But inside, Gareth could feel himself beginning to change. His heart was beating faster, and his chest had taken on a strange, shaky feeling. He felt unfocused, restless, and it took all of his self-control to hold his arms still at his sides.
One would think he’d have grown used to this, but every time, it took him by surprise. He always told himself that this would be the time he would see his father and it just wouldn’t matter, but no…
It always did.
And Lord St. Clair wasn’t even really his father. That was the true rub. The man had the ability to turn him into an immature idiot, and he wasn’t even really his father. Gareth had told himself, time and again, that it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. They weren’t related by blood, and the baron should not mean any more to him than a stranger on the street.
But he did. Gareth didn’t want his approval; he’d long since given up on that, and besides, why would he want approbation from a man he didn’t even respect?
It was something else. Something much harder to define. He saw the baron and he suddenly had to assert himself, to make his presence known.
To make his presence felt.
He had to bother the man. Because the Lord knew, the man bothered him.
He felt this way whenever he saw him. Or at least when they were forced into conversation. And Gareth knew that he had to end the contact now, before he did something he might regret.
Because he always did. Every time he swore to himself that he would learn, that he’d be more mature, but then it happened again. He saw his father, and he was fifteen again, all smirky smiles and bad behavior.
But this time he was going to try. He was in Bridgerton House, for God’s sake, and the least he could do was try to avoid a scene.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, trying to brush past him.
But Lord St. Clair stepped to the side, forcing their shoulders to collide. “She won’t have you, you know,” he said, chuckling under the words.
Gareth held himself very still. “What are you talking about?”
“The Bridgerton chit. I saw you panting after her.”
For a moment Gareth didn’t move. He hadn’t even realized his father had been in the ballroom. Which bothered him. Not that it should have done. Hell, he should have been whooping with joy that he’d finally managed to enjoy an event without being needled by Lord St. Clair’s presence.
But instead he just felt somehow deceived. As if the baron had been hiding from him.
Spying on him.
“Nothing to say?” the baron taunted.
Gareth just lifted a brow as he looked through the open door to the chamber pot. “Not unless you wish me to aim from here,” he drawled.
The baron turned, saw what he meant, then said disgustedly, “You would do it, too.”
“You know, I believe I would,” Gareth said. Hadn’t really occurred to him until that moment—his comment had been more of a threat than anything else—but he might be willing to engage in a bit of crude behavior if it meant watching his father’s veins nearly burst with fury.
“You are revolting.”
“You raised me.”
A direct hit. The baron seethed visibly before he shot back with, “Not because I wanted to. And I certainly never dreamed I would have to pass the title on to you.”
Gareth held his tongue. He would say a lot of things to anger his father, but he would not make light of his brother’s death. Ever.
“George must be spinning in his grav
e,” Lord St. Clair said in a low voice.
And Gareth snapped. One moment he was standing in the middle of the small room, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides, and the next he had his father pinned up against the wall, one hand on his shoulder, the other at his throat.
“He was my brother,” Gareth hissed.