Chapter 8 #2
She leaned back, looking up at him. A hint of a smile on her succulent lips.
“You don’t know what someone in your employ does?” she asked, pulling the duvet closer to her as it shifted with the movement of the carriage.
“I know what he does.” Hunt jerked his head to the side. “He’s an expert on horses. If there’s a wild horse needing to be trained, Sampson is your man. But now, in his old age, he sits in his chair in the stables, telling everyone what to do.”
The old man mostly saw after the horses, directing the stableboys on the proper care of the animals. He’d long lost his ability to move swiftly, but it never stopped him from contributing.
“Why do you keep him around then?” she asked, resting her head back on his shoulder, one of her breasts pressed against his chest.
Bloody hell.
“He’s family.” Hunt chuckled lightly. “Both Sampson and Walter worked for my mother’s first husband. She kept them employed after his death. I learned everything I know about horses from them.”
The two men had taken Hunt under their wing and treated him like an equal. When he was working side by side with Walter and Sampson, he wasn’t the heir to the Earl of March, or an unwanted son. He was just himself.
“Who would’ve thought the Earl of March was sentimental.” Her voice carried easily through the quiet carriage, soft but edged in disbelief. “Although, I admit I know nothing about you other than what I read in The Rake Review and what Margaret told me—but that wasn’t you at all.”
The mention of the cursed gossip sheet made Hunt’s jaw tighten. Out of all the tales that had been printed about him and his family, the Belle had done the most damage.
He kept his gaze forward, unwilling to let her see how deeply it affected him. “The people in my life,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “in my employ, in my care, are important to me.”
His hand moved absently along the rough wool of his great coat, the fabric scratchy beneath his fingers as he tried to coax warmth back into her trembling form. “Which includes you now,” he added quietly, “since you insisted on joining me on this chase.”
Delia’s breath hitched sharply, the sound small, betraying her usual bravado. Her body went rigid in his arms as if the words struck deeper than she wished to allow.
Slowly, Hunt turned his head toward her, the carriage suddenly too small, too intimate, the silence pressing in until it was difficult for him to breathe.
Pain stared back at him.
Her perceptive, honest brown eyes were glassy, rimmed with emotion. The sight unsettled him. Hunt was accustomed to anger, to desire, to mockery. Not this. This raw, honest emotion. He’d only seen it in one other person.
Himself.
“I’ve never been important to anyone,” she whispered.
The words stripped her bare to him, revealing more than he suspected she wanted to.
Her bottom lip trembled, evidence of the emotion swirling through his hellion.
“Not my mother or my father—though he did allow me to stay when my mother abandoned me.”
Stunned by her admission, he pulled her closer as if he could protect her from her past. Her words hit him in the chest, stealing his breath.
He’d thought her fearless, maybe even a little reckless the way she readily demanded to accompany him on this journey.
But this pain, the neglect in those deep brown eyes, was something else entirely.
She was beautiful, strong, and fearless in many ways, but underneath her bravado, there was much more to her than he’d ever imagined.
Without thinking, he cupped her cheek with his bare hand. The cold of her skin startled him, and he lingered, longer than propriety or common sense should allow.
“You are important,” he said, with such certainty it shocked even him. His thumb made circles against her cheek in a bleak attempt to give her some comfort.
Her gaze searched his with caution, as if she expected the words to vanish the moment Hunt had said them. His heart broke at the thought that his little hellion could be full of doubt.
“You’re important to your sister,” he said, softening his tone, easing the intensity of the moment before it swallowed them both whole.
He released her before he did something foolish—like press his lips to hers—and turned toward the small carriage window as they came to a stop.
Birmingham surrounded them, candlelight flickering in windows as night beckoned closer. If Augustus had any sense, he wouldn’t remain on the road after nightfall. But his cousin had never been accused of being intelligent.
“P-perhaps, it’s best if we continue?” she asked, her voice raw and unsteady.
A sharp knock rasped against the carriage door as Hunt rose. “No, the roads aren’t safe, especially at night.” He placed his hand on top of hers, the gesture grounding him in ways he’d never imagined. “We will catch them well before they reach Gretna Green.”
The door opened, and he stepped out, then turned back to offer her his hand. She placed hers in his without hesitation, allowing him to steady her. The moment her feet touched the ground, she removed his great coat and pressed it against his chest.
All trace of her earlier vulnerability was gone.
Her deep brown eyes were guarded again. “How can you be sure?” she demanded.
There she was. His hellion had returned, sharp and full of defiance. Hunt found himself unsure whether he was pleased or disappointed. He guided her toward the comforts of the inn, anticipating their next move.
“John,” he called to the coachman, “pay extra to have Molly secured until we return.”
“Yes, my lord,” John replied with a nod, before leading the team away.
Warmth enveloped Hunt the moment he crossed the threshold of the inn. Candlelight flickered against wooden beams, and a roaring fire dominated the hearth at the head of the room. The scent of ale, smoke, and fresh bread filled the room.
The conversation faltered, then quieted to whispers. Every eye in the room turned to them.
It was immediate, the familiar weight of judgment landing on his shoulders.
Delia removed her pelisse, her body stiff from the sudden scrutiny.
He pressed his hand to her back, urging her forward, refusing to allow the stares to affect them.
It was nothing new. Outside of London, away from Society, people were always shocked to find a man of color with a title, not asking for permission.
“Do you two need a room for your employer?” A tall man with a rotund abdomen stepped forward, blocking Hunt’s path. His gaze flicked from Hunt to Delia. “Servants stay next door.”
Hunt gazed down at the shorter man, schooling his expression to polite indifference.
He had learned early in life that anger never solved anything.
“I’m the employer.” His voice was even, void of emotion.
“Hunter Wakefield, the Earl of March.” He inclined his head slightly in greeting.
“We’ll take two of your best rooms and two rooms for my servants as well as dinner for all. ”
The man recoiled as if he were struck, stepping back twice, like Hunt had offended him by being an earl. “You’re an earl?” he questioned, disbelief clouding his gaze.
“I am indeed.” It took every ounce of Hunt’s discipline not to respond.
He couldn’t afford to do anything that would lead them back on the King’s Road at night.
Unfortunately, for the innkeeper, Hunt required a bed and a meal for him and everyone in his care.
That alone saved the innkeeper from his wrath.
“Do you have the rooms or not?” Hunt demanded, his patience running thin.
It had been a long, exhausting day. He needed food and sleep, not to stand there debating if he was himself or not. He didn’t care to be questioned by the innkeeper—or anyone for that matter, especially not in a room full of people.
It didn’t matter how rare a titled man of African descent might be. Hunt would not tolerate blatant disrespect—not from this man, not from anyone.
“I meant no offense, my lord,” the innkeeper said, wringing his hands together. “There was another gentleman earlier. His carriage also bore the crest of the Earl of March, and I assumed he was the earl.”
Hunt’s head snapped to the man. “Was there a young lady with him?” he asked, sharper than intended.
If Augustus had abandoned Delia’s sister—
“Did she have dark hair?” Delia pressed, bouncing on her toes. “Green eyes? A delicate disposition?” Delia’s voice was filled with hope.
The innkeeper nodded, running his hands through his dark hair, obviously nervous from the weight of their attention. “Yes, there was a lady and a servant—”
“How long ago was this?” Hunt waited with bated breath, already calculating the risk of being on the King’s Road at night.
“About four hours, my lord,” the innkeeper answered. “This way.” The innkeeper led them to a table near the hearth. “I’ll take your things.”
Hunt passed first his great coat then Delia’s pelisse to the now eager innkeeper. The warmth of the hearth immediately soaked through Hunt’s cold bones. He pulled out a chair for Delia, waiting until she was comfortable before taking his own seat across from her.
“That will be all…” Hunt waited for the innkeeper to provide his name.
The innkeeper bowed, “Mr. Oakley, sir—”
“My lord,” Delia corrected him, her voice clear, cutting through the murmurs around the room. “He is the Earl of March, after all.” She lifted her shoulder.
She sat across from Hunt, her head held high, ready to do battle with the entire room if necessary…for him.
Dear God.
Something warm and dangerous swirled inside his chest. Having her by his side, facing the world with him, was much more enjoyable than it should have been.
For a moment, the innkeeper looked aghast, but swallowed before answering. “Of course, my lord.” He rushed away.
Delia’s hand slid over his on the table, her fingers curling around his with certainty. She squeezed, her eyes shining. “Four hours, Hunt.” She smiled, wide and hopeful.
The tension in his chest eased from the glimmer of hope shining through her.
“We might gain ground if we leave at first light.” He squeezed her hand in return, grounding himself in the warmth of her touch—too aware of how natural it felt.
Moments passed, their hands still connected, their gazes locked on the other. Neither one seemed in any hurry to be the first to let go.
“Your stew, my lord,” a maid said, setting two bowls between them.
Hunt nodded. “Brandy, please—”
Delia laughed, loud and unguarded.
He arched an eyebrow at her. “Wine for the lady.”
“Yes, my lord.” The maid rushed off, eager to please.
“Brandy?” Delia challenged, a teasing smile on her full lips.
He studied her for a heartbeat longer than was proper. She was a beauty, with high cheekbones and wide eyes, but there was more to her than mere looks. Her spirit was full of fire despite the circumstance of her birth or the treatment of others.
“Water is not my only source of survival,” he defended, before eating his first spoonful of stew.
It was hearty, rich in flavor with herbs, vegetables, and meat, warming him from the inside out. They ate in companionable silence, interrupted only when the maid delivered fresh bread, wine, and brandy.
“Do most people react like the innkeeper?” she asked, swirling her spoon through the remnants of her bowl.
“Yes.” The answer came easily. His entire life, Hunt had been mistaken for a servant, questioned as the heir, or outright labeled a bastard, not worthy of the title, according to his own father.
He’d learned early in life that explaining himself was only wasted breath.
Instead, Hunt perfected the art of proving them wrong. Providing for his mother and his sister, living his life the way he wanted, were the only things he could do.
Anger towards his father and the rumors he’d started had plagued Hunt his entire life. But his father was dead. And Hunt, not Augustus, was the Earl of March.
“How do you tolerate it?” she whispered, her gaze flicking around the room like she was assessing the threat.
The other patrons kept stealing glances at them behind mugs and lowered voices as though Hunt and Delia were on display.
He leaned forward, catching her gaze. “It doesn’t matter what they think.” He waved his hand in front of him. “They don’t define me.” The realization struck him like a runaway horse. “I do.”
Her expression softened, her head lifted higher, like she too had come to the same realization. They were the only two people in the room—again—as it had been in his parlor.
“Your rooms are ready, my lord, my lady.” The innkeeper hovered nearby, breaking the spell.
Hunt rose, offering Delia his hand. They followed the now deferential innkeeper toward the long staircase, leaving behind the large dining area. As they reached the first step, Hunt slowed, moving aside to allow the couple descending to pass.
The woman was older, beautiful, but a little too painted. The cut of her gown was tight, revealing, her dark brown braids arranged dramatically. Her liquid brown eyes assessed Hunt appreciatively before moving to Delia.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to slow—to the staircase, the woman, and the uncanny likeness between her and Delia at his side. Same smooth brown skin, dark hair, and liquid brown eyes.
Delia’s fingers clenched around his arm, her body trembling. Instinctively, Hunt shifted closer to her, wanting to shield her from whatever was to come.
The woman’s short companion’s eyes roamed over Delia in a way that made Hunt want to pummel him into the ground until he learned how to respect a woman.
The older woman stumbled, her eyes wide in recognition before she quickly recovered with a mask of indifference.
Delia stepped forward, her breath loud and shallow. “Mother.”