“You,” she whispered, her gaze locked on Hunt. “What are you doing here?”
He smiled at her defiance. Even now, a guest in a strange house, her sister apparently missing, she did not quake in fear.
“As this is my home, I believe I should be asking you that.” Hunt placed his now empty glass on a small table.
The hellion’s eyes occasionally darted to his bare chest, her breathing increasing with every breath she took.
“Perhaps you should make yourself decent first, and then we can hear what Miss St. George has to say,” his mother said, flicking her cane at his bare chest.
Taking his filthy shirt off his shoulder, Hunt quickly placed it over his head. “Better?” he asked.
Who had time for propriety when the hellion was in his house and accusing him of running away with her sister?
A sister he’d never met.
“Yes, much better.” Helen folded her arms in front of her, ready for battle. “Now what is this about your sister, Miss St. George. Why do you think she’s run away with my brother?”
“Please have a seat, dear. I can tell you’re upset.” His mother waved to the sofa, a gentle smile on her lips.
“I don’t mean to be impertinent, my lady, but we’re wasting time,” his hellion—Miss St. George said in frustration. “My sister has run away with the Earl of March. I do not know what time they left, but I must find her before all of London finds out and she is ruined!”
Dear God, was this a jest? How could he have run off with her sister when he was standing right there? It had to be a ruse caused by that cursed article.
Having heard enough, Hunt walked over to the hellion, holding out his hand for the missive. “If your sister has run off to Gretna Green, I can assure you it is not with the Earl of March.” He waited patiently for her to place the paper in the palm of his hand.
She thrust it at him. “Read it! She says she’s run away to marry Hunter Wakefield, the Earl of March.”
He gazed from her to the missive. She was serious. His hellion did not know that Hunt was the earl, and not whomever it was that had run away with her sister.”
Hunt read the slightly messy handwriting in utter disbelief. If the letter was correct, then her sister, Margaret, was with an imposter. Who would pretend to be him?
“Dear God,” he muttered, clutching his head with his free hand. This was a disaster and could ruin all hope of gaining his father’s fortune.
Helen took the letter from him. “Is this a joke?”
“Now you believe me. The earl has eloped with my sister, and I must find them, now.” The hellion pointed down, her body shaking with rage.
“I don’t know who your sister has run off with, but it is not the Earl of March,” he said, a heavy boulder of dread settling in his stomach.
The pieces of the puzzle were coming together before his eyes. His cousin retrieving the carriage from the coachmaker’s, his threatening words the night before. What the hell had Augustus done?
“How can you be sure?” she demanded.
“Because I am the Earl of March, and I have not eloped with anyone.”
Chapter Six
Delia stood frozen in place, her breathing coming out in shallow pants. The decadent parlor felt like it was closing in on her, just like the ballroom the previous evening. The massive home appeared to be full of riches from the outside looking in, but on the inside, it was moderately furnished. The empty walls, where paintings once sat, and the lack of furnishings, made it clear that they were in the process of redecorating.
It all swirled around Delia, as the words of her stranger settled in. Surely, she hadn’t heard him properly. He, her mysterious stranger, was the Earl of March. The one question that stayed on repeat in Delia’s mind was: Who had run away with her sister?
How was this possible?
Why would anyone do something so callous to Margaret?
“That cannot be. Y-you’re of African descent.” She waved her hand at him.
Delia could hear the disbelief in her own voice. In her entire life she had never met a titled gentleman of African descent.However, it was becoming more common for men of the aristocracy to choose a bride outside of their race.
