Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Hunt flexed his head side to side, ready to be out of the carriage for the night. After another day without catching up to his cousin and Lady Margaret, all Hunt wanted to do was to have a hot meal and then go to bed with Delia wrapped around his body.
As the evening approached, they arrived in Sheffield. The previous night, they had missed Augustus by two hours according to the motherly innkeeper in Derby. He had not faced the same line of questioning as he had in Birmingham, and for that, Hunt was grateful.
The innkeeper had repeatedly informed them that she did not like the look of the other fellow.
He’d spent the entire night worshipping her body and taking her exactly as he promised—on all fours, with her round, luscious rump on display just for him. He counted down the days for when they could return to London and finally marry.
He’d fallen under her spell, and he couldn’t be more enraptured. Confessing his undying love seemed a bit premature, but it bloomed out of him, and he wanted nothing more than to tell her. Perhaps that night, he would tell her and then prove it over and over for the rest of their lives.
First, Hunt had to handle his blasted cousin. Trying to steal the family’s fortune from Hunt was one thing, running away with an innocent was diabolical even for Augustus.
Hunt buried his nose in her neck, inhaling deeply, one of his hands resting on her breasts. This was heaven to him. He couldn’t wait to begin their lives together.
His first priority when returning to London was to write to Cliffbury. He understood that the man remained in Leicestershire and allowed his daughters to come to London alone.
The horses trotted along. Hunt’s arms securely wrapped around Delia. If he had his way, he’d never let his hellion go.
She was his peace, his shelter from the storm.
Shouts from outside suddenly carried into the carriage.
Augustus!
He would know his cousin’s voice anywhere. Hunt sat up, as they came to an abrupt stop, jerking them forward. He gripped his hands tighter around Delia, preventing her from falling over.
“My lord, Mr. Wakefield is here at the inn!” William, his footman shouted on the other side of the door.
Without a second thought, Hunt came barreling out of the carriage intent on confronting Augustus.
His cousin stood, arguing with another man in front of the Two Goats Inn and Hunt’s stolen carriage like he owned it. Hunt took large steps toward him, stretching his legs as far as they would go.
“I am paying you! you are my coachman! You will return me to London, now!” Augustus shouted, and it was then that Hunt noticed that Lady Margaret was not with him.
Dear God, where was she?
“I will not leave the young lady here! I don’t care how much you are paying me,” the man answered, folding his arms and refusing to move.
“Augustus, you swine!” Hunt shouted, approaching his cousin and the younger man.
Hunt reached Augustus, taking him by the lapels of his great coat, and throwing him against the carriage.
“Where is she?” he snarled, anger pumping in his veins.
Augustus snorted. “Of course, you would come running to save the day. You’re too late.” He let out a manacle laugh. “I’ve already ruined her, and all of London believes that it was you.”
“Because of your fucking lies!” Hunt slammed his cousin against the carriage again.
“My lies? You don’t deserve the earldom. It belongs to me!” Augustus spat, his face red and blotchy. “Uncle was my real father. I should’ve inherited everything, but he couldn’t give it to me because you were born.”
Hunt released him, stumbling back at Augustus’s words.
No. It couldn’t be true.
The world spun around him, his head suddenly throbbing.
Percy Wakefield had never loved Hunt or even Helen.
He’d preferred Augustus, had showered him with riches and affection.
Augustus had remained at Albertus Manor long after Hunt and his family were discarded.
They were forgotten, forced to live at Tigress House, his mother’s home purchased by her first husband.
When he was a boy, he’d thought that he had done something to cause his father’s hatred of him, but the truth was he wanted his firstborn to inherit everything.
“How?” he rasped, aware that a small crowd was gathering around them, but he did not care. Hunt had to know the truth of it.
“His brother had particular tastes but married my mother all the same to hide his proclivities. Uncle agreed to father a child with her and never have children of his own. But when the family coffers were in dire need, he married your lying mother—”
Hunt’s fist connected with Augustus’s cheek, once, twice, three times. “Don’t you fucking dare say another foul word about my mother. We’re not in Society, and I will not restrain myself from pummeling you.”
Augustus spat on the ground. “Go ahead, do it!” He egged Hunt on. “You’ve already lost the fortune. Uncle purposely put that clause in the will, knowing you would do something. My plan was already in motion when you were gloriously mentioned in The Rake Review.”
“What is going on?” Lady Margaret stood in front of the inn, wearing a pink pelisse and what seemed to be a dressing gown. Her hair was down and wild, like she had been compromised. “Hunter, where are you going?”
Bloody hell.
“Margaret, thank God, we’ve found you!” Delia ran to her sister, wrapping her arms around her smaller frame.
“Delia, what are you doing here?” Lady Margaret squeezed Delia.
Tears fell down both ladies’ faces as they embraced.
Seeing their bond firsthand filled Hunt with joy. He understood better than anyone the importance of family. Helen and his mother meant everything to him.
A tall stocky man of African descent cut through the crowd. “My lord,” he addressed Hunt. “I am the local magistrate. Perhaps this should be taken somewhere more private?” He waved a hand toward the inn.
Augustus’s revelation still swam in Hunt’s head as he pushed his cousin toward the inn.
“Get your filthy hands off me, you bastard!” Augustus spat the words at Hunt.
“If what you say is true, then I am not the bastard here. You are.” Hunt still could not comprehend that if the man in front of him was telling the truth, then they were really brothers.
Hunt turned to the young man who was still standing in shock by his appearance. “Were you aware that he was not the earl, when you agreed to be his coachman?”
It was clear to Hunt that Augustus and the young man were in a dispute over leaving when he’d arrived.
“No, I retrieved the carriage with him and then proceeded to Gretna Green. It wasn’t until Birmingham that I discovered his true intentions to abandon the lady,” the younger man said, shaking his head.
“What is your name?” Hunt asked him, wanting to end the entire ordeal, and hold Delia in his arms.
“Nick, my lord.” He bowed his head at Hunt.
“You can go with my servants and lead the second coach back to London tomorrow. John will see to everything.” Rubbing his hand down his face, Hunt groaned in frustration before addressing his coachman.
“John, see to the horses, then you, William, and Nick have a hot meal and a rest. We’re leaving for London at first light. ”
“Yes, my lord.” John bowed his head to Hunt before rushing off, leaving him alone with the dispersing crowd and the two women still standing in each other’s arms.
“I-I don’t understand. Who is that man, Delia?” Lady Margaret asked, looking from Hunt to Delia, her eyes scrunched in confusion.
Delia wrapped her arm tighter around her sister, and Hunt could tell that she was the strong one, the one who held everything together. He understood that burden more than anything. It was why he had not fought his hellion when she insisted on joining him.
“I think we had all better go inside,” Hunt said, placing his hand on the small of Delia’s back.
They walked into the small inn, but she stopped in front of Hunt, allowing her sister to go ahead of them.
“Are you well?” Her cool, gloved hands touched his cheek, and Hunt couldn’t help but close his eyes and sink into her warmth if only for a moment.
“No.” The word dragged out of him, raw and hollow. “But I will be, because I have you.” He took her gloved hand in his and kissed it.
“You do have me,” she whispered, her gaze on his lips.
He desperately wanted to pull her to him and ravish her mouth and forget about his cursed father and Augustus.
“Delia?” her sister called, forcing Delia to move her hand from Hunt’s cheek.
He was immediately cooled.
“The magistrate is waiting this way, my lord,” a short man said, his arms outstretched to a room off the side of the hall.
Hunt led the ladies into the small room. The wall was covered in the likeness of different kings and queens of England. An old square table sat against one wall, a worn brown sofa that had seen better days against another.
Augustus sat at the head of the table, lip busted, cheek bruised.
The sight of him gave Hunt a bit of satisfaction.
His cousin—or whoever he was to Hunt—had plagued him his whole life.
Like Hunt’s father, Augustus would announce to anyone who listened that he, not Hunt, should be the Earl of March, and Hunt was a bastard.
Now, it seemed that Augustus was the true bastard son of Percy Wakefield. Hunt wasn’t positive how to perceive this new information about his family, nor did he know what he would tell his mother and sister once he finally returned to London.
“I demand you let me go! I am the true earl!” Augustus shouted, banging his hand against the table again.
Hunt couldn’t believe that the mongrel had the gall to continue with this farce. “Stop the fucking pretense this instant!” Hunt shouted, having heard enough of Augustus and his lies.
“My lord, the ladies,” the magistrate said, reminding him that both Delia and her sister were in the room.
He knew Delia would not be offended or swoon from his harsh words. His hellion was no wilting flower, and for that, he was thankful.