Page 81 of Notorious

“Yes, of course.” A chill shot up her spine at his cold, polite tone.

“What I am about to say will no doubt surprise and displease you. However, it cannot be helped.”

Drusilla stirred a bit of milk into her final cup of tea and waited, her body becoming tenser by the second.

“I have a son.”

Her spoon clattered against the porcelain teacup and her head whipped up. He was looking at her with that haughty, distant expression she was beginning to hate.

“I b-beg your pardon?” The words came out a croak. She cleared her throat. “Did you say you had a son?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him, looking for signs of... anything. But he was as readable as a brick wall.

“He is not yet six and his name is Samir.” He watched her closely, and she couldn’t help wondering what her face looked like; what was he seeing? “When we move to the country at the end of the Season, I intend that he will go with us—that he will live with us at Sizemore.”

Drusilla suddenly recalled Visel—and his sly questions about Gabriel’s family—did he know about this? He must; that must have been what he meant.

Dear God—was the child one of the French actresses’?

The room was quiet but for the ticking of the longcase clock behind her and the faint sounds of street noises. He took another sip of coffee. She had to ask—had to.

“And his mother?” Her voice broke on the last word, and she felt her face heat. “Will she be living with us, too?” She hadn’t meant to say that.

His high, sharp cheekbones flushed. “His mother is dead.” His grim expression told her that was all she’d get out of him on that subject.

She swallowed—something she seemed to be doing constantly—her mind beginning to function again, beginning to whir, in fact. No, the child could not belong to one of his mistresses. She had been foolish. If the boy was almost six, Gabriel could not have been much more than a boy himself when his son was conceived. In fact, he must have been in Oran and—

“He is only recently arrived in England and he does not speak English very well. He is, however, conversant in French.”

“He is in London?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . where is he?”

His nostrils flared slightly. “He is with friends for now.”

She looked down at the table, to where her hand was turning her unused fork over and over and over in place. If the boy wasn’t at Exley House or here—where was he? Drusilla could not bring herself to ask.

“He has a nurse he is fond of and she will come with him. The schoolroom and nursery at Sizemore are both remote from the rest of the house. He will be close enough for me to see him as much as possible, but not so close as to cut up your peace.”

His words rendered her mute. Did he really mean what he’d just said? Could he believe she was so . . . cold?

“I know this is unconventional, but it is likely he has no other immediate family, and—even if he does—I wish to keep him with me.”

Drusilla stared down at the fork.

He had a child. A child he loved enough to insist on bringing him into their home. He was not asking her permission; he was telling her.

“I hope your silence does not mean this will present a problem for you?”

She looked up, bristling at his haughty expression and commanding tone. How dare he drop such a bomb on her and expect a quick and thoughtful response?

How dare he assume the worst of her only because of her silence?

“And if it was a problem, Mr. Marlington?”