Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Hunt hammered against the new shoe on Molly, one of his traveling horses.
Two out of the team of horses had pulled shoes, and he’d shed his waistcoat insisting on changing the horses’ shoes himself.
John, his coachman, tried to reason with him, but he’d refused to waver on the pretense that both John and the footman needed to eat something.
The truth was, Hunt was in desperate need of a distraction. After a disastrous beginning to their journey, it had actually turned enjoyable after Miss St. George had eaten his paltry offerings. Perhaps the remedy to appease an ill-tempered woman was food.
He’d have to remember that with his sister and mother.
Once she began eating and drinking, Miss St. George relaxed to the point that she’d even teased him about his fondness for water. It wasn’t like he didn’t drink alcohol. Hunt could drink his weight’s worth and more. However, he also knew the importance of water to the body.
Their conversation flowed easily, a pleasant surprise on such a hasty journey across England.
She understood his feelings on The Rake Review better than anyone.
Miss St. George didn’t have to say a single word, but he was aware of the pain the circumstances of her birth caused her.
Hunt had been accused of being a bastard his entire life.
There was no difference between them except that his parents were married, despite Society always questioning Hunt’s true paternity.
Hunt’s mind wandered to moments earlier when she was in his arms, her curves molded against him, her lips mere inches away from his own. He could still remember her breath on his skin, the wanting in those liquid brown eyes of hers, the weight of her on top of him, light but firm.
Damn it to hell.
He’d nearly kissed her, and Hunt’s only regret was that the footman had interrupted. It was for the best. Marriage wasn’t meant for him. His cousin’s most recent actions proved that there would never be peace for Hunt. Not when Augustus and all of Society thought him unworthy of his father’s title.
He tried—dear God, how he tried—not to imagine her riding him, finding her pleasure with him beneath her, until he grew tired of giving her control, and bent her to his will.
Calm yourself, man.
“Shouldn’t you allow the servants to do that?” she said, standing slightly behind him.
Miss St. George was wearing her worn pelisse; her arms folded in an attempt to ward off the cold. The weather had improved slightly for March, but as the hour grew late, the temperature continued to plummet.
He hoped that his fool of a cousin didn’t actually take this farce all the way to Scotland. Hunt knew Augustus was simply toying with the girl and had no plans to marry her. How could he wed her when she did not know who he really was?
Panic clawed at his insides at the thought of cleaning up his cousin’s mess. It was one thing for him to set out to ruin Hunt, but adding in Lady Margaret to his dubious plans was unforgivable.
Hitting the shoe in place, Hunt focused all his energy on working, determined not to be on the King’s Road at nightfall. The last thing he needed was to be robbed by highwaymen. It was an unnecessary risk to take, especially with a lady in tow.
Miss St. George’s well-being was now Hunt’s responsibility. There was a deep-rooted urge inside him to protect the hellion, though he was positive that she would be able to defend herself if they were besieged.
Molly shifted her weight, thick black hair hitting Hunt in the face, as she neighed in distress.
“Easy, girl. We’re almost done.” Hunt patted the horse’s side, soothing her.
She was a good horse, one he’d acquired on the trip to London from Devon. He would be sad to part with her, but perhaps, he could convince the stables in Birmingham to hold her for him.
“W-where did you learn about horses, my lord?” Miss St. George asked, bouncing up and down to ward off the chill.
“From two of my servants, Walter and Sampson.” Hunt placed the horse’s hoof down before walking to the carriage, where the three other horses were still hitched. He opened the door and pulled out his discarded great coat.
Shaking out the material, he approached Miss St. George like she was a wounded horse—carefully, and nonthreateningly.
Holding the coat open, he waited until she stepped forward, draping it around her shoulders. It was big, falling to the ground, her small stature much more obvious draped in the too-big fabric. Slipping it all the way on, she folded her arms, wrapping it around her curvy frame.
He smiled wide, the sight of her in his coat had him puffing out his chest just a little. The arrogance he felt from seeing her wearing his clothes was absolutely absurd.
“Thank you, my lord—”
“Hunt.” He walked back to the mare and picked up the driving hammer.
“What?” she asked, coming to stand beside him, her gloved hand reaching out to touch the nervous horse.
Hunt closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the warmth of her sultry deep voice.
It was hard not to find the sound appealing.
It wasn’t masculine by any means, but not high-pitched like some annoying debutante.
She had a deep sinful voice that was made for the dark.
He could imagine listening to her as he peppered kisses over her luscious curves.
“If we’re going to be traveling together on this journey, you should call me Hunt,” he gritted out.
The hammering of the shoe was loud as he finally finished. He put the horse’s leg down and stood to his full height. He’d worked up a sweat despite the cold weather, desperate to get them back on the road.
The sooner they caught up to his cousin and Lady Margaret, the sooner he could return to London.
The cold wind swirled. The neighs of the horses and the chatter of John and William sitting a few yards away were the only sounds around them.
“Very well, then you must call me Delia.” She held out her hand.
Hunt shook his head, not able to stop smiling when it came to the beguiling hellion in front of him.
“Delia.” He took her hand in his, holding it for longer than what was polite, before he released her. “Thank you for finally giving me that introduction. It only took two days,” he teased before walking toward the two servants. “She’s ready, John!” he called to the coachman.
John rushed over to him. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, inspecting the horse’s shoe. “You do better work than Walter.”
Hunt patted the coachman on his back. “Don’t ever tell him that. He and Sampson would demand I shoe all the horses.”
“They would indeed, sir.” John released the horse’s leg. “The nearest town is less than an hour away. We’ll be off the roads before nightfall.”
“Good.” Hunt assisted with hitching Molly back up to the team, then escorted Delia back into the fading warmth of the carriage.
The footwarmer had gone cold a half-hour earlier, making the carriage nearly as cold inside as it was outside. Taking the folded duvet from under his carriage seat, Hunt unfolded it and offered it to Delia. He wasn’t going to let her freeze under his care.
“You’ll freeze to death, Hunt.” She said his name like it had always been on her lips.
He stilled. The sound of his name on those luscious lips, in her deep, throaty voice, had his body responding in ways that were inappropriate for virtual strangers.
Shocking him completely, Delia rose before the horses took off in a quick gallop. She fell on him again, this time her round rump landing in his lap and coming in contact with his hardening cock.
“I’m going to have to catch you at least once to thank you for always catching me.” She moved off him, the cold air immediately reaching his bones.
Every part of him was aware of her. He could hardly breathe without catching the scent of vanilla and lavender. The urge to pull her closer and bury his nose in the alcove of her delicate neck was strong.
She spread the duvet over both of them, making sure he too was covered. It was the first time she’d shown any kindness toward him, and like a fool, Hunt enjoyed it immensely. It wasn’t often he was able to enjoy a respectable woman—well, he’d never enjoyed a respectable woman.
Who had the time?
A woman like Delia deserved marriage, commitment, and love, not a man who was still battling the demon of his dead father.
She shivered beside him. The heat of her hips and thighs pressed up against him was a delicious distraction.
Hunt leaned back, opening his arms wide. “May I?” he asked, longing to have her closer wishing he could warm her and keep her safe from the elements.
“If you promise not to do anything untoward,” she teased, snuggling in his arms.
He pulled her close and tried very hard not to delight in the rightness of it all. “I promise to never do anything without your permission,” he whispered, his fingers squeezing her arm lightly.
It was true.
Not only did he respect her for the strong independent woman she was, but he would never do anything that she was not comfortable with.
The Belle may have named him a rake, but Hunt was still a gentleman no matter what was printed in that blasted gossip sheet.
The carriage jerked again, and he tightened his hands around her, preventing them both from tumbling. It had been a treacherous journey thus far, and he hoped they would reach Augustus and Lady Margaret well before Gretna Green.
“Who are Walter and Sampson?” she asked, placing her head on his shoulder.
It was an intimate position, too intimate for strangers really, but there was nothing uncomfortable about having his hellion in his arms. In fact, it was as easy as riding a horse.
From his earliest memories, he had loved horses immensely. Perhaps it was his mother’s fondness of them as well. She’d inherited an entire stable of them from her first marriage.
“Walter is my stablemaster, and Sampson, you know, I don’t rightly know what he does anymore,” he admitted, laughing.