Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Delia stood frozen in place, her breathing coming out in shallow pants.
The decadent parlor felt like it was closing in on her, just like the ballroom the previous evening.
The massive home appeared to be full of riches from the outside looking in, but on the inside, it was moderately furnished.
The empty walls, where paintings once sat, and the lack of furnishings, made it clear that they were in the process of redecorating.
It all swirled around Delia, as the words of her stranger settled in. Surely, she hadn’t heard him properly. He, her mysterious stranger, was the Earl of March. The one question that stayed on repeat in Delia’s mind was: Who had run away with her sister?
How was this possible?
Why would anyone do something so callous to Margaret?
“That cannot be. Y-you’re of African descent.” She waved her hand at him.
Delia could hear the disbelief in her own voice. In her entire life she had never met a titled gentleman of African descent. However, it was becoming more common for men of the aristocracy to choose a bride outside of their race.
It was shocking to be sure.
“Yes, I am. Thank you for noticing,” he said, giving her that arrogant smile of his.
It told her everything she needed to know about him. No wonder whoever was pretending to be him was able to impersonate him. He was too self-assured, too certain that everything would go his way.
“Have you ever met the gentleman pretending to be my brother?” Lady Helen asked, standing in front of Delia.
The other woman was taller than Delia, more aggressive than she had been the previous night. Now that she was in the same room with Lady Helen and the real Earl of March, Delia could see their likeness; they were twins after all, according to the Belle.
“I had only seen his profile in the past, but last night, I met him. He and my sister were on the terrace meeting in private.” Delia recalled every detail, his tall skinny frame, the decadence of his clothes, the cruelty in his green gaze.
“What did he look like, dear?” the older woman asked. She was pretty, wisdom shining in her hazel eyes. Lady Helen and the real earl favored her greatly.
Delia couldn’t fathom what was happening. Margaret had run off with a man she thought was the Earl of March. It was no wonder the description in The Rake Review was vastly different from the gentleman she’d met on the balcony. What fools they had been to believe a stranger so easily.
“Tall with blond hair and green eyes like theirs.” Delia nodded toward Lady Helen and the earl.
“It was Augustus,” the earl said, running his hands through the short strands of his hair.
Delia tried—she really did try—not to look at him. But it was impossible to will her eyes away from the absolute delectable man in front of her. It didn’t matter that his mother and sister were in the room; Delia couldn’t stop herself from staring at him.
She was helpless to the desires of her own body when he’d entered the parlor shirtless.
Shirtless.
If she hadn’t gotten dressed and caught a hackney, Delia would’ve sworn she was dreaming. What other logical explanation could there be? Clearly, she was still sleeping, or she’d lost her mind.
“He wouldn’t dare manipulate an innocent girl.” The older lady, who Delia believed to be the Countess of March, spoke from her perch on the green armchair.
“He would do anything to take the fortune from Hunt,” Lady Helen said, leaning on the dark sofa.
“Who is Augustus and why has he run away with my sister?” Delia asked, gaze darting from the mother to Lady Helen and finally landing on the earl.
The earl stepped in front of her, his shirt dirty, the dark hairs of his chest begging for her touch.
“Augustus is my cousin, and before I was born, he was my father’s heir.” He sighed and shook his head. “Unfortunately, twenty-nine years is not enough time for him to come to terms with the fact that he did not inherit the earldom.”
Delia dragged her gaze up his body until she was captured by clear green eyes that bored into her very soul.
“W-why did he choose my sister?” she asked, cursing herself for stumbling over her words.
Really Delia, get a hold of yourself.
“Helen, explain. I’m going to clean up.” The earl strolled out of the room on long legs, and Delia couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.
“Why don’t you have a seat, and Helen will ring for tea?” Lady March instructed.
It was impossible not to obey the older woman. She had a gentle authority about her that put Delia at ease.
She sat down on the sofa, facing the elegant lady. When she was a girl, she’d wished her mother was the lady of her father’s household. That like the Countess of March, she automatically would have an air of respect surrounding her.
Delia could admit that she felt a bit of pride sitting in the Earl of March’s home.
She’d never seen a titled lord of color before, let alone an entire family among the aristocrats.
It was true she’d never left Leicestershire before, but surely, the servants would have heard if there were people like her in the aristocracy.
“Thank you, my lady,” Delia said, taking in the older woman.
She was shorter than both her children, with a lovely head of thick white hair that made her brown skin radiant. There were few wrinkles marring her delicate face, yet there was a depth to her gaze that gave away her true age. The cane gripped in her hand was proof of a slight infirmity.
Delia’s knee bounced up and down as she tried to settle her mind.
There were a number of disastrous things that could happen to her sweet sister.
Like her, Margaret had spent her entire life sheltered away at their father’s estate, but unlike Delia, her sister was rarely left alone.
Where Delia was free to explore, talk to the servants, and read any manner of books, Margaret was carefully supervised, most of the time.
“I’m sorry that Augustus has duped your sister into believing that he was my son,” the countess said, sitting back in her armchair.
“Who is Augustus, and why would he pretend to be the earl? And why choose my sister?” Delia had a thousand questions, but she was wasting time sitting there, useless.
“Augustus is our cousin,” Lady Helen said. “He feels that he should be the earl and not my brother.”
Delia’s leg bounced faster underneath the confines of her day dress and pelisse. She’d run out of Aunt Francis’ house barely presentable, determined to get answers and stop her sister from making the worst mistake of her life.
If being in London for the Season had taught Delia anything, it was that the Ton never forgets. She was five and twenty, and yet they knew exactly who her parents were and would never allow her into their folds.
But Delia was no wilting flower. She would not easily crumble from their cruelty. Margaret, however, would. She would not survive ruination, of that Delia was certain.
“What does that have to do with my sister?” she asked, as Lady Helen sat on the sofa.
“If Augustus is pretending to be my son, the only explanation is that he is trying to get his hands on the Wakefield fortune.” The countess gripped her cane, tapping it against the pristine carpet.
“There was a clause in my father’s will that if Hunt brought shame or scandal to the earldom, the entirety of the fortune that is unentailed will pass to Augustus.” Lady Helen clapped her hands together. “We’re one big happy family.”
“Really, Helen, must you?” The countess leveled her daughter with a glare that would’ve had Delia shaking.
Delia knit her brow together, wondering how a father could think so lowly of his own son that he would add such a clause in his will.
It baffled her how some parents treated their own children.
She knew that if she ever had children of her own, she would never treat them how she’d been treated by her mother, and even her father on occasion.
Her own mother had left her at the age of seven at her father’s doorstep with nothing but a handmade doll and a carpet bag.
Delia’s father was slightly better than her mother as he provided room and shelter from the moment the butler had discovered her.
But he’d never hugged her or given her any sort of comfort.
She could count on her hands the number of words they had spoken that year.
“Look after your sister, Adelia.”
“I’m sorry, Mother, but clearly, we’re the typical dysfunctional family of the Ton, and now Augustus has taken advantage of an innocent girl!” Lady Helen raised her hands over her head as a maid entered carrying an elaborate tea tray and biscuits.
Delia’s stomach growled at the sight of the elaborate tray, the obscene noise filling the parlor. At Aunt Francis’, the food was edible but nothing in comparison to the elaborate tray that was set in front of her.
“Please help yourself, Miss St. George,” Lady Helen said, as she poured tea into three of the cups on the tray.
“Delia, call me Delia, Lady Helen.” She picked up a small saucer and piled it with biscuits, not caring if she looked slightly hungry. She was starving and savored the first bite of the buttery goodness as the taste exploded in her mouth.
Was that salt?
Delia finished the biscuit, her leg bouncing as she counted the seconds until the earl came back downstairs. She wasn’t sure when Margaret and Augustus had left for Gretna Green, but Delia knew that it had been at least several hours.
They had arrived home in the early hours of the morning.
All Aunt Francis could speak of was the Earl of March and his wayward cousin.
Margaret, strangely enough, was exhausted and insisted on retiring early.
When Delia had finally gone to bed after writing in her journal for an hour, she found her sister sound asleep.
Whether that was true or not, she did not know.