His lips pressed together, and he whispered, "Celia, you deserve so much better than me, I assure you. Good day."
He slid his hands from hers and hurried out to his carriage, leaving her alone in the foyer. But as she watched him thunder off into the street, she felt uncertain. He had reassured her, yes, but there was something in his demeanor that made her wonder if the future she'd dared to hope for was truly out of reach.
Chapter Sixteen
Clairemont swung down off his horse and climbed the stairs two by two. It took everything in him not to rip the door before him off its hinges. Instead, he knocked, though it was not gently.
A man with a black eye opened the door and he looked Clairemont up and down. "May I help you?"
"I'm here to see Mr. Fitzgilbert," he managed through clenched teeth as he handed over his card. "Tell him the Duke of Clairemont is here and that I will not be kept waiting."
"Yes, Your Grace," the servant said, opening the door wide. "Will you adjourn to the parlor?"
He motioned to a room to the side. Clairemont strode inside and looked around. It was a cold room, both physically and due to its lack of trinkets or portraits. Oh, there was expensive furniture, of course, but nothing to reveal the character of its owner.
Not that Clairemont needed that extra information. He already knew what a bastard his host was.
"Your Grace."
Clairemont spun to face the voice at the door, and stared. "Mr. Fitzgilbert, I presume?" he asked, surprised to find such a slight, white-haired old man awaiting him. He'd built Fitzgilbert up to be a monster in his head.
In that moment, he realized he'd actually pictured him as the man who'd raised him. But this person was nothing like that brute. At least not on the outside.
"The very one." There was a joviality to his tone, but it was false. Clairemont saw the greedy glitter in his eyes, the needy longing he'd sometimes seen in men on the streets who would steal or even kill to get what they want.
Of course, those men were trying to survive. This man had that look merely because he wanted to advance in Society. Which made him a monster of a different sort.
"I wasn't expecting company," Fitzgilbert said, motioning to a chair before the fire. "Especially a duke to whom I have not been officially introduced. But I welcome you here. Would you like tea? Or perhaps brandy?"
"Nothing," Clairemont said, remaining standing. He had come here with the intention to use his skills and parry with this man, but now that he was here, his emotions were taking over. He was angry, he was vengeful, he was protective in a way he'd never experienced before. He clenched his fists at his sides and fought for control as he snapped, "And you needn't pretend as though you don't know exactly why I'm here. And on whose behalf."
Fitzgilbert's face pinched, and suddenly he looked very rat-like. "If you are referring to your courtship of my granddaughter Celia, yes, I am aware of that fact. If you came to seek my approval, I give it wholeheartedly. With provisions, of course."
Clairemont folded his arms. "Oh yes, Celia told me all about your provisions."
Fitzgilbert's eyes widened and he shook his head. "Stupid, stupid girl. She had just one duty. One duty on this earth, and she cannot even manage that."
Clairemont reached out and, without preamble, caught Fitzgilbert by the throat. Lifting him off the ground, he growled, "Disparage Celia's intelligence again and there will be nothing left of you but a stain on your rug. Do I make myself clear?"
Fitzgilbert clawed at his hands as he wheezed out, "Yes."
Slowly Clairemont set him down and then wiped his hand on his jacket. Fitzgilbert bent over, coughing and choking for breath.
"You're as violent as Rosalinde's husband," he said, his voice strained.
Clairemont shrugged. "You should know. I've done nothing more to you than you already did to your own granddaughter."
Fitzgilbert straightened, and he seemed to have regained some composure. "Celia told you all of it, did she?"
"Every. Single. Bit," Clairemont said, moving toward him a step and enjoying how Fitzgilbert flinched back. "If I had been in Danford's position that day, I would have killed you where you stood for daring to lay a hand on the woman I loved. If you ever think to touch Celia, I will not be stopped. Is that clear?"
Fitzgilbert nodded. "It is. But if you've gotten all that out of your system, we are still left with an interesting quandary."
"Yes. You have information that Celia and her sister need." Clairemont shook his head. "You're going to give it to me now."
"Or what?" Fitzgilbert laughed, and it grated on Clairemont's spine. "You'll kill me? Do that and you'll never know the truth. You need me, Your Grace. And if you want to obtain what I have, then the deal I made with Celia is the only way to do it."
Clairemont pinched his lips. "Once we wed, you'll tell her the truth."
"And not a moment before."
He turned away. What this bastard couldn't know, what no one could know, was that he had no intention of marrying Celia. He was only masquerading as duke. The crown was giving him leeway for the investigation, but no one in the War Department would ever agree to let him truly wed her in the guise of Duke of Clairemont. That would leave her as duchess in the eyes of the world.
A complication that would never be accepted, even as the vision of Celia as his wife burned a hole in his chest.
"If we were engaged, why would that not be enough?" Clairemont asked, turning back. "I would make sure you had the access you require, that you would be invited and included in whatever you wished in the future."
Both of Fitzgilbert's eyebrows lifted. "And risk that the marriage won't go through? Look at Stenfax. She had him caught. Was only days away from becoming a countess, and she failed. I don't trust this will go any differently until you slip a ring on her finger. Though your moonfaced devotion to her certainly makes me think she has a better chance at success this time around."
Clairemont stiffened. He'd always been good and hiding his emotions, but before an enemy he'd just revealed himself. A dangerous prospect.
"What can I offer you to give the information now?" he asked.
"Why are you so determined?" Fitzgilbert asked. "You intend to marry her, I assume. You are publicly courting her. Why not just do the deed and let the information come as it may?" He leaned forward. "Unless you have no intention of making her your bride? Did her telling you about her father turn you from your pursuit? Haven't had the bollocks to tell her you don't want to make a bastard daughter of a no one into a duchess? Is this your attempt at softening the blow?"
The control Clairemont had been fighting for throughout the meeting now snapped in two. He cocked back his fist and swung, connecting squarely across Fitzgilbert's cheekbone and sending him staggering to the floor.
"Did I soften the blow enough?" he growled as the older man struggled to get up. "Celia's history doesn't mean a goddamned thing to me, Fitzgilbert. But I will have the information I seek. How much you benefit from it will be entirely up to you."
He turned on his heel and stalked from the room, from the house, without looking back. Mostly he left to keep from unleashing the street tough inside him and killing the bastard in his own parlor. But as he swung up on his horse and began to ride, all the bravado, all the anger, melted away.
What it left behind was like acid in his veins.
Celia had confessed her past to him. She had done it because she couldn't bear to lie to him, to use him to further herself. And yet he was doing exactly the same to her. Worse, in fact. His lies could destroy her in every way. His lies would ultimately break her heart, there was no way around it.
Oh, perhaps he could help her by giving her the information she sought regarding her father, but would that lessen the blow when he was gone-dead, in her eyes? Would it make his life any less empty once he was back to being John Dane or whatever character was next in the long line of false identities that punctuated his War Department career?
He knew it wouldn't. And it was all because of one fact that had become perfectly clear today: he was in love with Celia Fitzgilbert. Entirely, completely and utterly in love with her. He wanted her in his life forever, to know her in every way and to share with her all of even the darkest parts of himself. He knew by instinct that her light would heal those things.
But she wasn't in love with him. No, she was in love with Clairemont. A man who didn't exist. A man John Dane would tear away from her in a blinding moment of pain and destruction.
A blinding moment that would kill some part of him just as much as it killed the false Clairemont. And he would never be the same. Not when he lost her at last.
And there was not a damn thing he could do about any of it.
Celia let her fingers dance over the pianoforte keys, but she heard the stumbles in the notes and winced. It was nearly impossible to concentrate lately and her playing suffered. As did her sewing and all other activities she attempted to participate in. Even Felicity had mentioned she was distracted when they shared tea this afternoon.
But now she was alone and happy for it. At least she could pound at the keys and try not to think about the subject of all her fantasies and fears: Aiden.