the only woman he’d spent any time with lately was Hyacinth, and the Lord knew he couldn’t dally there.
Gareth murmured his farewells to a few acquaintances near the ballroom door, then slipped out into the hall. It was surprisingly empty, given the number of people attending the party. He started to walk toward the front of the house, but then stopped. It was a long way to Blooms-bury, especially in a hired hack, which was what he was going to need to use, since he’d gained a ride over with his grandmother. The Bridgertons had set aside a room in the back for gentlemen to see to their needs. Gareth decided to make use of it.
He turned around and retraced his steps, then bypassed the ballroom door and headed farther down the hall. A couple of laughing gentlemen stepped out as he reached the door, and Gareth nodded his greetings before entering.
It was one of those two-room chambers, with a small waiting area outside an inner sanctum to afford a bit more privacy. The door to the second room was closed, so Gareth whistled softly to himself as he waited his turn.
He loved to whistle.
My bonnie lies over the ocean…
He always sang the words to himself as he whistled.
My bonnie lies over the sea….
Half the songs he whistled had words he couldn’t very well sing aloud, anyway.
My bonnie lies over the ocean…
“I should have known it was you.”
Gareth froze, finding himself face-to-face with his father, who, he realized, had been the person for whom he had been waiting so patiently to relieve himself.
“So bring back my bonnie to me,” Gareth sang out loudly, giving the final word a nice, dramatic flourish.
He watched his father’s jaw set into an uncomfortable line. The baron hated singing even more than he did whistling.
“I’m surprised they let you in,” Lord St. Clair said, his voice deceptively placid.
Gareth shrugged insolently. “Funny how one’s blood remains so conveniently hidden inside, even when it’s not quite blue.” He gave the older man a game smile. “All of the world thinks I am yours. Is that not just the most—”
“Stop,” the baron hissed. “Good God, it’s enough just to look at you. Listening makes me ill.”
“Strangely enough, I remain unbothered.”
But inside, Gareth could feel himself beginning to change. His heart was beating faster, and his chest had taken on a strange, shaky feeling. He felt unfocused, restless, and it took all of his self-control to hold his arms still at his sides.
One would think he’d have grown used to this, but every time, it took him by surprise. He always told himself that this would be the time he would see his father and it just wouldn’t matter, but no…
It always did.
And Lord St. Clair wasn’t even really his father. That was the true rub. The man had the ability to turn him into an immature idiot, and he wasn’t even really his father. Gareth had told himself, time and again, that it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. They weren’t related by blood, and the baron should not mean any more to him than a stranger on the street.
But he did. Gareth didn’t want his approval; he’d long since given up on that, and besides, why would he want approbation from a man he didn’t even respect?
It was something else. Something much harder to define. He saw the baron and he suddenly had to assert himself, to make his presence known.
To make his presence felt.
He had to bother the man. Because the Lord knew, the man bothered him.
He felt this way whenever he saw him. Or at least when they were forced into conversation. And Gareth knew that he had to end the contact now, before he did something he might regret.
Because he always did. Every time he swore to himself that he would learn, that he’d be more mature, but then it happened again. He saw his father, and he was fifteen again, all smirky smiles and bad behavior.
But this time he was going to try. He was in Bridgerton House, for God’s sake, and the least he could do was try to avoid a scene.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, trying to brush past him.
But Lord St. Clair stepped to the side, forcing their shoulders to collide. “She won’t have you, you know,” he said, chuckling under the words.
Gareth held himself very still. “What are you talking about?”
“The Bridgerton chit. I saw you panting after her.”
For a moment Gareth didn’t move. He hadn’t even realized his father had been in the ballroom. Which bothered him. Not that it should have done. Hell, he should have been whooping with joy that he’d finally managed to enjoy an event without being needled by Lord St. Clair’s presence.
But instead he just felt somehow deceived. As if the baron had been hiding from him.
Spying on him.
“Nothing to say?” the baron taunted.
Gareth just lifted a brow as he looked through the open door to the chamber pot. “Not unless you wish me to aim from here,” he drawled.
The baron turned, saw what he meant, then said disgustedly, “You would do it, too.”
“You know, I believe I would,” Gareth said. Hadn’t really occurred to him until that moment—his comment had been more of a threat than anything else—but he might be willing to engage in a bit of crude behavior if it meant watching his father’s veins nearly burst with fury.
“You are revolting.”
“You raised me.”
A direct hit. The baron seethed visibly before he shot back with, “Not because I wanted to. And I certainly never dreamed I would have to pass the title on to you.”
Gareth held his tongue. He would say a lot of things to anger his father, but he would not make light of his brother’s death. Ever.
“George must be spinning in his grav
e,” Lord St. Clair said in a low voice.
And Gareth snapped. One moment he was standing in the middle of the small room, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides, and the next he had his father pinned up against the wall, one hand on his shoulder, the other at his throat.
“He was my brother,” Gareth hissed.
The baron spit in his face. “He was my son.”
Gareth’s lungs were beginning to shake. It felt as if he couldn’t get enough air. “He was my brother,” he repeated, putting every ounce of his will into keeping his voice even. “Maybe not through you, but through our mother. And I loved him.”
And somehow the loss felt all the more severe. He had mourned George since the day he’d died, but right now it felt like a big, gaping hole was yawning within him, and Gareth didn’t know how to fill it.
He was down to one person now. Just his grandmother. Just one person he could honestly say he loved.
And loved him in return.
He hadn’t realized this before. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to. But now, standing here with the man he’d always called Father, even after he’d learned the truth, he realized just how alone he was.
And he was disgusted with himself. With his behavior, with what he became in the baron’s presence.
Abruptly, he let go, backing up as he watched the baron catch his breath.
Gareth’s own breathing wasn’t so steady, either.
He should go. He needed to get out, away, be anywhere but here.
“You’ll never have her, you know,” came his father’s mocking voice.
Gareth had taken a step toward the door. He hadn’t even realized he’d moved until the baron’s words caused him to freeze.
“Miss Bridgerton,” his father clarified.
“I don’t want Miss Bridgerton,” Gareth said carefully.
This made the baron laugh. “Of course you do. She is everything you’re not. Everything you could never hope to be.”
Gareth forced himself to relax, or at least give the appearance of it. “Well, for one thing,” he said with the cocky little smile he knew his father hated, “she’s female.”
His father sneered at his feeble attempt at humor. “She will never marry you.”
“I don’t recall asking her.”
“Bah. You’ve been lapping at her heels all week. Everyone’s been commenting on it.”
Gareth knew that his uncharacteristic attention paid to a proper young lady had raised a few eyebrows, but he also knew that the gossip wasn’t anywhere near what his father intimated.
Still, it gave him a sick sort of satisfaction to know that his father was as obsessed with him and his doings as the other way around.
“Miss Bridgerton is a good friend of my grandmother’s,” Gareth said lightly, enjoying the slight curl of his father’s lip at the mention of Lady Danbury. They had always hated each other, and when they’d still spoken, Lady D had never ceded the upper hand. She was the wife of an earl, and Lord St. Clair a mere baron, and she never allowed him to forget it.
“Of course she’s a friend of the countess,” the baron said, recovering quickly. “I’m sure it’s why she tolerates your attentions.”
“You would have to ask Miss Bridgerton,” Gareth said lightly, trying to brush off the topic as inconsequential. He certainly wasn’t about to reveal that Hyacinth was translating Isabella’s diary. Lord St. Clair would probably demand that he hand it over, and that was one thing Gareth absolutely did not intend to do.
And it wasn’t just because it meant that he possessed something his father might desire. Gareth truly wanted to know what secrets lay in the delicate handwritten pages. Or maybe there were no secrets, just the daily monotony of a noblewoman married to a man she did not love.
Either way, he wanted to hear what she’d had to say.
So he held his tongue.
“You can try,” Lord St. Clair said softly, “but they will never have you. Blood runs true. It always does.”
“What do you mean by that?” Gareth asked, his tone carefully even. It was always difficult to tell whether his father was threatening him or just expounding upon his most favorite of subjects—bloodlines and nobility.
Lord St. Clair crossed his arms. “The Bridgertons,” he said. “They will never allow her to marry you, even if she is foolish enough to fancy herself in love with you.”
“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—
His arms pumped madly through the air, his fingers curling into furious claws. He clamped his teeth together to keep from screaming, but sounds emerged all the same, low and guttural.
Wounded.
He hated this. Dear God, why?
Why why why?
Why did the baron still have this sort of power over him? He wasn’t his father. He’d never been his father, and damn it all, Gareth should have been glad for that.
And he was. When he was in his right mind, when he could think clearly, he was.
But when they were face-to-face, and the baron was whispering all of Gareth’s secret fears, it didn’t matter.
There was nothing but pain. Nothing but the little boy inside, trying and trying and trying, always wondering why he was never quite good enough.
“I need to leave,” Gareth muttered, crashing through the door into the hall. He needed to leave, to get away, to not be with people.
He wasn’t fit company. Not for any of the reasons his father said, but still, he was likely to—
“Mr. St. Clair!”
He looked up.
Hyacinth.
She was standing in the hall, alone. The light from the candles seemed to leap against her hair, bringing out rich red undertones. She looked lovely, and she somehow looked…complete.
Her life was full, he realized. She might not have been married, but she had her family.
She knew who she was. She knew where she belonged.
And he had never felt more jealous of another human being than he did in that moment.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He didn’t say anything, but that never stopped Hyacinth. “I saw your father,” she said softly. “Down the hall. He looked angry, and then he saw me, and he laughed.”
Gareth’s fingernails bit into his palms.