Chapter 13 #2
A gasp came from behind Hunt. “Will someone please tell me what is going on? Why are you calling this man my lord? Hunter, tell them you are the Earl of March.”
“Tell her,” Hunt demanded, lifting Augustus out of the chair.
Augustus threw out his elbow, catching Hunt in the chin. He stumbled backward as the other man threw out a punch, missing him. Hunt punched his cousin in the jaw, causing him to crash into the wall.
“Gentlemen, please!” The magistrate broke them apart.
Hunt heard the ladies gasp behind them as he stepped away, remembering himself.
“Tell Lady Margaret the truth,” Hunt growled out menacingly.
“It doesn’t matter. You will never get my family’s fortune. It belongs to me!” Augustus shouted, spittle falling from his mouth.
“What truth?” Margaret asked, stepping forward. “What is he talking about, Hunter?”
For God’s sake, Hunt didn’t want to speak ill of Delia’s sister, but was she daft? Had she not witnessed everything that had happened outside?
“He’s not Hunter Wakefield. I am.” Hunt turned to her, slapping himself in the chest. “He’s my cousin, or brother, if he’s telling the truth.” He added the last sentence, his gaze darting to Delia briefly.
“You are no brother of mine. Everyone knows that your mother had lovers. You’re a bastard!” Augustus shouted, his hand slapping against the wall.
“What if I am,” Hunt shouted, tired of the accusations.
“Who cares? The truth of the matter is that I am the legitimate son of the former Earl of March, and there is nothing you, or my dead father—may he rot—can do to change that.” He lifted his hands in triumphant, the words that he’d told Delia just a few short days earlier ringing true in his own heart. “You can join him in hell as his son.”
Augustus lunged at Hunt, bypassing the magistrate, but Hunt was ready, grabbing his cousin by the arms and throwing him against the wall. He punched the other man in the abdomen and released him, allowing him to bend over in pain.
“Hunt! Please stop this,” Delia said, and he remembered himself.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he stepped away from his cousin. Delia came to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“It’s over. They can’t take anything away from you,” she whispered in his ear.
His hands went around her waist, pulling her to him, not caring how improper it was to show emotion. He needed her, and he wouldn’t pretend otherwise.
“It can’t be true! Delia, I don’t know who this man is, but clearly, he is lying to you.” Lady Margaret’s shrill voice rang through the small room.
Augustus let out a bark of laughter. “You fool of a girl, even now you believe me,” he said coldly. “You were easy to manipulate. Rather difficult to get into bed, but once we were on the road, your legs parted like the Red Sea—”
“You scoundrel, have you no decency?” Delia shouted.
Augustus laughed, and it took every ounce of strength Hunt had not to pummel him again. “Decency? This from the bastard daughter of a whore. I should thank you, really. With you by his side, Society will never accept him or you or any mongrels you produce—”
Hunt broke. That was enough. He reached his cousin in two quick strides, pushing aside the much bigger magistrate and punching Augustus in the face. A loud crunching sound ripped through the room, blood falling down his cousin’s face.
“My nose! You broke my nose!”
Hunt stood back, pointing at his cousin. “If I ever catch you saying one filthy word about my wife-to-be, my mother, my sister, or Lady Margaret, I will kill you and take joy in it. Do I make myself clear, Augustus?”
“Two known bastards will never be accepted in Society,” Augustus shouted as Hunt turned his back on him.
Addressing the magistrate, Hunt said, “I want him arrested and shipped to London for theft and for impersonating a peer.”
“You can’t do that. He was my real father! I would’ve been legitimate if he married my mother and not his brother!” Augustus called out, but Hunt ignored him, ushering Delia and her distraught sister from the room.
The truth no longer mattered to Hunt. All that mattered was that he could finally live his life with the woman he loved.
Loved.
He loved Adelia St. George, and he would tell her as soon as they were alone.
Delia held her sister close as the carriage came to a stop in front of Aunt Francis’ small townhouse in London.
It had been a leisurely four-day journey back, and she still felt quite uneasy about how everything played out.
Not only was her sister absolutely devastated by Augustus Wakefield’s deceit, but Delia herself could not stop thinking about his haunting words.
“With you by his side, Society will never accept him.”
Those words had followed Delia to London and ruined all her hopes and dreams for a future and a family with Hunt. It didn’t matter that he accepted her for who she was. He didn’t love her. He was besotted, but he didn’t love her.
After spending the night in Sheffield, where she stayed with a crying Margaret all night long, they left for London at first light.
She was thankful that there had not been a real opportunity for her and Hunt to speak.
Delia wasn’t positive she would’ve been able to conceal her emotions from him.
The truth was painful, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a fact.
If Hunt married her, he’d always be a bastard in Society.
It didn’t matter that he was the legitimate son of the former Earl of March.
All that mattered was that his paternity was questioned.
“We’re here,” Hunt said, his gaze on Delia.
He had tried several times to engage her in conversation, but Delia had used her sister’s sensitive state like a shield. It was rather despicable, to be sure, but what choice did she have?
Looking into those crisp green eyes would surely be her undoing. She knew what she had to do, and it wasn’t marrying the Earl of March. Marrying Hunt would ruin him and his family.
“Thank heavens,” Margaret said, sitting up as Aunt Francis came running out the door.
She moved exceptionally well for a woman her age.
Hunt exited the carriage and reached back to hold his hand out for Margaret, who had been avoiding him at every opportunity. She took his hand, quickly accepting his assistance, but then released it like he had burnt her.
Delia was next, taking his offered hand, remembering the feel of it against her palms, savoring the last time she had kissed those plump lips of his. It was the previous night, and he had placed a soft chaste kiss on her lips outside of the room she and Margaret were staying in.
She’d closed her eyes then, reveling in him.
“Oh, thank heavens, you’ve returned! The Ton is in an uproar! Everyone knows that Mr. Wakefield stole the earl’s identity and deceived my poor Margaret,” Aunt Francis rushed out, taking hold of an ashen-faced Margaret.
Hunt ran his hand down his face. “Mother is probably in an uproar,” he said, his warm hand on Delia’s back.
“I’ll explain everything inside. Come along!” Aunt Francis said, leading Margaret into the townhouse.
Delia faced Hunt, finding it impossible to stare into those eyes that had sealed her fate the first time they’d met. “It’s late. I know you must return home. Go.”
He pulled her close, placing a kiss on her forehead.
The oncoming darkness shielded them from prying eyes.
He’d taken to touching and kissing her anytime they weren’t in the presence of other people.
It lit her up from the inside, and Delia wanted to hold each kiss, and touch close for the rest of her life to remember him by.
“I will call on you tomorrow, after I write to the archbishop and your father,” he said, squeezing her waist.
Delia nodded, unable to find her voice, fighting the tears that threatened to fall.
He left, and she rushed inside to find Margaret and Aunt Francis in the small parlor.
“I received a missive from your father. He is insisting that you both return to Leicestershire immediately.” She held up the small missive. “Word of Margaret’s unfortunate situation has reached him, and he finds that there is no reason for you both to remain in London. I agree with him.”
Margaret shook her head. “I will return home, but Delia is marrying—”
“I’ll go pack. We can leave in the morning. Have the carriage ready to go.” Delia rushed away, unable to stop the tears from falling from her eyes.
For one glorious moment, she’d thought that it didn’t matter that she was born on the wrong side of the blanket. All that mattered was that he accepted her, but what sort of life would they have if Society turned their backs on him?
He was an earl and deserved respect when he entered a room, not whispers and judgment.
Reaching the room she shared with her sister, Delia began to pack their few remaining things, not bothering to stop the tears from falling.
“What are you doing?” Margaret asked, closing the door behind her.
Delia took the last of her drab dresses out of the wardrobe. “Packing.”
“Why? I know you love him, and he wants to marry you. I heard you talking the other night.” Margaret sat on the bed, her red-rimmed eyes wide.
“I’m a bastard, Margaret. He can’t marry me. It’ll ruin his family, his life.” Delia placed the dresses on the bed, wiping at her wet cheeks. “I must return to Leicestershire, and he must marry another.”
Margaret laughed. “My whole life I wanted someone to love me. Father never did; my mother only cared about having an heir. Perhaps that was why it was easy to believe Augustus’s lies.
” She sighed. “But, you, Delia, loved me from the moment you arrived.” She stood and took Delia by the hand.
“You deserve to be happy. You’re not a bastard to those who love you. You’re just you.”
“It doesn’t matter. You can’t fall in love with someone in a sennight,” Delia whispered, the words breaking her heart.
“Perhaps not, but you have, and if I ever found that type of love, I wouldn’t run away from it.” Margaret released Delia’s hand and walked out of the room.
Delia stood alone, her mind recalling every moment she had had with Hunt. She loved him, of that there was no doubt, but she couldn’t ruin his life. She wouldn’t.
No, Delia would return to her father’s home and Hunt could marry another.
She sat on the bed, tears wracking her body, and mourned the whisper of love that she’d had, if only for a moment.