The Count's Secret Child

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“You’re no one’s friend.”

“And all I want in return,” he said silkily, “is for you to stay here at the château until we get the results of a paternity test. Surely that is not so unreasonable?”

He felt her hesitate, felt her caught between her hatred for him and her love for her family. Slowly she lifted her eyes to his. They were hazel-green, like a cool, shadowy forest.

“Why are you doing this?” she said in a low voice. “We both know you have no interest in being a real father to Henry. You’ve barely looked at him—”

He held out his arms. “Give him to me.”

Instinctively she tightened her hold on the baby. Then she gave a sigh and, as he’d known she would, came toward him, her expression resigned. She hesitated, then gently placed the baby in his arms, against his chest.

“Lean back a bit,” she said anxiously. “Be sure to support his head—yes. Like that. Good.” She paused. “Have you ever held a baby before?”

“No.”

“So you’re a natural,” she said softly. She looked from Théo to the baby in his arms, and a smile traced her pink lips.

His heart did a strange twist in his chest. She hated him, perhaps—but he saw how much she loved this baby.

Théo looked down at Henry and gently stroked his dark, downy head. The baby frowned up at him, bemused. Théo almost laughed. The expression made the baby look almost exactly like Théo’s father, when he’d lost his glasses. The baby blinked, then returned his smile. And Théo suddenly lost his breath.

Could this child really be his son? Slowly he looked up at Carrie, his jaw set. “You will allow me to take a paternity test.” It was a statement, not a question.

She sighed. “I’m telling you the truth. You’re the only man who could be his father.”

“How can you be so sure?” he demanded.

Her dark eyelashes fluttered against her pale cheeks as she looked down at the ground. She said, in a voice almost too quiet to hear, “Because you’re the only man I’ve ever … been with.”

He looked at her in shock. The only man? Ever?

Blinking, she lifted her gaze. “But someday I will find another,” she whispered. “I’ll find a man who will never abandon me or break my heart.”

Théo’s body stiffened. There it was again, her mention of a dream man, a perfect masculine paragon that Théo was already beginning to despise.

“Don’t bother thinking of him,” he said sharply. “If you’re telling me the truth, and Henry is my son, you will soon be my wife.”

Carrie stared at him, her eyes wide. For several seconds she struggled to speak. Then she choked out, “No!”

“You would put your hatred of me, and your selfish longings for romance, over the best interests of our son?”

Her lips turned down at the edges, and if possible she looked still more unhappy. “I’m not marrying you. Not when I know you will lose interest in being a father within a week—”

“You don’t know that,” he interrupted fiercely.

“Yes, I do. I know exactly the kind of man you are,” she said steadily. “A playboy who doesn’t want to ever be tied down, who lives entirely for his own selfish needs, who will never be faithful to any woman for longer than a week.”

“Don’t you dare presume to—”

“Marriage is a lifelong commitment—until death. It can only be based on love.” Her voice hardened. “And I despise you.”

Her words burned inside him, echoing and reverberating inside his soul. Once Carrie had looked at him with eyes full of adoration. Now she seemed to hate the sight of him.

Théo looked down at the small baby cuddling against his chest. The thought of some other, no doubt more deserving man raising his baby son felt like a knife in his throat.