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“My father was nothing like that. He was...” He searched for a word.
She lifted the letter in her hand. “I know him.”
“You do,” he agreed. “That letter—it was the heart of him. And I was too angry to see it. I was so furious with him—I blamed him for lying to us. For telling us at all. For burdening me with the truth—and the knowledge that if anyone found out, it would mark us forever.”
“But it wouldn’t. They were married when you were born. You were his son.” She paused. “Are. Youarehis son.”
“He died three years after he told me. And I was still angry. Because his secrets were mine, and they made me a fraud.”
“They most certainly didnot,” Adelaide said, the words loud enough to startle him. He met her eyes, flashing with frustration and righteous outrage. “I think they made you more a duke than any of the others who wander the halls of the House of Lords. I think they made you strong and noble and kind and decent.” The words were soft, but full of steel, as though if anyone wandered in to disagree, Adelaide would happily hand him his head before seeing him out. “I think you have spent a lifetime trying to prove that you were worthy of a title that is nothing close to worthy of you. And I think the man who wrote this letter would be so very proud of you, Henry Carrington, Duke of Clayborn. Son. And brother. Prince among men.”
She was magnificent in her anger, and it occurred to Henry that anyone who had Adelaide on his side—in battle or in life—would be immensely lucky.
“I am sorry that he was not able to see what you would become,” she said, reaching for him, tracing over his skin, down his arm to his hand, where she laced her fingers through his, the movement full of all the truth the words carried.
He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing kisses along her knuckles. “Thank you.”
She let him linger for a moment, watching him worship her hands, before adding, “The only thing I do not understand is why you will not marry.”
“Adelaide, the storm that would come for me in that scenario—I would not lose the title, but I would lose everything else. Reputation. Community. Respect. Any woman would regret loving me when it came.”
“Why, because the world might think you less a duke, because your father was more a man?”
“That’s not all of it.”
“Tell me the rest,” she said, fairly vibrating with her affront. He reached for her, drawn to her fury on his behalf, his fingers sliding into the curls that made her an avenging angel.
“When I was ten, Jack was born. He is the image of my father.”
She stilled, immediately understanding. “Henry.”
“No—” he said. “I know what you will say.”
“And you should hear it.You are Clayborn.The law says it. Your parents were wed when you were born. Your father claimed you as his. That makes you legitimate.” She brandished the letter. “This man—he would have wanted you to claim it.”
“You misunderstand,” he said softly. “It is not that my father did not wish me for heir. He did. He was the best of men—and I never for a moment doubted his love, which is why I was so angry when he told me the truth. He never cast me out. I cast myself out.”
She shook her head. “Why?”
“Because Jack...” He sighed, searching for the right words. “I do not pass it to him because of the circumstances of my birth. I pass it because of the circumstances of his.” He looked away from her. “He istheirs. Born of love. Is that not the best way to continue the line?”
“Henry,” she said softly, reaching for him, holding him tight. “He was born of their love, and you were raised in it.” She kissed him, soft and sweet. Still there, surrounding him, even now, with his secrets revealed. “And what of that? Do you not deserve children born of love?”
Those babies again. That collection of fire-haired, bespectacled little girls. A serious boy or two in the mix. Something tightened in his chest. “I did not think much of them until recently. Until you.”
Something flashed in her enormous brown eyes.Something soft and quickly shuttered. “I have thought of them recently, too.” She pressed her lips to his again, then whispered, “But I cannot promise you children. All I can promise you is myself. For as long as it suits us both.”
It was an offer. She’d made it before.
Marriage isn’t the only path.
“And what, we hide from the world?”
To his surprise, she laughed. “I have only ever hidden from the world, Henry.” He didn’t like that, but before he could say so, she pressed on. “Think of it. We would be harming no one, and I cannot think it immoral for two adults who want one another to have one another. I do not need a benefactor: no money need change hands. I have my own income, work I do not wish to part with—a world to change from Covent Garden.”
Her girls. Her shield-maidens.
“And you...” she continued. “You’ve a wide world to change from Parliament. And this way—we can taste all of it.”
