Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. Hunt stifled his laughter, his body shaking despite his efforts. Her anger was simply intoxicating.
“I can admit that my sister is a little romantic, but you have no right to insult her. I’m sure you fall in love whenever it suits your fancy.” She tilted her head at him in challenge.
There she was, his hellion. She was all fire, and he wanted to be her ice. He wanted to cool her and, at the same time, allow her to burn him. To consume him completely.
“Your fondness for insulting me knows no end, does it?” he asked, a playful grin on his lips.
“You’re insulted?” She flung her hand out to him. “You were the one to say that my sister was naïve?—”
“You said she was naïve yourself,” he reminded her. “Besides, you have to admit falling in love with anyone after a fortnight—is ludicrous.”
Hunt could admit that he was no expert in love. He had loved three people most of his life—his mother, his sister, and Reg. Old Sampson and Walter came close to the three of them, but whenit came to having feelings for a woman, he’d always found his pleasure and nothing more.
The idea of falling in love in mere days was absolutely preposterous. Falling in love with someone like his cousin was foolish.
Augustus Wakefield had only cared for one person his entire life—himself. He may have cared for his own father and Hunt’s father, but Hunt wasn’t sure his cousin had a loving bone in his body.
“I-I…” she trailed off before shaking her head, laughter on her lips. “Yes, I admit it is rather ridiculous.”
Hunt laughed with her, his eyes taking in the darkening of her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes. Her entire face was lit by the fire inside her, and suddenly the thought of falling in love with someone in a matter of days didn’t seem preposterous at all.
“How long did your sister know my cousin? It can’t have been longer than a fortnight. You all had just come to town, did you not?”
The Season had just begun, if Lady Margaret fancied herself being in love with Augustus, she had to have met Augustus at a Society event recently.
“It’s been a fortnight. They met at Lord and Lady Henderson’s first ball of the Season.” Her posture was stiff as she glared at him. “My sister is not a simpleton. She thinks she’s in love with him—you—” She waved her hand in the air like she didn’t know the difference between Hunt and Augustus.
“Do not say me. I do not know your sister,” he pointed out, trying to hide his agitation about the entire situation.
“Fine. It’s obviously not you, but that doesn’t change the fact that he manipulated her into thinking she was meeting you, a wealthy earl. Someone my father would accept,” she whispered the last part, her body shifting from side to side, like she was uncomfortable.
Hunt knew better than anyone about the desire for acceptance from one’s father. He’d lived separately from his own father most of his life. On the rare occasion the old earl had visited his family at Tigress House, he’d simply berated Hunt or ignored him.
“Surely, your aunt was aware that Augustus was not the Earl of March.” Hunt sat forward, placing his elbows on his knees.
Her eyes followed him, assessing his every move, like she had to know where he was at all times.
“She is not my aunt,” Miss St. George said flatly. “She’s my sister’s aunt, and Aunt Francis never once saw your cousin. He made sure to have footmen deliver his notes to my sister. They met in private.”
“And you as the eldest did not find this behavior strange or dishonorable for an innocent?” he challenged.
Not that Helen would do anything reckless, but if Hunt was ever aware that his sister was meeting secretly with a stranger, he would intervene. Not that his strong-willed sister needed his protection by any means.
“I-I foolishly thought that perhaps me being her sister would prevent him from making his intentions known?—”
“Why would you being her sister matter?” he questioned, sitting back straighter. “You’re perfect.”
The words were out of his mouth before he could retrieve them. They hung in the carriage like a heavy cloud on a perfect sunny day.
It was true. To him, she was absolutely perfect. The thought of Augustus or anyone shunning her had Hunt ready to defend her.
Looking out the window at the passing countryside, Miss St. George cleared her throat several times. “Surely, you know that not many people in Society would accept the base-born daughter of the Duke of Cliffbury.”
“I’ll wager that those people are not worth knowing if they will judge you based on the circumstance of your birth,” he said, understanding how cruel Society could be.
Even a year after his father’s death, there were some who still believed that Hunt himself was a bastard and unworthy of the earldom.
She let out a huff of indignation, the look on her pretty face mocking. “What would the magnificent earl know about being a bastard?”
