“I shouldn’t have told you two.” Hunt shook his head, not believing the pair of them. “You do realize that I’m your employer?”
“We do. That’s why we’re still here.” Walter nodded like that was the appropriate answer.
“If I were you, I’d find out who she is. Any woman who has you doing young Ben’s job has to be worth finding.” Sampson spit at the ground.
The old man was correct, but Hunt had no interest in discovering the identity of his hellion. Or that was what he kepttelling himself. But the truth was that every time he closed his eyes, took a breath, or simply stopped moving, he saw her.
Hunt sighed in frustration. He would’ve much rather preferred whoring and drinking all thoughts of the hellion away, but for some strange reason, he didn’t have the urge to drown himself in depravity.
“If a woman made me work myself like a stable hand, I think I’d want to see her again. Wouldn’t you, Sampson?” Walter stood, looking from Hunt to the old man.
“Aye, I think I would,” Sampson agreed, rising from his chair. “But it’s probably for the best. The last thing you want is a beautiful woman that causes you to work yourself to death.” He slapped Hunt on the back as he walked past.
Before Hunt could say anything, his coachman, John, and a footman joined them. One of the carriages had been damaged and had been at the coachmaker’s the past sennight.
John shifted his weight from side to side, his brown eyes full of worry. “My lord, we went to the coachmaker for the second carriage, but it was already retrieved?—”
“Retrieved? By whom?” Hunt asked, taking his discarded shirt and ruining it by wiping the sweat off his body. He hadn’t given anyone permission to retrieve the second carriage. It was his mother’s and sister’s to use as they pleased.
His coachman gripped the short strands of his hair. “Your cousin, Mr. Wakefield, retrieved the carriage.”
Bloody hell!
When Hunt’s father was alive, Augustus had free rein over all their funds and assets to do with as he pleased. After his father’s death, it took some time, but Hunt had regained control of everything, the townhouse, the country home, and all the carriages. So, why would his cousin choose now to randomly seize one of his carriages?
“That one could never be trusted,” Sampson said, shaking his head.
“No, he’s rotten to the core,” Walter agreed, as he usually did with the other man.
Hunt strolled toward the house, readying himself to face off with his cousin. “Prepare the carriage. We’ll leave shortly.”
He flung his ruined shirt over his shoulder and strolled across the expansive garden to the massive home. It had been nearly a whole year, and he still couldn’t fathom that it all belonged to him.
Entering the conservatory, Hunt walked over to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of water, gulping it down like his life depended on it. Rushing through his home, he greeted servants as he passed, most of them ignoring his state of undress. They were accustomed to Hunt working in the stables or coming home half-dressed at all hours of the morning.
He passed by empty spaces where portraits of long-dead Wakefield ancestors once occupied. In their efforts to redecorate, his mother and Helen had removed all signs of his father and his family. Hunt made a note to instruct his sister to find more artwork to fill the empty spaces.
Raised voices coming from the parlor stopped his ascent up the stairs. He quickly changed direction, intent on discovering why there was shouting in his home. His family did have the occasional heated argument, but nothing like what was coming from the parlor, except when Hunt became the target in a gossip sheet.
“I’m not leaving here without my sister!” a deep, sultry voice said, the same voice that had lulled him to sleep the previous night—the voice he’d heard in his head when he awoke that morning and had to rush to the mews just to make it stop.
Why was she there?
“Miss St. George, as I said before, your sister is not here. I’ve never met her.” His sister’s voice sounded slightly annoyed as Hunt walked into the room.
His mother, dressed for the day, sat stiffly in her favorite chair, her withered hand gripped around her cane.
The hellion turned on his sister. Hunt could only see her profile, but she was just as beautiful as she had been the previous evening.
“And as I said, my lady, she left this note saying that she has run away to marry your brother. They must’ve said something before they left for Gretna Green.” She waved the small piece of parchment in the air.
“What is going on?” he asked, sure that he’d misheard her.
“Thank God, you’re here—where is your shirt?” Helen pointed at him, reminding him that he was indeed shirtless.
The hellion faced him, wide-eyed and glorious. For the briefest of moments, his mother and sister disappeared, and they were the only two people in the room.
Bloody hell.
