Hunt tipped his chair back, crossing his ankles and propping his booted feet on the desk. Clumps of dirt from the mud he’d walked through earlier—with her—scattered across various papers, but he didn’t care.
She’d played him for a fool. Everything she’d done and said had been a lie.
Bile burned in his gut. Feeling sick with himself, he rubbed his chest. The betrayal hurt worse than his father’s. Because he had trusted her. He’d taken her at her word—he’d invited her into his home.
Across from him, Edgeworth poured three glasses at the liquor cabinet, and Damien was seated in the high-backed chair near the hearth.
Hunt’s gaze flicked to the settee where she’d gone down on her knees earlier that day, and he cleared his throat.
All this time, he’d been courting the wrong woman.
More than courting, damn my eyes.
Fucking.
That was all it had been. He refused to entertain the possibility that it had been more.
Because he certainly hadn’t fallen in love with her.
How could he have when he didn’t know the first thing about her?
Hunt cleared his throat. “It seems that I’ve been conned.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth.
“Knew there was something off about them,” Edge groused. “I only wish I’d figured it out myself.” The captain lifted a glass, tossed back the contents, and then set it down to fill it again.
Only then did he bother bringing the other glasses over.
“What did Meadowbrook have to say?” Damien asked.
Allison’s father—whoever Allison might be—had met with Hunt for a contentious meeting before retiring for the night. Meadowbrook intended to take his leave first thing in the morning.
“He blames the school. Says his daughter hasn’t been the same since she began attending.” All of them had swindled him—Miss Primm included. “Of course, our agreement no longer stands.”
And that ought to be what concerned Hunt most.
“Damned bluestockings.” Edgeworth seemed as insulted as Hunt did. The man had dark circles etched beneath his eyes, obviously having made Hunt’s troubles his own.
Hunt was a lucky man to have friends like these two.
But while Hunt observed Edge, Damien was watching Hunt. “Have you talked to her since?”
And by her, Damien obviously meant Miss Fellowes.
Hunt had since learned she was Priscilla Fellowes. And he ought to have guessed that she wasn’t a student at all. A teacher by God! Domestic Sciences and History hadn’t been her favorite subjects at all, but the subjects she taught.
And by God, she was not ten and seven but rather six and twenty. Nearly an entire decade older than he’d been led to believe.
How had he missed the truth?
“My mother has taken care of that. If I never see her again, it’ll be too soon.” Hunt ran a hand through his hair, annoyed to see that it was shaking. Damn his eyes. Damn her eyes. Damn the both of them to hell.
Half of him wanted to strangle Allison—Priscilla—but the other half wanted more answers.
And ironically, although he never wanted to lay eyes on her again, something deep inside ached to do just that.
More than that.
“Why in the hell would they resort to such a ridiculous scheme?” Edgeworth paced across the room.
