For one of the first times in his life, Hunt truly required a valet that afternoon. Unfortunately, since he’d sold his townhouse last autumn and moved into a gentleman’s lodging house on Bond Street, he’d left Evans to assist with household duties back at Cliffhouse.
Stepping into his room, Hunt stared down at his filthy bare feet. They’d taken his boots from him. Likely one of the guards had claimed them.
The guards, no doubt, functioned as much on the wrong side of the law as many of the inmates.
His breath caught. How long would he have survived there?
Although the sun was high in the sky, the drapes had been drawn, allowing only a small amount of light to filter inside. The last time he’d been here, he’d not known his future. Neither had he known the helpless, feeble feeling of being locked up.
He hadn’t known the sensation of being reviled.
Trailing his gaze around the sparse accommodations, sweat broke out on the back of his neck. His bed, so simple and yet so inviting. A trunk. A dressing table. Some chairs and a table. All things he’d taken for granted.
Hunt had informed Edgeworth to clean out his lodgings if he wasn’t free after three months. Three months!
As he waited for the bath he’d requested, the all-too-recent memory of his cell clung to him. Morning and night had rolled into an endless stretch of hopelessness. Without sunlight, his only measure of time had been the changing of the guards’ shifts.
His chest tightened and he rushed across the room to draw back the drapes.
Only after he had the window open did his heart slow enough that he could breathe normally again.
And as he stared out at the street, at rooftops and passersby below, he experienced a flicker of optimism.
He was free. He was free, and Priscilla was here. She was here, and she had been… real.
Priscilla.
More than real.
In his weaker moments, bored and filled with despair, he’d allowed himself the fantasy of finding her again—of hearing words that exonerated her betrayal.
He’d imagined making love to her—filling her belly with his children—growing old together. At the time, he’d considered it nothing more than a misguided fantasy to stave off madness.
Or perhaps madness in itself.
But the arrival of Lord Kingsley changed everything. She was his sister.
Lady Priscilla.
What would Hunt say to her? Did it matter? And what would he feel when he saw her? The image of her heart-shaped face, the sweet curve of her cheek, and the taste of her kiss, flickered with promise.
But would he see the woman who’d lied to him? A cold-hearted teacher?
An earl’s daughter?
Or would he see the woman of his dreams?
His fingers itched to caress skin that was so soft it was almost translucent.
He ached to know the feeling of connection again. When she’d stared into his eyes, he’d felt like they were the only people in the world.
In the end, he realized it had been too good to be true.
But was it?
When he met with her again, would his heart come back to life, would it jump as it had before?
Possibilities trickled into his soul, and weightlessness washed over him.
