Page 46 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

“Has Margaret said nothing to you?” Carlisle looked surprised. “She and I shared... a perplexing conversation on the way to The Stone Lion.”

“I suspected as much. But she admitted nothing to that effect herself.”

“She must care for you more than any woman has ever cared for any man. To reveal a secret in hopes of gaining affection and trust is one matter. It is another entirely to preserve the dignity and peace of the one she loves by keeping such a secret for herself...”

“Now that was almost in verse. What are you attempting to say, Carlisle?”

His uncle drew in a shaky breath.

“I know what you’ve been told. About your father, my brother, and the affair he entertained with Celeste Rousseau, the opera singer.

Your mother bore the brunt of society’s judgment, raising you single-handedly for years, until your father’s health diminished, and he sought you out to secure the future of his line. But... the truth is quite different.”

Alexander was silent for a moment before he asked, “Different how?”

“First, you must know—the existence of a sister, your sister, was not a fabrication of Ripley’s. She lived many years before your birth and was christened Isadore. But she did not survive her second year. Everything more you learned of her was a lie.”

Alexander had been right, but there was no joy in the revelation. There had been a child. But she had long been dead. A sister he could never hope to meet. He felt tears burn behind his eyes and quickly turned from his uncle, composing himself.

“How do you know this?” he asked.

Carlisle stepped toward him. Alexander turned. The letter was outstretched.

“Take this.”

“No.” Alexander shook his head, taking a step back. “Tell me yourself.”

Carlisle let his hand hang at his side. His jaw worked silently.

“Isadore was my daughter. The man who loved Celeste Rousseau was not Theodore Somerton. It was me.”

Alexander turned abruptly, could not think straight, and rubbed his temple, which burned .

“What?” he whispered.

“My brother was no philanderer. He was faithful to his wife until the day she died. I was never so honorable. My work was my life. And your mother... Love her though I did, she could not compete. I was young, impassioned—and I have regretted with my every breath that I did not make a wife of Celeste while I could. I thought there would always be more time for us, but there was not. When Theodore’s illness became apparent, he made clear that I would assume the duchy in his wake.

I refused, had no interest in relinquishing my way of life.

A duke could not have an opera singer for a lover.

A duke could not travel the world. So, I suggested, in a moment of desperation, that my bastard son should become heir instead of me.

Our stories collided, and my greatest transgressions soon became his in the eyes of the ton . ”

The words struck him harder than a blow. Alexander stared at Carlisle in incredulity.

“At that time, your existence was an open family secret. Theodore, I’m sure, abhorred me for not legitimizing my son while he possessed none of his own.

The irony—that you are more like him, honorable, than like me, dishonorable.

.. And yet I am your progenitor. You are my son and Celeste’s.

And I do love you like a son. I always have. ”

His uncle?—

Not his uncle...

Whatever Carlisle was, he watched silently as Alexander stared at him.

“This can’t be true.”

“It is, Alexander.”

“No. It makes no sense. You would have come forward, rather than allowing the memory of my father—Theodore—to rot while he was dead. You would not have done this to him.”

“I did. And I am sorry to you both.”

He meant it—every word. Alexander stepped back, a hand on the sundial.

“My whole life, you have fed me a lie.”

“Yes, and it shames me. But I have never been far from you. In all but name, I have been a father to you?—”

“You have not. You have misled me, misused me.”

“The duchy would have become yours one day.”

“But in the meantime, I...” Alexander closed his eyes. “My legitimacy is a lie. I am not the son of the real Duke of Langley. If this were exposed, it would mean my ruin.”

“No,” Carlisle rushed forward, clutching the letter. “This changes nothing. No one will know. You are as you were before.”

Alexander laughed miserably. “I will never be the same, and neither will you.” He balled his fist, shaking his head. “Leave for The Levant.”

“Alexander, please?—”

“I cannot bear to look at you. Leave.”

The wind stirred gently through the trees in the proceeding silence. Carlisle inclined his head in something between grief and surrender.

Alexander did not watch him go, his gaze fixed on the ground, fury and sorrow knotted so tightly within him he could barely breathe.

It was then he heard the hurried beat of steps. He turned angrily, expecting to see Carlisle. But Margaret was descending the manor steps, a pained look on her face. She ran to him over the terrace, down the steps, her presence coming like the dawn.

Beneath the shade of the tree, she threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly from behind, not speaking, not asking.

Alexander turned to face her, the weight of the world still heavy on his shoulders. But the sight of her—her eyes wide with concern, her hands reaching for him—anchored him. A gloved hand came to rest on his chest, and he covered it with his own.

“My love... I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He could not smile, not yet.

In her presence, something ancient and raw within him settled. There would be more to face—truths he could not yet acknowledge. But the woman before him had crossed more storms than one to stand at his side, and she had never wavered.

Alexander closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against hers.

Whatever Carlisle had been—the father, the uncle, the deceiver—it was Margaret who would shape the rest of his life.

And with her, there would always be hope.