His second thought was—how was he going to explain? Or rather, should he explain? But then again, maybe that wasn't what she wished to discuss at all.
But then, what did she wish to see him for?
He paced his aunt's parlor, no closer to a plan now that she was due to arrive at any moment than he had been the day before when she'd sent the missive.
Kit stopped by the mantel and forced himself to breathe. He supposed this was what it meant to be nervous.
He did not care for it.
For the past two days, he'd been in a state that Gage described as "insufferable" and the duchess described as "deeply unpleasant to be around." He'd spent so much time pacing, it was a wonder he hadn't worn a hole in the rug.
He'd also drafted letters to Clarissa. Four of them, in fact. And all four were currently in the rubbish. It had taken him four attempts before he'd realized that what he needed to say couldn't go in a letter.
He needed to see her face when he told her the truth about his father and Clementine.
There was every chance his explanation would make no difference.
Even if she believed him, the ton still thought the child was his. He was still a public scandal and a private mess, and he couldn't promise the mess would resolve itself quickly.
But he was hopeful.
Not that he was happy about the turn of events that had placed Clarissa in this predicament. But the day after he'd swept her out of the musicale and he'd understood the full extent of the rumors, he'd also understood that there was only one way to help her out of this mess.
He'd marry her himself. That would put an end to the rumors, and it would provide protection for her going forward.
His heart gave a jerk like it was trying to move ahead of him.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Yes, alright, he wanted to marry her. It wasn't just about her reputation, it was about wanting to protect her. Wanting her in his life. Wanting…
Everything. He wanted everything with Clarissa.
He'd known it for ages, he supposed. It should have been obvious when he'd grown so jealous of Lord Hartley, or when he'd ached to pull her into his arms every time she was near. But he hadn't let himself admit it, because…
Well, because she hadn't wanted him. And he'd been so set against marriage to avoid following in his parents' footsteps.
But that was before he'd met Clarissa. Someone so genuine and kind who he could actually see himself sharing his life with. And once he'd seen it—once he'd allowed himself to see—there was no possible way to unsee it.
Looking at Clarissa meant seeing the future he'd never dared dream for himself. The sort of loving partnerships he hadn't thought possible. Not for him, at least.
But now…
Well, now everything was different, wasn't it? She needed him. And he was fairly certain she liked him. As a friend, at least. And that was a start. He could work with that. If she agreed to give him a chance, he'd have all the time in the world to win her heart.
If she agreed. He turned on his heel and began pacing again. If. He ran a hand through his hair and just barely held back a groan. Would she believe him if he told her everything? Would she understand?
Was it right of him to ask her to be his wife without denying the mistress rumors?
He still didn't know. Really, all he knew was that he'd been a fool to think he could walk away from Clarissa. He'd been delusional if he'd ever believed he could stand on the sidelines and watch her marry another. So he had to try, at the very least.
And Clarissa had asked to see him. That was something. Wasn't it?
"She's here." The duchess's voice came from the doorway, and he spun around so quickly he nearly toppled.
His breathing grew labored as if he'd broken into a run, when really he just stood there gaping at his aunt.
She arched her brows. "Are you sure about this?"
