Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Breathe.
Breathe, Delia.
Breathe.
She repeated the words over and over in her head, ignoring the room closing in around her. Air. She tried to force air into her lungs, but no matter how much she tried, Delia still was unable to breathe.
Eighteen years.
Eighteen years of waiting, hoping, and praying that her mother would return and save her, hug her, acknowledge her.
Years of silence, like the woman never existed.
When she was a girl, Delia would imagine the day when her mother would finally return, but as the years passed, the truth of her reality closed in on her.
Unlike other abandoned children, Delia wasn’t left at a foundling hospital or on the streets of London. Once she was safely ensconced at her father’s home, she never experienced abuse or hunger. Perhaps for that, she should be grateful, but what child did not long for her mother’s love?
The short, stout man by her mother’s side stepped forward. His gaze traveled down Delia’s form again. She moved closer to Hunt in an attempt to hide herself from the man’s lascivious stare. “Do you know this girl, Madame Belvoir—”
“She’s not a girl,” Hunt interjected, stepping forward slightly. “She’s Miss Adelia St. George.”
Her mother’s companion whipped his too large head to Hunt, his dull gray eyes cold and judging. “And who are you?”
“This is the Earl of March, Mr. Huxley,” the innkeeper said enthusiastically, like he had not insulted Hunt moments earlier.
Huxley, her mother’s escort, reared back like it was difficult for him to believe what he’d heard. “I see.” His lips thinned, his jowls reddening like he’d stood in the sun too long. “Madame, do you know Miss St. George?” He sneered Delia’s name, like it was a foul taste on his tongue.
Her mother shook her head emphatically, the intricate braids in her hair dangling. She used to braid Delia’s hair while telling stories of her own mother.
“No.” The words slapped Delia across the face. “You must have me mistaken. Although I do see a resemblance, I am entirely too young to be your mother.” She pulled her companion away, not sparing Delia another glance.
“Mother,” the words dragged out of her, raw and unsteady.
She was vaguely aware that she was moving. Her body was led up the stairs, Hunt guiding her the entire way. Words had long disappeared around her, sound had fallen away. Voices blurred in the air. Her breath came fast and shallow—too fast—yet her lungs refused to fill.
Eighteen years of telling herself that her mother’s abandonment had been proof of her love.
When they were hungry, cold, and living in the attic of a boarding house, Delia had thought them happy.
It was the first time that it was just the two of them, and then they’d taken a stagecoach to Leicestershire.
“That’ll be all.” Hunt’s voice reached her, gliding through the fog of her mind, steady and comforting. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, solid, unyielding, holding her upright on quivering legs.
The loud click of the door jounced Delia, snapping her out of her haze.
She blinked, finding herself inside a nicely appointed chamber.
Old wood. Scarred furniture. A hearth was roaring, alive and bright.
The crackle of the burning wood cut through the ringing in her ears.
Hunt squeezed her, anchoring her to him as he led her over to a faded chaise lounge near the fireplace.
Air. She needed air.
“All is well, you’re fine and well,” she said, swaying in his arms.
Strong hands stroked her hair, a firm grip around her waist cementing Delia in place as he gently sat her down.
“Breathe, Delia.”
Hunt’s large hands circled her back, the pressure grounding her in a way nothing else ever had.
“You are well, Delia,” he repeated her mantra to her. His cool lips pressed against her forehead.
The touch of his lips, the safety of being in his arms, broke her. The tears burst free without permission, violent and unstoppable, stealing the last of her composure. She clutched at his waistcoat, her hands balled into fists, not wanting to let him go.
Delia wasn’t sure when he had freed himself of his coat, but it didn’t matter as she snuggled closer to him.
“She looked straight at me,” Delia sobbed, the words hollow. “And said she wasn’t my mother.” She leaned back, looking up at Hunt. “Why would she do that?”
Delia shook her head, moving out of his arms. Her fingers pulled at the thick strands of her curls. The few remaining pins that had not fallen out during the journey fell from her head. The shallow emptiness in her stomach spread through her, threatening to consume her entire being.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t define you, Delia.”
He leaned closer to her, his handsome face stern like he wanted her to understand his words.
“I tried to look for her once.” The words were hollow, lacking any emotion to her own ears. “I was eighteen, and I begged my father to help me find her.”
She remembered it clearly. The panic she’d felt year after year when her mother never came back for her, never sent a single letter. Surely, something was wrong after all that time.
“I threatened to go after her myself, but he insisted that Margaret needed me, and that it wasn’t safe for an unmarried woman to go gallivanting around London unaccompanied.” She turned to him, her vision blurry from the constant stream of tears.
Suddenly, Delia was engulfed in his warmth and strength. The constant beating of his heart against her wet cheek soothed her in a way she’d never imagined the sound could.
In that moment in his arms, she was the same broken little girl her mother had abandoned, but this time, she wasn’t alone.
“She looked right through me.” The words were wrenched out of her. “Like I was nothing but the bastard she’d abandoned—”
Both of his hands cupped her face. There was fire and determination in his usually crisp green gaze.
“Listen to me,” he demanded. “You are worthy. You’re not nothing.
She is.” His fingers stroked at the tears on her cheek.
“Being a bastard is just the circumstance of your birth. It doesn’t define who you are.
” One of his hands went to the nape of her neck, strong, commanding.
He pulled her closer, his forehead touching hers, the green of his eyes deep like she’d imagined the sea would be.
“You define who you are, Adelia St. George. Not her. Not Society. You.”
Delia blinked several times, clearing the tears from her eyes. For the first time since she’d met Hunter Wakefield, she saw him, really saw him. Beneath the pretense, beneath the easy smile, beneath the magnificence, he was hurting.
Like her.
“How?” she choked out the words in need of some water.
All of her life she had hidden in Leicestershire, caring for her father’s estate, raising her sister, in hopes that she would finally belong somewhere. But Delia would never belong, no matter what she sacrificed.
He released her cheek, the pads of his fingers caressing her skin. She closed her eyes, basking in his touch. The hand at her nape dragged slowly from her neck, stopping to pull at one of her loose curls.
Delia’s gaze slid from his eyes to his mouth, wanting nothing more than to kiss him and forget everything.
“I’m still figuring that part out myself.” He shook his head slightly, a small tilt to his lips. “But I do know that no matter how someone treats you, it’s up to you to live your life for you, not them.”
Her hand cupped his cheek, the hairs of his neatly trimmed beard tickling her palm. All the air that she desperately needed a moment ago left her body. In his gaze, Delia recognized what had always been missing in her life. With one single look from him, she suddenly felt like she belonged.
She was home.
“I can’t imagine anyone treating you like that.” He placed his hand on top of hers, bringing it to his lips.
The intimacy of the simple kiss to her bare hand had a slow smile spreading across her lips. Warmth—that had nothing to do with the heat from the hearth—spread through Delia.
Bringing her to him, he enveloped her in his arms, stretching out his long legs and laying back against the worn chaise. She placed her head on his chest, playing with his cravat.
“My father was the person who mistreated me,” he whispered, swallowing.
“He never wanted a son. Augustus was his heir. His twin brother had died when Augustus was a babe, and my father raised him as his own.” He sighed, his grip around her tightening like she was his anchor.
“He never planned to marry, but he and my mother were fond of each other. She was a wealthy widow, and the earldom was in need of funds.”
Delia gazed at him, fascinated by the tale. “He married her to save the earldom?”
“Yes, that and he really found my mother suitable for him.” He chuckled. “She was well past child rearing age at five and forty. They both were shocked when she began increasing. My father wasn’t happy. In fact, he questioned if the child was even his.”
Delia sat up, outraged. “What?” she asked, her voice carrying in the quiet room.
The thought of being treated unfairly by one’s spouse was abhorrent. Delia was not a stranger to mistreatment as Margaret’s mother had often hurled insults at her. Despite that, she still couldn’t imagine being mistreated by a spouse, someone she’d pledged her undying love to.
“When Helen was born, the butler said that he accepted her since she was a girl and would not interfere with his plans for Augustus to inherit.” He breathed deeply for what seemed like an eternity to Delia before he finally continued.
“Thirty minutes, exactly thirty minutes later, I came into the world and shattered every hope and dream my father had for his precious nephew and the earldom.”
Delia’s heart ached for him. “He wasn’t happy that you were born?” she asked, knowing the answer by the devastating look on his handsome face.