No one made him take Silas in, but he had. His grandfather must care for him deep down. They were blood, after all. Silas had told himself this. He had believed it. Until that day.
Something had snapped inside him that afternoon in his mother’s girlhood room. As he had absorbed every painful whack, every panted curse, his eyes had finally opened to the truth. His grandfather’s expletives rained down on him with every blow.
Bastard. Filthy bastard. Devil’s spawn. I told you to stay out of her chamber. It should be her here. Not you. Not you! You should never have been born, you wretched cur.
If he stayed, he would die. That realization had materialized clearly in his mind. It was not a probability. It was fact.
His grandfather was not family in the true and proper sense. Family did not do the things his grandfather did. Silas had left that day, never to return. He had limped off, battered and bleeding from the house. The streets were safer for him than living under his grandfather’s roof. He had made his own way. He had thrived, in fact, but he had never forgotten the lessons of his youth.
Which brought him here to this moment, to this woman—and the mistake he very well could have made.
In all his years of being cautious, it had come to this. He had been reckless, careless, and he could not leave her without knowing if their one night of indiscretion had resulted in a child.
A child he would never abandon.
He could not walk away from her until all of this was settled between them.
“I am not carrying your child,” she choked out into the humming quiet of the orangery. And yet he did not miss how her hand went to her stomach, as though verifying for herself, as though the simple touch could confirm or deny this.
“You can’t know that yet.” He arched an eyebrow. “Unless in the three days since we last met, you have . . .”
“I will not discuss anything so personal with you!” She crossed her arms, folding them over her chest as though in need of the sudden barrier. She was so unlike the woman he remembered from his rooms who had pounced upon him. That woman lacked self-consciousness. There had been no modesty to her. Not like the lass before him who was all demureness and looked ready to flee.
He chuckled. “You won’t discuss anything so personal with me?” He moved closer. He inhaled the sweet scent of oranges, wondering if that came from the trees or her. “And yet you would share your person with me.”
Her hands rubbed her arms as though she were suddenly cold.
“It’s simple,” he continued. “When you are assured that you are not with child, I will leave. Not a moment sooner.”
She shook her head in frustration. “It was just the once—”
“It’s only ever just the once. That’s the way it works.”
“Of course,” she snapped. “I know that. I do not need a lesson on procreation from you.”
“Then you should understand this.”
“I do. And you will soon see all of this is unnecessary.”
“Perhaps.” He angled his head. “If it’s not, then . . .” He stopped himself with a single shake of his head. Time enough to talk about that later. If needed.
An air of wariness came over her. “If not then . . . what?”
“We don’t need to talk about that yet.”
“No,” she said sharply. “I want to talk about it. Now, please.”
“Well.” He sighed. “If you are with child, I would be a father to that child. In every way.”
She stiffened. “Could you elaborate on that? What does that mean?”
“That means that I will take care of my child. And you, of course, as the mother of my child. That is the right thing to do.”
She pulled back as though he had struck her. “This is ridiculous! I will not be your mistress. We don’t even know each other.”
He blinked and gave a small shake of his head. “Ah. Yes. Indeed. I agree. I don’t think I mentioned you being my mistress.” Nor had he mentioned marriage, and that was quite deliberate. He had never seen a good marriage worth emulating. He was not about to enter into that state himself.
She sputtered. Even in the shadows he detected the deepening color in her face. Clearly he had embarrassed her.
“I do not require a mistress,” he added in a gentler tone. For some reason he felt sensitive of her feelings. “Just as I do not wish for a wife.” He might as well say that, too, lest there be any confusion on the matter. “But I will be in my child’s life. I will be a father to him and support you both in the process.”
“Him?”
“Or her,” he acknowledged.
She shook her head and released a shuddery sigh rife with frustration. “I will not have you in my life, lingering about, showing up whenever you like. How shall I explain your presence—”
“And how will you explain a babe growing in your belly?” he sharply countered. “The best solution would be for you to come to London with me. I will set you up in a house and provide for you and the child and—”
“No!” she snapped with a vigorous shake of her head. “I will not leave my home and go with you to be a kept woman, for that is how everyone will view me.”
“London is a large city. Such things are done there. No one will dare say a cross word—”
“I cannot! I have responsibilities here. People who need me!” She shook her head fiercely again, and he knew he was getting nowhere.
Her breath fell harshly. She fanned herself with a hand as though suddenly overheated. She was on the verge of panic, and he had the completely wild and unacceptable urge to take her in his arms and comfort her. Comfort her? Hellfire.
He had come here to confront her, to denounce her for the little thief she was. It should not be his impulse to comfort her. What was it this woman did to him? She made him forget himself.
He waved a hand in a placating gesture. “Let us just wait and see what happens. If you’re correct about your . . . condition, then we have nothing to worry about. Time will tell soon enough.”
She nodded jerkily in sudden agreement, taking a gulping breath. “Yes, yes. This is a moot conversation, and you shall soon see that.”
Moot for now, but if she carried his child he would not abandon her.
Whether she liked it or not, whether she wished him in her life or not, she would be stuck with him. He would be there for his child in all the ways he had longed for someone to be there for him, and the only way he could guarantee that was by bringing Miss Kittinger back with him to London where he could keep her and their child close.
She looked away from him then, off in the direction of the house, as though she could see through the glass walls of the orangery—as though she yearned to be there, inside her house and away from him. Apparently the notion of them forever bound together was a misery for her.
For some reason that stung. He was not accustomed to persuading women into keeping him around. If anything, he was the one who had to persuade the fairer sex that they were better off without him and not with him.
And yet here she was, casting him most vocally from her life.
A heavy sigh expelled from her. He recognized the sound for what it was. Acceptance. She would endure his presence here, even as much as she loathed it. Her next words only confirmed that. “What will I say to my family and staff about you? How will I explain your presence here?”