A Wicked Conceit by Anna Huber (e novels to read TXT) 📕

murmured, struggling to hold back the emotion clogging my throat at witnessing his pain and disenchantment.

His gaze remained trained on the rug, and for a long moment he didn’t speak, though he did shift his arm to wrap it around me loosely. I pressed my forehead to his neck, feeling the bristles of facial hair along his jaw. Tears pricked at the back of my eyes, followed by a flush of anger, hot and sharp, that Lord Gage should have done this to him. To his mother.

But then I inhaled a deep breath of Gage’s skin and spicy cologne, and tempered my thoughts. What was done was done, and undoing it would only undo Henry’s existence. That was a thought too cruel. However, I did curse Lord Gage for being so bloody secretive. If he’d only told his son years ago rather than keeping it from him, some of this anguish could have been avoided. And Henry and Gage might already have established a relationship.

Every time Gage thought he had found himself on steady ground with his father, something occurred to prove it was naught but a shaky foundation. Like the parable of the foolish man who built his house upon sand. Except Gage wasn’t accountable for his father’s deception, even if he did feel like a fool every time his trust in him was revealed to be undeserved.

“How long have you known?”

The hollow tone of his voice cut me to the quick, and the tears I’d been fighting spilled down my cheeks. I knew I couldn’t lie to him, though the impulse was still there to protect him, to protect myself. “Since the day we caught Lord John,” I admitted, though forcing the words out made me feel as if I were going to vomit.

No emotion registered on his face, and he had not yet looked at me, so I made myself continue.

“I . . . I’d heard the speculation about the duchess’s younger children, and then I recognized the resemblance between Henry and your father. And you,” I added shakily, seeing his jaw harden as it had when we were confronting Kirkcowan.

“And so you asked him?” he managed to query in an even voice that was all the more unsettling for the roughness around the edges.

“More or less,” I replied quietly.

“And yet you didn’t tell me!” He turned to me then, his eyes blazing with such fury that I shrank away from him.

“I . . .”

“I already know that Henry made you promise to let him tell me. That Father is apparently in possession of some damning secrets that secured the duchess’s and Henry’s silence until now. But fiend seize it, Kiera! I am your husband. Your loyalty should be to me.”

“I know. You’re right,” I sobbed. “I’m sorry. But I knew how much you adored your mother, and you’d . . . you’d just reconciled with your father . . . and I knew how much this would hurt you. And I . . .” I hiccupped “. . . I just couldn’t seem to bring myself to tell you.”

He shook his head angrily, sweeping aside all of my excuses. “You should have told me!”

I nodded, swiping at my cheeks, even as my gaze remained watchful, my muscles tense. “Yes. Yes, you’re right, Sebastian.”

Gage saw all this. Saw the way I was shrinking into myself. And he hurdled to his feet, rounding on me.

I instinctively jerked away from him, fear flooding me and driving out all other thought.

“I am not Sir Anthony!” he roared. “How many times must I tell you that?”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry,” I blubbered. “I can’t help it!”

“Did you think I would hurt you?”

“I . . . no. No!” Not in my rational mind. But Gage could read between the lines.

His face twisted with rage and agony, and he whirled away, striding toward the dressing room.

“Sebastian,” I called after him. “Sebastian, wait!”

But he was already gone, slamming the door behind him.

I sat staring at the offending portal, trembling with grief and despair. I had doubly hurt him, and worse, I had destroyed his trust. If only I’d ignored Henry’s request. If only I’d not been so cowardly and timid. But it was too late now.

I collapsed into the bed and wept bitter, disconsolate tears.

•   •   •

I didn’t see Gage again until the next morning while I was seated in the morning room where we took our breakfast, gazing out the French doors, my toast and cup of warm chocolate barely touched. Though my appetite had been ravenous for most of my pregnancy, I found that it had deserted me overnight. The sun shone brightly down on our little garden, but that only seemed to cast my own circumstances even more in the shade. I wanted to shake myself for entertaining such gloomy thoughts. When my husband suddenly appeared in the doorway, I clasped my hands tightly in my lap to stop myself from rushing over to him.

He hesitated for a moment before approaching the table. “Good morning,” he stated politely.

So at least I wasn’t to be punished with silence.

“Good morning,” I replied, matching his even tone, and then forced myself to pick up my cup and take a sip.

He selected a newspaper from the stack on the table, opened it, and began reading. Though his actions were not so different from those he performed every morning, they felt altogether irregular. There was no warmth, no ease. And that made my toast as dry and tasteless as ash on my tongue, and my chocolate as thick and cloying as syrup.

Whether the servants were aware of our disagreement was answered by Jeffers’s reticent glances as he brought Gage his usual breakfast of sausages, a hot roll, eggs, and cheese, and then quickly withdrew. First Bree and Anderley, and now me and Gage. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jeffers soon gave notice.

Seeing that Gage was determined to remain absorbed in his paper, I stifled a sigh and resumed my study of the garden in between obligatory bites of my breakfast. I had managed to choke down one slice of bread and was considering abandoning the other