But it was her eyes that looked the most changed. There was a desperation there, a strange discomfort that did not belong.

And he realized that that was the thing about Hyacinth, the distinguishing characteristic that set her so apart from the rest of humanity. She was always at ease in her own skin. She knew who she was, and she liked who she was, and he supposed that was a large part of why he so enjoyed her company.

And he realized that she had—and she was—so many things he’d always wanted.

She knew her place in this world. She knew where she belonged.

She knew who she belonged with.

And he wanted the same. He wanted it with an intensity that cut right down to his soul. It was a strange, almost indescribable jealousy, but it was there. And it seared him.

“If you have any feeling for me whatsoever,” she said, “you will understand how bloody difficult this is for me, so for the love of God, Gareth, will you say something?”

“I—” He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to strangle him. Why had he asked her to marry him? There were a hundred reasons, a thousand. He tried to remember just what it was that had pushed the idea into his mind. It had come to him suddenly—he remembered that. But he didn’t recall exactly why, except that it had seemed the right thing to do.

Not because it was expected, not because it was proper, but just because it was right.

And yes, it was true that it had crossed his mind that it would be the ultimate win in this never-ending game with his father, but that wasn’t why he’d done it.

He’d done it because he’d had to.

Because he couldn’t imagine not doing it.

Because he loved her.

He felt himself slide, and thank God the desk was behind him, or he’d have ended up on the floor.

How on earth had this happened? He was in love with Hyacinth Bridgerton.

Surely someone somewhere was laughing about this.

“I’ll go,” she said, her voice breaking, and it was only when she reached the door that he realized he must have been silent for a full minute.

“No!” he called out, and his voice sounded impossibly hoarse. “Wait!” And then:

“Please.”

She stopped, turned. Shut the door.

And he realized that he had to tell her. Not that he loved her—that he wasn’t quite ready to reveal. But he had to tell her the truth about his birth. He couldn’t trick her into marriage.

“Hyacinth, I—”

The words jammed in his throat. He’d never told anyone. Not even his grandmother. No one knew the truth except for him and the baron.

For ten years, Gareth had kept it inside, allowed it to grow and fill him until sometimes it felt like it was all that he was. Nothing but a secret. Nothing but a lie.

“I need to tell you something,” he said haltingly, and she must have sensed that this was something out of the ordinary, because she went very still.

And Hyacinth was rarely still.

“I—My father…”

It was strange. He’d never thought to say it, had never rehearsed the words. And he didn’t know how to put them together, didn’t know which sentence to choose.

“He’s not my father,” he finally blurted out.

Hyacinth blinked. Twice.

“I don’t know who my real father is.”

Still, she said nothing.

“I expect I never will.”

He watched her face, waited for some sort of reaction. She was expressionless, so completely devoid of movement that she didn’t look like herself. And then, just when he was certain that he’d lost her forever, her mouth came together in a peevish line, and she said:

“Well. That’s a relief, I must say.”

His lips parted. “I beg your pardon.”

“I wasn’t particularly excited about my children carrying Lord St. Clair’s blood.” She shrugged, lifting her brows in a particularly Hyacinthish expression. “I’m happy for them to have his title—it’s a handy thing to possess, after all—but his blood is quite another thing. He’s remarkably bad-tempered, did you know that?”

Gareth nodded, a bubble of giddy emotion rising within him. “I’d noticed,” he heard himself say.

“I suppose we’ll have to keep it a secret,” she said, as if she were speaking of nothing more than the idlest of gossip. “Who else knows?”

He blinked, still a little dazed by her matter-of-fact approach to the problem. “Just the baron and me, as far as I’m aware.”

“And your real father.”

“I hope not,” Gareth said, and he realized that it was the first time he’d actually allowed himself to say the words—even, really, to think them.

“He might not have known,” Hyacinth said quietly, “or he might have thought you were better off with the St. Clairs, as a child of nobility.”

“I know all that,” Gareth said bitterly, “and yet somehow it doesn’t make it feel any better.”

“Your grandmother might know more.”

His eyes flew to her face.

“Isabella,” she clarified. “In her diary.”

“She wasn’t really my grandmother.”

“Did she ever act that way? As if you weren’t hers?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said, losing himself to the memories. “She loved me. I don’t know why, but she did.”

“It might be,” Hyacinth said, her voice catching in the oddest manner, “because you’re slightly lovable.”

His heart leapt. “Then you don’t wish to end the engagement,” he said, somewhat cautiously.