He forced himself to breathe slowly. He wouldn’t shake before his father. After all, he was the future duke. Dukes didn’t shake.
Or so he had thought.
His father snapped his gaze toward him, his dark eyes wide, his handsome face strained. “Who are you?” he asked, his brow furrowing.
His mother gasped, a barely audible sound.
James felt sick. He would have thought his father was making some horrible jest, but the question was in earnest.
“Papa,” James said softly. “It is I, your son.”
“Impossible. Do not lie. What is this trickery?” he bit out. “My son is upstairs in the nursery.”
James swallowed, his throat going dry. Had his father gone mad?
His mother let out a note of concern, a plaintive cry, as if her world were coming undone. “My love,” she insisted.“It is James.”
His father swung his gaze back and forth again. “More lies. The two of you are in a league together? James is but a baby, and you are the worst of women for behaving like such a Jezebel when you are a new mother.”
James and his mother exchanged a slow glance.
Fear shone in her eyes…as he knew it shone in his.
Something was truly amiss. But before either of them could offer more assurances or make some sort of plan, his father stormed across the salon toward James.
The duke’s hands curled into hammer-like fists, and he raised them. “I will toss you out or call for the bailiffs. You are clearly an interloper here to assist this whore.”
His mother raced across the room and put herself between the two of them.
His father let out a feral growl, grabbed her, then pushed her up against the wall, placing his hand at her throat. “You think you can fool me? You think you can trick me?”
James’s heart pounded wildly against his chest at the sight of his father gripping his mother’s slender throat.
“Cease, Papa!” James shouted.
But his father ignored him. As he tightened his grip, his mother clawed at his hold with frantic hands.
James raced to the fireplace, grabbed up a poker, lifted it, and rushed toward his father.
Tears filled his eyes as he swung his arms back. He was going to have to hit him.
And he did. He was careful not to strike with the points but to let the rounded barrel strike the back of his head.
His father let out a cry of outrage before he staggered, his hands dropping to his side. He blinked, reached back to touch his head, then fell to his knees. Slowly, he swayed then fell to the floor.
His eyes fluttered closed.
His mother let out a cry of horror. Her hands were at her own reddened throat as she gasped now for air.
She made her way forward on shaking legs, then took James’s free hand in her own. “Oh, James… Thank you, my love. I am so sorry you had to do that, but thank you.”
“M-Mama,” he stuttered. “I do not know what is happening.”
Was he dead? His vision swam with tears, and he blinked them away.
He could not believe that he’d had to do such a thing, but now his father was splayed out on the floor.
She dropped down beside the duke and studied him. “He’s breathing. We must call for the doctor at once. Something is terribly wrong with your father. I do not know what it is.”