Page 52 of Duke of Bronze
"You are Lydia, I presume?"
"Yes." Her voice, though hoarse, carried surprising strength.
Colin studied her carefully. "May I ask what business you had with the late Duke?" He was careful not to betray the impatience churning within him.
Lydia did not answer immediately. She merely held his gaze. Just as Colin began to suspect she would offer no response at all, she spoke.
"You look just like him."
Colin stiffened. The comparison unsettled him, for he rather thought he favored his mother, and yet here was a woman who claimed otherwise.
"I knew your father from my days at the theater," Lydia continued, a wistful note slipping into her voice. "Years beforehe assumed the title of Duke. He never missed my performances and called me the siren whose voice he could never forget."
Colin arched a brow at that, but said nothing, allowing her to continue.
"We formed a friendship," she went on, "and it blossomed into something more. Until fate reminded us both of our stations in life." A pause. "He was an heir to a dukedom. And I had no place in his world."
A mistress. Colin swallowed. So that was what this meeting was—an encounter with his father's mistress. But why now? And why the sudden urgency? The questions pressed against the walls of his mind, demanding answers he was not so certain he wished to receive.
Lydia shifted slightly, preparing to continue, but a sudden, violent fit of coughs overtook her. Roderick was beside her in an instant, and he pressed a handkerchief to her lips and wrapped a steadying arm around her frail shoulders. Colin watched, a deep and unfamiliar pang unfurling in his chest as the fabric came away stained with blood.
The sight left an odd, hollow ache within him. Whatever grievances Lydia bore, whatever had brought him here today, there was no denying the inevitable—she was dying. When her coughing subsided, Lydia fixed her gaze upon him once more.
"Shortly after your father assumed his title as Duke, I found myself carrying his child."
Colin stilled. But she was not finished.
"He became scarce then. Too scarce."
The room tilted slightly, the ground beneath him shifting in ways it never had before.
A child. His father's child.
Colin felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold, his fingers tightening over his knees. He had misheard. He must have misheard.
Lydia continued her tale. "I never heard from him again. And the next news I received of him was his marriage, printed in the papers."
Colin struggled to take in her words, to make sense of the truth unraveling before him. The room felt smaller, the very air heavier. When he finally found his voice, it felt detached, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
"Where is this child?"
Lydia did not answer immediately. Instead, her gaze lifted, finding Roderick, who still sat beside her, supporting her frail frame as another round of coughing wracked her thin shoulders. His grip on her was steady, but his expression remained cold, as if carved from stone itself.
"The man who brought you to me," Lydia answered at last, "is your brother. Your older brother."
Colin's breath left him in a puff. "Good Lord!"
Roderick's posture did not shift. His hard jaw was still tight, and his gray eyes were staring ahead. The truth had been spoken, and yet there was no hint of expectation in his expression—no hope, no hesitation. He did not seek recognition, nor demand it.
Colin's mind reeled. His father had fathered a child; but one who could never claim his name, never hold a title, never be acknowledged. And yet, he had still abandoned both mother and son. He had left them to fend for themselves, to suffer, to live in these conditions. The disparity between the life Colin had known and the one Roderick had been given hit him with unrelenting force.
A feeling weightier than shock and sharper than disbelief tightened his throat. It was guilt. Roderick and Lydia had deserved better. His father should have done better.
"I felt you had a right to know of your brother," Lydia said softly. "I do not know how much time I have left, and the truth must be known."
Colin did not know how, but he found the words sincere. "Thank you, Lydia."
"I will sleep now," she whispered, and Roderick gave Colin a nod that told him it was time for him to take his leave. He stood, utterly lost, and turned toward the door.
