“It seems that Miss Meadowbrook was afraid to meet with me, so Miss Fellowes pretended to be her when I visited the school. But I refused to accept her answer and insisted she come to the house party. She could have confessed the truth then, but rather than subject Miss Meadowbrook to my attentions, she and her companion, Miss Fortune, simply extended their little game.”
“So they did it to protect the real Allison Meadowbrook,” Damien offered, sounding far too neutral.
Hunt downed the scotch, hoping to dilute the bitterness he felt in every pore.
“They could have found another way.” All of it had been a lie.
Except that first meeting.
But that was no matter. She’d lied to him, and lied, and then lied some more. In doing so, she’d cost him valuable time, and now he had no choice but to travel to London.
“What are you going to do?” Damien asked.
“I need to speak to Malum without delay,” Hunt said. He was very nearly out of time. “Beg him to extend his deadline.”
“He isn’t known for leniency,” Edgeworth pointed out. “You could still give him the slip and catch the next packet across the Channel. I’ll go with you. Hell, we could give America a try.”
But they all knew that wasn’t something Hunt was willing to do. “I can’t do that to my mother and my sisters.” As it was, he hoped he could mitigate the consequences if Malum decided to make his complaint public.
Damien clucked his tongue. “And you think they’ll be any happier if you turn up in Newgate, or even worse, six feet under?”
But Hunt knew the latter wasn’t a real possibility. For all the duke’s sordid business dealings, he wasn’t a murderer.
At least, Hunt didn’t think the man was.
“So, London then.” Edge strolled over to the settee, dropped onto it, and lifted a booted foot to rest on his knee. “First thing in the morning?”
Rationally, Hunt knew that would be for the best, but he was having difficulty moving forward. He shook his head.
He’d thought she was his, but she’d betrayed him beyond anything he ever could have imagined. Hatred trickled down his spine as he contemplated her time at Cliffhouse. She’d wrecked him, leaving him with a dead spot where his heart had once lived.
Blast and damn!
“Tell me you didn’t fall for her?” Edge dropped his foot and leaned forward.
“Too fucking late for that,” Hunt mumbled.
“Oh, damn, tell me it isn’t so,” Edge scoffed.
Hunt’s stomach churned. Everything she’d said—everything she’d done—had been a lie.
“Is it?” Damien asked.
“I formed an attachment to the woman I believed her to be.” He hated the fact that he couldn’t yet separate his feelings from this new truth.
Damien’s violet eyes studied Hunt with unnerving intensity. “You need to speak with her then. See what she has to say. Perhaps your mother missed something.” Damien leaned back, raising one foot to rest on his knee. “This Miss Fellowes may not be the woman you thought she was, but that doesn’t change the fact that you spent the last ten days getting to know a real live woman.”
It was Hunt’s turn to scoff. “I refuse to entertain notions for a woman who lies as easily as she breathes.”
His mind was filled with images of her panting beneath him, moving with him, her taste, the breathy sounds she’d made…
Hunt downed his scotch and slammed the glass on his desk.
Little things came to mind; things he ought to have caught. The fact that she was so comfortable with the cliffs and the sea, when her father’s estates were all inland.
And, of course, the grace and skill she showed in the saddle required years to acquire.
She was a liar and a fraud.
