Chapter 14 #2
Hunt handed Molly’s reins over to a footman in front of Lady Margaret’s aunt’s townhouse.
He had ridden Molly from his home in Grosvenor Square, testing her limits.
He was pleased at how well she handled. It was rare to find such a gem of a horse at a coaching inn, but here she was, and he wasn’t going to let the mare go.
He waited outside the door of the small home, when an old butler answered, staring at him wide-eyed.
“The Earl of March to see Miss Adelia St. George,” Hunt said, presenting the man with his card.
The butler stared from his card to him in confusion for longer than what was necessary in Hunt’s opinion.
“I’m sorry, my lord. Please do come in.” The butler allowed him entry, his behavior alerting Hunt that something was amiss.
Perhaps Delia was still abed. A small smile graced his lips at the thought of how much she enjoyed her sleep. Hunt couldn’t wait to sleep until noon with her. The thought of her wrapped in his arms had him longing for a kiss.
“My lord, is something the matter?” Mrs. Chambers, Lady Margaret’s aunt asked. She was a rather disagreeable-looking woman, with her hook nose and beady eyes that observed Hunt like he was prey.
Hunt stepped forward, a sinking feeling in his abdomen. “No, nothing is the matter. I’m here to see Miss Adelia St. George.”
She blinked several times, like he had two heads instead of one. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. She and my niece have returned to Leicestershire—”
“When?” Hunt asked, noticing the panic in his voice.
She’d left without saying a word to him. He gripped the small strands of his nape, wishing it were longer so that he could pull it out.
Delia had been exceptionally quiet on the trip back to London, but Hunt hadn’t paid it any heed. He foolishly thought that it was due to the chaos Augustus had caused.
A thin, short maid hurried down the hall, gripping a small missive in her hand. “Lord March, Miss St. George bid me to give this to you.” She held out the missive with a shaking hand.
Hunt took it, suddenly cold and void of all emotion. He couldn’t speak. He just nodded, his gaze on Delia’s neat handwriting. “When did she leave?” he asked, his entire body feeling hollow.
Suddenly he was a boy again, being ignored and criticized by his father and cousin. Bullied by other peers of the Ton, alone with no one but his mother and sister.
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Chambers said, her voice high.
“They left less than an hour ago, my lord,” the kind maid said to him.
Hunt turned and left the small townhouse, needing to breathe. Less than an hour ago, and she’d ripped out his heart and taken it with her.
Opening the missive, he tried to control his rapid breathing as Delia’s words swirled together.
He was crying.
Fucking crying.
Hunt,
I’m sorry. I know we had plans to spend our lives together,
but what Augustus said in Sheffield is correct. Society
will never accept you with me, a bastard, as your countess.
You’ve spent your entire life trying to prove that you were not born
on the wrong side of the blanket. It would be unfair for me
to ask you to remain there
So, I free you Hunter Wakefield,
the Magnificent Earl of March. I pray one day
that you will find love and
be happy.
Yours always, Delia.
Hunt stared at the words, not understanding their true meaning. Surely, she knew that he had already found love with her. He searched his mind, trying to recall every moment that he told her he loved her, but there wasn’t one. Not one single damn moment where he’d actually said the words.
I love you.
He was a fucking fool.
“My horse!” he shouted to the waiting footman.
Hunt marched toward Molly, mounting her like he was going to battle. He was. He had to catch Delia and tell her that he loved her. If she still wanted to be free of him, then he’d consider it in a hundred years, maybe.
He rode hard and fast through London, wondering if he should’ve stopped to retrieve a carriage, but surely, they could not be that far ahead of him. One could barely leave London in an hour with all the carriage traffic.
He would come upon them, confess his love, and marry as soon as he had the special license. Obviously, there was no time to delay because his bride-to-be had run away, assuming he didn’t love her.
Fool, he was a monumental fool.
Dear God, he couldn’t lose her.
Pushing Molly to her limits, Hunt enjoyed the wind on his face, the fresh smell of the impending spring. Hunt loved riding more than anything. It gave him a chance to be free and enjoy the outdoors. He couldn’t wait to teach his and Delia’s children how to ride and care for horses.
A lone carriage on one side of the road came into view, and he urged Molly to move faster. She obliged him, happy to be outside and running as much as Hunt was.
Cliffbury’s carriage moved at a leisurely pace on one side of the road, as a queue of carriages waited eagerly to enter London filled the other.
Hunt rode to the side of the carriage, getting the driver’s attention. “Stop the carriage!” he shouted, the wind blowing around him.
Delia and her sister stared out of the small window at him as the carriage slowed then stopped completely.
He dismounted Molly, making quick strides toward the stalled carriage.
Delia burst out of the carriage, wide-eyed and in shock. “What are you doing?” she asked, staring up at him.
Those liquid brown eyes he’d grown to love cemented him in place.
He wrapped an arm around her waist; his other hand cupped her cheek. “I’m a damn fool,” he said, his thumb circling her cheek. “I assumed that my intentions and feelings were perfectly clear, but obviously, they were not since you felt compelled to leave me—”
“Hunt, be reasonable,” she interrupted him, but he did not let it sway him in the least.
“Adelia St. George, I love you.” He pressed his forehead to hers.
She closed her eyes, tears falling down her cheeks. “You can’t. Society will never—”
“To hell with Society. They don’t get to tell me who I love and who will be my countess.” He pulled her closer, wanting to kiss those sweet lips of hers. “Do you love me?”
She blinked up at him. “It’s not that simple.”
“Do you love me?” he asked again, needing to hear the truth.
Her body deflated, sagging against his. “Yes,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”
A wide smile split his lips.
She loved him.
“Then nothing else matters, because I’ve loved you from the moment you crashed into my life, and I’ll love you until the day I die.” He breathed her in, wishing that they were alone, but they were not.
Carriages had stopped moving. People of the Ton were out and watching them openly. Delia’s sister stood on the side, dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes.
“Hunt,” Delia whispered, ghosting her lips to his. “You do know that you really are magnificent.”
He laughed, and for once, he didn’t curse The Rake Review. If it wasn’t for the gossip, he’d never have found the love of his life.
Hunt captured her lips in a long deep kiss, not caring that they were surrounded, not caring that perhaps they were causing a scandal. All that mattered was that Adelia St. George was his, and he was hers.
Always.