Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Delia awoke, stretching her ridiculously sore body.
She never imagined such intimate places could be tender, but her thighs felt like she had run to Scotland.
Her sex throbbed as if he were still inside of her.
Delia’s heavy tongue felt like she had overindulged in wine when, in fact, she hadn’t even finished the small glass she had.
She ran her tongue against her swollen upper lip, still feeling the pressure of his kisses hours later.
The previous night’s events replayed over and over in her head. There was a small voice inside her head telling her how foolish she was to fall into bed with Hunt, but with his arms still wrapped tightly around her, it was impossible to feel foolish at all.
Her previous lover, Clarence, had been kind in his endeavors, but never had she felt anything remotely like these intense feelings, nor had they done such wicked things.
She’d heard of such acts from a kitchen maid, Ellen, who she’d gotten close too before the maid had married and moved away. But Delia never imagined that she would experience such pleasures or give them for that matter. Yet she had done both.
“Are you well?” he asked, causing her to start.
He pulled her closer, his nose burying in the alcove of her neck.
Delia relaxed in his arms, the sensation of being protected and wanted overwhelming her.
Her entire life she’d always felt on the verge of being thrown out into the streets at any moment.
The late duchess would threaten that very outcome anytime Delia’s father would leave on an extended journey.
Delia slowly turned her head to gaze over her shoulder. His hard member pressed against her bare rear, alerting her to the fact that they were both completely naked as the day they were born.
Her cheeks heated from the desire in his eyes, as his hand began a slow, treacherous journey from her abdomen to the hairs of her sex.
Delia wasn’t a particularly shy person, but she’d never been completely exposed in front of anyone except perhaps her sister and a lady’s maid—which she never had one of her own.
“Are you well?” he asked again, placing a kiss to her forehead.
Swoon.
Delia was going to swoon, like a simpering debutante, and how could she not after the previous evening’s activities. There was nothing to be done about it, and she was thankful that they were already in bed.
Together.
Hunt was even more glorious in the morning. His usual neat beard was thicker and rougher from lack of care. His green eyes sparkled like he knew what his words and actions did to her.
“Quite well.” She turned in his arms, emboldened at their newfound closeness.
It wouldn’t do to dwell on what would happen once they returned to London. For now, Delia wanted to enjoy this.
When she’d decided to end her innocence, Delia had hoped for an experience like she had with Hunt.
One that would satisfy her for the rest of her days.
Her stepmother had often reminded Delia that she would never find a love match, or a gentleman who would accept a duke’s by-blow as a wife.
She’d accepted that narrative as her own, but now, a small spark of hope lived in her chest, and that scared her more than anything else.
He kissed her, slow, his large hands going to her rear, squeezing, causing a soft moan to leave her.
Those wicked lips of his went to her neck, and she arched her body against him, like she was a needy cat.
What is he doing to her?
Thick fingers entered her sex, and Delia cried out, pulling him to her. The previous night, she had found pleasure at least five times, if she counted correctly. How was such a thing possible?
“May I have you again?” he asked, rolling her over.
His hard, strong body pressed against hers, his member at her thigh, at attention.
Suddenly, Delia was no longer in any discomfort, just need.
“Please,” she whispered, her lips grazing a path to his rough cheek, enjoying the feel of his whiskers against her mouth.
Unlike the previous night, he entered her slow and steady. His hands desperately roaming her body, like she would disappear if he didn’t touch every single part of her.
Boldly, Delia’s own hands roamed down his strong back, feeling every dip and muscle.
“My greedy little hellion,” he whispered darkly against her neck.
His thrusts were deep, filling her up completely until she felt as if she would explode from the sheer size of him.
Delia had believed herself somewhat experienced, but clearly, her rushed dalliances were nothing in comparison to the overall inferno that Hunt caused inside of her.
Throwing her head back against the pillow, she met his motion with her own, chasing her pleasure.
“Oh God, Hunt, don’t stop.” She gripped his shoulder, her nails surely leaving a mark on him.
The thought pleased her more than it should. She wanted to mark him as hers, alerting every woman in England that he belonged to her.
She was going mad. It was official.
Shocking her, Hunt sat up on his knees, bringing her hips with him. “Never. I’ll never stop.” The promise pierced her very soul.
Delia closed her eyes, fighting the emotion that suddenly threatened to ruin the moment for her.
No.
Hope was the killer of dreams. Waiting for her mother to return for eighteen years had proven that to her.
Her legs began to quiver, her sex throbbing, as he hit a spot deep inside of her that had her gripping the white cotton sheets of the bed.
One of his hands touched her sex, rubbing slow torturous circles. Wetness flooded from her, as she called out in ecstasy, “Hunt!” Delia couldn’t control her own body as she moved her hips up and down on him, like she was a wild woman.
It was pure bliss, as he squeezed one of her breasts.
Hunt’s jaw clenched, as he grunted and stilled inside of her, his head thrown back in pleasure.
She did that.
Releasing her, he fell beside her, kissing her shoulder. She smiled at him, pressing her hand against his sweat-soaked face.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Delia covered herself with the counterpane, as Hunt rose from the bed.
“We should clean up and leave before it gets too late,” he said, locating his breeches and shirt.
Delia rose, finding her discarded shift and placing it over her still vibrating body. Reaching her bag, she pulled out her dressing gown, covering herself quickly.
“Who do you think is at the door?” she asked, picking up her worn dress and folding it to put away.
“It’s probably John, looking for me.” He put on his boots and then strolled to her. “I’ll send a maid up with food and water for a bath. Meet me downstairs when you are ready.”
He pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was deep and long, and Delia couldn’t help but pull him closer to her.
Three more knocks rang through the room, forcing her to release him.
Hunt walked to the door and opened it slightly, blocking Delia’s view of whoever was on the other side.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was told this was Miss St. George’s room.” Delia froze at the sound of her mother’s voice on the other side of the door.
“What do you want with Miss St. George?” Hunt asked, his voice menacing. “Last night, you said you did not know who she was. Now you knock on her door like nothing happened.”
“Aren’t you a protective one?” her mother said, amusement in her voice. “I would like to see my daughter.”
Hunt stood up straighter, his height intimidating. “No. I won’t allow you to upset her again. Please leave.”
Delia rose, her own anger rising at the nerve of both of them discussing her as if she was not capable of making her on decisions. She’d taken care of herself for twenty-five years, and she wouldn’t stop now just because she allowed Hunt into her bed.
Pressing her hand to his forearm. “It’s fine, Hunt.” She tied her dressing gown tighter around her body, her heart pounding. “I have some things I’d like to discuss with my mother.”
His gaze met hers, making sure that she was fine.
She softened under his caring gaze. No one had ever cared for her like he had the previous night, and even now, he was ready to turn her mother away for upsetting her.
“Very well.” He nodded at her, opening the door wider to reveal her mother, dressed and wearing too much powder and rouge so early in the morning. “I’ll send up a maid with water and meet you downstairs.”
The longing in his eyes made it clear he wanted to kiss her again, but he simply turned away and walked past her mother without saying another word.
The previous night, Delia had been caught unawares by seeing her mother again, but she had recovered, thanks to the man who had vacated the room, and now she had eighteen years’ worth of words to say to the woman who had given birth to her.
The door clicked loudly behind Hunt, leaving Delia standing alone with her mother.
Her mother was still a very pretty woman but worn in ways Delia had not noticed the night before.
The dark circles around her eyes could not be hidden by any amount of powder.
She had gained weight, her small frame bulkier around the middle and in the face.
Delia was finding it difficult to speak. Years of writing down what she wanted to say to her mother failed her in that moment.
“I see some things are inherited, and an earl. Well done, you,” her mother said, folding her arms. She wore a fading red gown that looked like it had seen much better days.
Ignoring her comment, Delia went and sat on the chaise lounge, trying not to remember lying there in Hunt’s arms.
“Mother, I see your memory has returned.” Delia sat back against the chaise, happy to be sitting, fearful her shaking limbs would betray her.
“Come now, Adelia,” her mother said in a bored voice. “I am a courtesan. I cannot have a grown daughter.”
“But you do, Mother, one that you left on a doorstep, like I meant nothing to you.” Delia raised her hands, cursing the tears that were suddenly forming in her eyes. “W-what if Father had not accepted me? Did you even think about that?”
Her mother stepped forward, then stopped. “Your father is many things, but he would never be cruel.” She shook her head. “I did what was best for you. Have you any inkling how difficult it would have been to secure a benefactor with a child at my skirts?”
Delia opened her mouth, not believing the gall of the woman who’d given birth to her. “You didn’t seem to care as long as that benefactor was a duke.”
When Delia was younger, she recalled the lavish townhouse she and her mother had lived in. It was small, but filled with the finest of furnishings and servants that catered to their every need.
“I was foolish. I thought that if I had his child, I would live in luxury for the rest of my days.” She let out a humorless bark.
“It lasted five years, then he was married, had a daughter, and soon, we were just a place for him to visit a time or two. Until he decided that he could no longer provide for my lifestyle. Only a hundred pounds a year to care for you. A hundred pounds!” she shouted, supercilious at the amount of funds offered.
“So, you abandoned me, with nothing, no missive for eighteen years, as if I never existed.” Delia wiped away the lone tear that had fallen. “You are incomprehensible, Mother.”
“Don’t be a sentimental fool, Adelia.” Her mother raised a hand.
“You weren’t abandoned. You were left with your father, a duke.
The least he could do was care for you. Why should he be allowed to marry, have another child, and I be confined to poverty, and a girl at my skirts?
The best thing I did was leave you with him.
You have no idea the world I am a part of.
It is no place for a young girl.” She recoiled at the last sentence.
Delia didn’t say anything for what seemed like an eternity. It was the first time since the moment she’d walked into the room that her mother had shown any concern for her.
“A simple missive, alerting me that you weren’t dead, would’ve sufficed,” Delia said, staring her mother in the eyes. They were the same as her own but lacked any emotion at all.
“I’ve never been maternal, Adelia. I only became with child to secure your father, but he was not the fool I had perceived him to be.” She placed one hand on her hip, not looking chagrined at all.
The words cut deep, deeper than Delia ever imagined. The woman standing in front of her never wanted a daughter. She wanted a duke, and nothing more.
Having heard enough, Delia stood, suddenly aware of her lack of clothing. “I wish you the best, Mother.” She walked past her mother and placed her hand on the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“I know I seem harsh, but you will understand one day. When your handsome earl finally marries—”
“I’m not his mistress,” Delia shouted, not liking her mother’s accusation. “And I never will be.”
She had no plans to become Hunt’s or anyone’s mistress. Her life would always be her own, no matter what.
“Really? It doesn’t smell like it, dear.”
The words slapped Delia across the face, crashing down on the euphoria of the night before and that morning.
She had foolishly refused to think of the consequences of allowing Hunt in her bed, but there would be repercussions.
Not only had he completed in her, but now she was in danger of losing her heart to him.
What future could she, the bastard daughter of a duke and a courtesan, have with a respectable earl?
None.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Your water, miss.” A maid said through the door.
The thought of Hunt sending a bath up for her, warmed Delia’s heart.
“I hope we see each other in London,” her mother said.
Taking a deep breath, Delia held her head up high, refusing to show her mother that her words had met their target. “If we do, I’ll pretend like I don’t have a mother.” She opened the door, allowing the maids to come in holding buckets of steaming hot water. “Goodbye, Selena.”
For a moment, her mother looked injured but quickly recovered and walked to the door. She stopped for a moment to look at Delia.
Her mother placed a hand on Delia’s arm. “Do be careful, Adelia,” she said coolly. “Men like him do not marry women like us.”
Her mother left her standing at the door as the maids scurried into the room.
Delia swallowed, suddenly unable to find her voice, her body cold, the glimmer of hope that had sparked inside of her now snuffed out, forever buried by her mother’s words.