Every instinct told him to explain. To tell her about Clementine and his father. About the fact that the child wasn't his and never had been. The words were right there, choking him with the need to be let out.
But behind them was his father's voice. I will need to address the matter myself. And behind that, the image of Clementine's trembling hands and her frightened face.
Even if he swore Clarissa to secrecy, that would not change the fact that the rest of good society believed it. And she'd be made even more of a laughingstock if she stayed by his side after he'd made a fool of her… In their eyes, at least.
He swallowed the truth. "I never meant to hurt you. That's all I wanted to say."
She was quiet for a moment. "I know." She clamped her mouth shut, but a second later, she started again. "I know you didn't mean to, I mean. You're not cruel, Kit. Whatever else I might think, I never thought you were cruel."
The use of his given name hit him like a fist to the chest. And the rest nearly gutted him.
“I never thought you were cruel.” He wasn't entirely sure he'd even understood how much he'd needed to hear those words from her.
He might share his father's charming smile—but at least he was not cruel.
He found himself tucking those words away. But the words he'd been dying to say earlier welled up again, the explanations and justifications begging to come out.
He heard himself say, "Would it make a difference if I explained?"
She considered this. He watched her turn it over.
"No," she said quietly. "I don't think it would."
He nodded, swallowing down a pang of hurt.
Another silence fell, and that did not sit right. Not between them. He forced a bit of laughter into his voice. "How is your princess story coming along?"
Her smile flickered, but he was heartened to see that it reached her eyes. "Stalled, actually. I'm not sure how it ends."
"The princess could steal the villain's cape," he offered. "It worked well for the opera heroine."
Her lips twitched as she nodded. "The horse would undoubtedly approve of that plan. He hates capes."
"Who doesn't?" he shot back. "And what about the prince?"
Before she could answer, they heard her name being called from nearby. They both turned to see Lord Hartley with his mother, wearing eerily identical expressions of polite waiting.
"Oh. I had better…" She trailed off. "I just wanted—are you sure you're well? I saw… That is?—"
"I'm fine." He almost meant it. Because truly, her concern meant everything to him.
Letting her go, watching her walk away… That was the right thing to do. It was best for everyone. And yet, the moment she turned, he found himself calling after her, forcing her to pause.
"For what it's worth," he said, "the princess deserves a happy ending."
She looked back at him then. And she really looked at him, the way she had in those first weeks when she'd been trying to figure him out. He held her gaze and let her see whatever she needed to see. He was too tired to perform.
Whatever she found there made her breath catch. But then she took a deep breath and fixed him with a sweet, if sad, smile. "Goodbye, Kit."
He couldn't bring himself to fake a smile of his own. "Goodbye, Clarissa."
19
As Kit looked down the length of his aunt's dining room table, he found himself excessively grateful he'd accepted this invitation to supper.
He'd said no to another invitation to be here—mostly because he'd been aware that Clarissa would be at the other party, and he had no interest in watching her smile at Lord Hartley. But now, as he eyed this marvelously odd ensemble around him, he was particularly grateful he'd opted to join his aunt's small gathering instead.
Uncle James used to say that Philippa had a gift for collecting wounded birds. He'd said it with great fondness, because he'd been one of them—a shy, bookish duke who'd needed a wife bold enough to prod him into being the leader he was meant to be.
