Kit nodded and turned to Clementine. "I'll send word about the passage as soon as it's confirmed."
"Thank you, my lord." Her voice was small. "I'm sorry. For all of it."
He wanted to tell her, again, that none of this was her fault. That the man who should be sitting in this chair, making these arrangements, paying these bills, was currently playing cards at a gentlemen's club and pretending she didn't exist.
The duke had the means to settle this generously and decently, and had chosen not to. For his father, a girl like Clementine was just a passing diversion. And he'd already grown bored with her before she came to be with child.
So he'd turned her away, claiming she was lying about who the father was. Really, he just cared about appearances. And for a duke who was well known for his high morals, a mistress and bastard child were not to be tolerated, let alone coddled.
But Kit didn't have the heart to remind Clementine of whose fault this was. It only made him angry and her tearful, and it did no one any good.
And besides, the duchess's note was burning a hole in his pocket.
"Take care of yourself," he said instead.
The walk to the duchess's townhouse took twenty minutes. He used every one of them to prepare.
The rumors were out. He didn't know how the ton had gotten wind of it, but his aunt would have heard. She would want answers.
He supposed he could tell her the truth—that his father had abandoned a girl half his age who he'd sworn to protect.
But what difference would that make? In the eyes of society, it would be his word against his father's. Besides, he'd already made his decision to take responsibility. So what did it matter if he actually fathered the child. In the end, it was his decision and he would not waver now.
Even so…
The duchess's townhome came into view and his steps slowed.
Kit could handle the ton's contempt. But his aunt's disappointment was something else entirely. Aunt Philippa was the one person whose good opinion he didn't wish to lose. And he was about to walk into her study and lie to her face. Again.
The butler admitted him. "Her Grace is in the parlor, my lord. She asked me to tell you she has a guest."
Kit paused in the foyer. "A guest."
"Yes, my lord." The butler's stony expression said no more information would be forthcoming.
Kit straightened his cuffs and pushed open the parlor door.
His aunt was seated in her usual chair, teacup in hand. She looked up when he entered. "Ah," she said. "Just in time."
She gestured to the settee opposite her, and Kit's gaze followed the gesture to the woman sitting there. He stopped short.
Clarissa.
She was holding a teacup and wearing a pale gown. Her hair was pulled back simply, and she was…smiling.
The smile was worse than any amount of shouting or accusations. It was small and polite and painfully formal.
It was, in short…a mask. And he hated it.
He willed her to meet his eyes, but when she did, it only made him feel worse. Her dark eyes met his, but there was no spark of mischief and laughter. They were dark and flat, and completely shuttered.
"Lord Stratton," Clarissa said, her tone polite but distant. She might as well have been addressing a stranger.
"Lady Clarissa." He bowed, because what else could he do. "How lovely to see you."
The words tasted like ash. What he ought to do was apologize. He knew that. From the moment he'd first gotten wind of the rumor, he'd known what it would mean for Clarissa.
She'd been made out to be a fool. Again. And this time it was all his fault.
