Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Sweat pooled down Hunt’s back as he carried a pile of hay with the hay rake from Rain’s stall to outside the horses’ paddock. He walked back into the stall, ignoring the curious gazes of the two older men who had worked with him most of his life.
He picked at the hay, stabbing it as if it had somehow offended him. It was his tenth and last stall. He’d risen early on account that he could hardly sleep because both his dreams and his waking moments were haunted. Haunted by the hellion of a woman who had denied him a simple introduction.
It wasn’t like he was asking for marriage or a quick dalliance in the corner. No, he simply wanted to know whom he’d had the pleasure of meeting and wanted her to know who he was. That was proper etiquette after all.
An introduction, possibly a dance, but she couldn’t even allow him the dignity of that. Of course, she probably was more than well aware that he was the Earl of March, especially with that damn article.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he would’ve accomplished if the hellion would’ve granted him an introduction and a dance. Would he have asked to call on her? No, that would’ve been absurd.
Hunt wasn’t the marrying type, and he damn sure would not court a woman.
Then why ask for introduction at all? He wasn’t in want of a mistress, and he wouldn’t insult the lady in that manner.
His hellion was meant to be loved and worshiped as the goddess she was, and that one simple thought made Hunt less remorseful that she’d denied him.
A woman like her needed forever, and he couldn’t give her that.
Whoever she was, she was connected to the Duke of Cliffbury, if his swine of a cousin was to be believed.
It was odd, and disconcerting, how much thought he’d given the beautiful hellion from the previous night. He’d risen early, with barely three hours of sleep, intent on working her out of his mind.
Hunt had an entire staff to care for his horses, but it didn’t matter.
He needed to work, to do anything to keep his mind off her.
Caring for the horses had always soothed him when he was a boy.
There was nothing he disliked about it, not even the smell.
It was the place he’d always gone to get away from his life, from the whispers that he and his sister were bastards.
Being able to work with his own two hands gave him a sense of pride.
It had started at his mother’s country house. His father had long abandoned them, and his only escape from the constant overbearing shadow of his mother and sister was to visit the stables. The horses, the groomsmen, they became a part of Hunt’s family.
“What’s got you working hard, mi’lord?” Walter, his stable master, asked, leaning against the open stall. His one good eye was trained on Hunt, his dark skin weathered by age and sun, drenched in sweat from the work of the day.
“I’d say the way he’s stabbing the hay like it called him a dandy, it has to be a woman,” Sampson, the old groom, shouted out from his usual seat in the stables. An old worn cap covered his thin white hair; his pale leathery skin was filled with wrinkles.
Walter and Sampson had worked for his mother’s first husband and had remained at her country estate, Tigress House, when she’d married Hunt’s father.
Together, the two old men had taught Hunter everything he knew about horses.
They were more like family than servants.
If he was being honest, mere servants would’ve been released years ago for such impertinence.
Walter whistled. “She must be something to get you worked up like this.”
“Remember the last time he worked this hard? He was sixteen, and him and the skinny marquess was fighting over the tutor’s daughter!” Sampson pointed an old wrinkle finger at Walter.
They laughed together, always in tune with each other.
Hunt closed his eyes, wishing he could ignore the old fools. Unfortunately, they were a permanent part of his household.
When he was a boy, he’d foolishly thought that they were brothers. His own family was a plethora of differences, he thought surely the two men were related.
Needing to talk about the horrid events of the previous evening, Hunt shouted, “What sort of lady doesn’t want a simple introduction?”
“Turned you down, did she?” Sampson asked from his perch in the corner.
Did the man ever do his job?
“She must be some type of chit to resist the Magnificent Earl of M!” Walter slapped his thigh.
Bloody hell! They’d read The Rake Review.
“I’d wager she’s a beauty!” Sampson pointed at Walter, his eyes wide and full of mischief.
Hunt shook his head, picking up a pile of hay from Rain’s stall and mucking it out. Rain, a pure-bred Arabian, was one of the first horses he’d purchased for himself. She was now ten years old, but he still loved her. She was a strong horse, from a good lineage, and was reaching her prime.
“Tell us what happened, mi’lord?” Walter asked, folding his arms.
Hunt stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hands.
“A woman—no, an absolutely stunning woman with fire in her eyes and pretty brown skin that shined and called to me.” He shook his head at the memory of her.
“That is beside the point. She bumped into me, and being the gentleman that I am, I prevented her from falling.” He pressed a hand to his sweaty chest. He’d long abandoned his shirt.
“When I offered to introduce myself, she said ‘That won’t be necessary,’” Hunt said in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like his hellion.
“Oh, she is a feisty one.” Walter stood up straighter, his smile wide and full of mischief now.
“Perhaps she’ll allow me an introduction.” Sampson took off his cap, smoothing out his thin head of hair. “I was quite the handsome lad in 1772.”
“I shouldn’t have told you two.” Hunt shook his head, not believing the pair of them. “You do realize that I’m your employer?”
“We do. That’s why we’re still here.” Walter nodded like that was the appropriate answer.
“If I were you, I’d find out who she is. Any woman who has you doing young Ben’s job has to be worth finding.” Sampson spit at the ground.
The old man was correct, but Hunt had no interest in discovering the identity of his hellion. Or that was what he kept telling himself. But the truth was that every time he closed his eyes, took a breath, or simply stopped moving, he saw her.
Hunt sighed in frustration. He would’ve much rather preferred whoring and drinking all thoughts of the hellion away, but for some strange reason, he didn’t have the urge to drown himself in depravity.
“If a woman made me work myself like a stable hand, I think I’d want to see her again. Wouldn’t you, Sampson?” Walter stood, looking from Hunt to the old man.
“Aye, I think I would,” Sampson agreed, rising from his chair. “But it’s probably for the best. The last thing you want is a beautiful woman that causes you to work yourself to death.” He slapped Hunt on the back as he walked past.
Before Hunt could say anything, his coachman, John, and a footman joined them. One of the carriages had been damaged and had been at the coachmaker’s the past sennight.
John shifted his weight from side to side, his brown eyes full of worry. “My lord, we went to the coachmaker for the second carriage, but it was already retrieved—”
“Retrieved? By whom?” Hunt asked, taking his discarded shirt and ruining it by wiping the sweat off his body. He hadn’t given anyone permission to retrieve the second carriage. It was his mother’s and sister’s to use as they pleased.
His coachman gripped the short strands of his hair. “Your cousin, Mr. Wakefield, retrieved the carriage.”
Bloody hell!
When Hunt’s father was alive, Augustus had free rein over all their funds and assets to do with as he pleased.
After his father’s death, it took some time, but Hunt had regained control of everything, the townhouse, the country home, and all the carriages.
So, why would his cousin choose now to randomly seize one of his carriages?
“That one could never be trusted,” Sampson said, shaking his head.
“No, he’s rotten to the core,” Walter agreed, as he usually did with the other man.
Hunt strolled toward the house, readying himself to face off with his cousin. “Prepare the carriage. We’ll leave shortly.”
He flung his ruined shirt over his shoulder and strolled across the expansive garden to the massive home. It had been nearly a whole year, and he still couldn’t fathom that it all belonged to him.
Entering the conservatory, Hunt walked over to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of water, gulping it down like his life depended on it.
Rushing through his home, he greeted servants as he passed, most of them ignoring his state of undress.
They were accustomed to Hunt working in the stables or coming home half-dressed at all hours of the morning.
He passed by empty spaces where portraits of long-dead Wakefield ancestors once occupied. In their efforts to redecorate, his mother and Helen had removed all signs of his father and his family. Hunt made a note to instruct his sister to find more artwork to fill the empty spaces.
Raised voices coming from the parlor stopped his ascent up the stairs.
He quickly changed direction, intent on discovering why there was shouting in his home.
His family did have the occasional heated argument, but nothing like what was coming from the parlor, except when Hunt became the target in a gossip sheet.
“I’m not leaving here without my sister!” a deep, sultry voice said, the same voice that had lulled him to sleep the previous night—the voice he’d heard in his head when he awoke that morning and had to rush to the mews just to make it stop.
Why was she there?
“Miss St. George, as I said before, your sister is not here. I’ve never met her.” His sister’s voice sounded slightly annoyed as Hunt walked into the room.
His mother, dressed for the day, sat stiffly in her favorite chair, her withered hand gripped around her cane.
The hellion turned on his sister. Hunt could only see her profile, but she was just as beautiful as she had been the previous evening.
“And as I said, my lady, she left this note saying that she has run away to marry your brother. They must’ve said something before they left for Gretna Green.” She waved the small piece of parchment in the air.
“What is going on?” he asked, sure that he’d misheard her.
“Thank God, you’re here—where is your shirt?” Helen pointed at him, reminding him that he was indeed shirtless.
The hellion faced him, wide-eyed and glorious. For the briefest of moments, his mother and sister disappeared, and they were the only two people in the room.
Bloody hell.
“You,” she whispered, her gaze locked on Hunt. “What are you doing here?”
He smiled at her defiance. Even now, a guest in a strange house, her sister apparently missing, she did not quake in fear.
“As this is my home, I believe I should be asking you that.” Hunt placed his now empty glass on a small table.
The hellion’s eyes occasionally darted to his bare chest, her breathing increasing with every breath she took.
“Perhaps you should make yourself decent first, and then we can hear what Miss St. George has to say,” his mother said, flicking her cane at his bare chest.
Taking his filthy shirt off his shoulder, Hunt quickly placed it over his head. “Better?” he asked.
Who had time for propriety when the hellion was in his house and accusing him of running away with her sister?
A sister he’d never met.
“Yes, much better.” Helen folded her arms in front of her, ready for battle. “Now what is this about your sister, Miss St. George. Why do you think she’s run away with my brother?”
“Please have a seat, dear. I can tell you’re upset.” His mother waved to the sofa, a gentle smile on her lips.
“I don’t mean to be impertinent, my lady, but we’re wasting time,” his hellion—Miss St. George said in frustration. “My sister has run away with the Earl of March. I do not know what time they left, but I must find her before all of London finds out and she is ruined!”
Dear God, was this a jest? How could he have run off with her sister when he was standing right there? It had to be a ruse caused by that cursed article.
Having heard enough, Hunt walked over to the hellion, holding out his hand for the missive. “If your sister has run off to Gretna Green, I can assure you it is not with the Earl of March.” He waited patiently for her to place the paper in the palm of his hand.
She thrust it at him. “Read it! She says she’s run away to marry Hunter Wakefield, the Earl of March.”
He gazed from her to the missive. She was serious. His hellion did not know that Hunt was the earl, and not whomever it was that had run away with her sister.”
Hunt read the slightly messy handwriting in utter disbelief. If the letter was correct, then her sister, Margaret, was with an imposter. Who would pretend to be him?
“Dear God,” he muttered, clutching his head with his free hand. This was a disaster and could ruin all hope of gaining his father’s fortune.
Helen took the letter from him. “Is this a joke?”
“Now you believe me. The earl has eloped with my sister, and I must find them, now.” The hellion pointed down, her body shaking with rage.
“I don’t know who your sister has run off with, but it is not the Earl of March,” he said, a heavy boulder of dread settling in his stomach.
The pieces of the puzzle were coming together before his eyes. His cousin retrieving the carriage from the coachmaker’s, his threatening words the night before. What the hell had Augustus done?
“How can you be sure?” she demanded.
“Because I am the Earl of March, and I have not eloped with anyone.”