Free A Scandalous Secret by Beth Andrews Page A

him.’
    ‘It sounds very much like the kind of coil you’d have got yourself into at his age! What’s the boy like?’
    Dominick leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes as he concentrated on his mental image of Nicky. ‘He is the most engaging little imp imaginable - pluck to the backbone. I’d have known him for her son anywhere. Those eyes—’ He stopped, aware of the disturbing turn his thoughts had taken, and that he was in danger of forgetting both his aunt and the boy.
    ‘I suppose he has his mother’s golden hair, as well?’ Aunt Winnie asked. ‘You did say she was fair-haired, didn’t you?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said, his mouth twisting bitterly. ‘But I suppose the lad must take after his father in that respect. His hair is chestnut-coloured.’
    The words were scarcely out of his mouth when his aunt, who had been sitting stiffly in her chair, leaned towards him. Her eyes fixed upon him like a hawk at a snake. It was her odd manner which stopped his words even before she spoke.
    ‘Chestnut hair?’ she croaked. ‘Did you say chestnut hair?’
    ‘Why, yes.... Whatever is the matter, Aunt?’ He was genuinely concerned now, for she was more agitated than he had seen her in many years.
    ‘Dominick,’ she answered presently, drawing in her breath sharply before she continued, ‘how old did you say this child is?’
    He frowned, perplexed by her unusual curiosity about such details. ‘I believe he is just over seven years.’
    ‘And precisely how long ago was it,’ she persisted, in rather grim tones, ‘that you met the countess?’
    ‘It is almost eight years—’ he began, then stopped. He felt his cheeks grow warm as he realized the import of Aunt Winnie’s pointed questions. ‘Aunt!’ he cried. ‘You surely cannot mean to suggest... Why, it is impossible!’
    She leaned closer to him, her gaze more penetrating than ever. ‘Is it, Dominick?’ she asked. ‘Tell me honestly. Is it impossible for him to be your son as well as hers?’
    He sat perfectly still for a long moment. His thoughts rolled over one another like tumblers at a circus. Indeed it was not impossible; and, as the image of little Nicky’s features grew stronger within his mind, so too did the conviction that it was not only possible, but all too probable, that the earl’s chestnut hair was in fact inherited from his father. Dominick Markham.
    ‘Oh my God!’ he groaned. He buried his face in his hands, attempting to control his emotions.
    ‘Well, I suppose I have my answer.’
    He looked up at Aunt Winnie’s stern countenance, unsure if shame or astonishment were uppermost in his mind. ‘I am sorry, Aunt,’ he managed at last. ‘But it never occurred to me, even for a moment, that my ... connection ... with the countess could have resulted in anything such as ... That is, I—’
    The old lady’s features softened somewhat as she perceived her nephew’s evident distress. ‘There’s no need to explain, Dominick,’ she said. ‘You are a man, after all, and you’ve always had more than your share of good looks. You can’t help but attract the girls, and I did not suppose that you’ve lived the life of a monk. As for the woman - I can hardly call her a lady! - who encouraged you in such behaviour.... Well, I will say no more on that head.’
    ‘Thank you, Aunt Winnie.’ Dominick was grateful for her restraint in that quarter. For some reason, he could not bear for anyone to speak ill of the countess, even though his own thoughts about her were far from flattering. ‘It is all in the past now, and to blame either of us is so much wasted time.’
    Winifred Trottson sat erect and unwinking in her chair. ‘Deciding the portion of blame between you may be useless,’ she agreed, ‘but, though your affair with the countess is in the past, your son is very much in the present.’
    ‘If he is indeed my son. At the moment, this is all conjecture. The truth could be quite otherwise.’
    ‘What do you believe,