Her breath caught audibly. “You cannot,” she said, stricken. “You cannot.”
“Yet I intend to do so.”
She shook her head as if in a daze. “But why?”
Another unfamiliar sensation pricked at his chest. “I owe you no reason or an explanation.”
“You are not his father,” she snapped, balling her fist at her side. “You have no reason to be…to want to keep him! I am his aunt, I—”
She deflated, and tears pooled in her eyes, but she lifted her chin and attempted to stare him down, despite standing several inches shorter than Ethan. “I will fight you,” she promised, with a dark glint in her eyes.
“With what power?” Ethan meant no mockery. He was genuinely curious. Though she flinched, there was an air of undefeatable energy about her. There it was, in the slant of that lush, berry-red mouth…the lift of her chest, and how she braced her feet apart. She appeared young, yet Ethan inexplicably sensed she had been wounded, but had somehow emerged stronger. And that strength could stand toe-to-toe with him without cowering. He was unwillingly interested.
“I do not know how,” she whispered, “But I will. I make a mean enemy, Your Grace.”
Ethan released a long breath. Something that had been silenced a long time inside him, so much so, that it now felt unfamiliar, stirred. He mildly recognized it as interest, and with a flick of a mental hand, he slapped it aside.
“You will leave my home this instant, or I will have you tossed from it.”
Admiration rose inside him when she held onto her temper, turned, and walked away with a dignified air. Ethan summoned his housekeeper, who promptly arrived.
“Has she left?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“She is never to be allowed entrance again.” Ruthless and pragmatic, but that was the kind of man he had become, and he did not shy away from it. Still, he became conscious of a curious sensation in his stomach. It tasted like regret that he might never see her again. Another casual flick and Ethan closed the door on that inane thought. “I have a few letters to write that must be sent to my man of affairs and solicitor in London right away. Hire a nursemaid for the child, and prepare something that he might eat right away.”
Little Thomas.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He could feel his housekeeper’s curiosity, and wisely she knew better than to probe into his affairs. Still, he expected the rumors to spread through the town soon that he had a child, and the scandal sheets would add having a bastard to his many sins. Ethan could have asked the young girl who was the child’s mother, but he would not trust anything that came from her. He would have his man of affairs conduct a thorough investigation in the matter.
The child pumped its legs and made a warbling sound that tugged at a cold place deep inside Ethan. He reached down and took him from the bassinet, awkwardly holding him. As if he sensed someone new about him, the child stopped, and piercing gray eyes met Ethan’s gaze.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
It took him several moments to realize that the rushing sound in his ears was his own heartbeat. There was an odd weakness in his knees, and with almost jerky movements, he stumbled over to the large wingback chair by the fire and sat, holding the child in his arms.
“Thomas,” he said gruffly.
Clearly knowing his name, the boy twisted on his chest and peered up at Ethan.
A raw hiss slipped from him when he felt the burn at the back of his throat. He felt his lips twist, and that hollow place inside him yearned to reach for the decanter of brandy. With a sense of shock, Ethan realized the hovering burn must be tears. He had not cried when he had crawled, broken and bloodied, through the wreckage of the carriages and horses to find his friend amongst the rubble. He had not cried when he had found him and dragged him into his arms, holding him as he took his last breath. Nor had Ethan cried when his friend had been buried in his family’s crypt.
Yet seeing the silver-gray eyes, the bright blond hair, and that smile that belonged to Oscar, emotions Ethan had never felt before, careened through his soul with forceful intensity. Only last week, as he had snarled at the empty bottle of whisky, breathed through the sweet curling smoke-scent of opium, he had opened his bedroom window to let the rain lash at his skin, and to feel the energy of the storm raging around him. Ethan had lifted his head to the sky and snarled, ‘Redeem me of this endless guilt and pain.’
“I knew your father,” he said gruffly down at the boy. “He was my closet friend and every day I miss him. I vow you will be given the best life that he would have given you had he lived.”
The child smiled, and in its gentleness, Ethan spied redemption. He shifted, holding the boy to his chest, allowing a feeling of peace to steal through his heart and calm the tempest that had haunted him for two years and eleven days.
I have your son, Oscar, and I will help him grow into a man of whom you would be proud.