Delia’s hand slid over his on the table, her fingers curling around his with certainty. She squeezed, her eyes shining. “Four hours, Hunt.” She smiled, wide and hopeful.
The tension in his chest eased from the glimmer of hope shining through her.
“We might gain ground if we leave at first light.” He squeezed her hand in return, grounding himself in the warmth of her touch—too aware of how natural it felt.
Moments passed, their hands still connected, their gazes locked on the other. Neither one seemed in any hurry to be the first to let go.
“Your stew, my lord,” a maid said, setting two bowls between them.
Hunt nodded. “Brandy, please?—”
Delia laughed, loud and unguarded.
He arched an eyebrow at her. “Wine for the lady.”
“Yes, my lord.” The maid rushed off, eager to please.
“Brandy?” Delia challenged, a teasing smile on her full lips.
He studied her for a heartbeat longer than was proper. She was a beauty, with high cheekbones and wide eyes, but there was more to her than mere looks. Her spirit was full of fire despite the circumstance of her birth or the treatment of others.
“Water is not my only source of survival,” he defended, before eating his first spoonful of stew.
It was hearty, rich in flavor with herbs, vegetables, and meat, warming him from the inside out. They ate in companionable silence, interrupted only when the maid delivered fresh bread, wine, and brandy.
“Do most people react like the innkeeper?” she asked, swirling her spoon through the remnants of her bowl.
“Yes.” The answer came easily. His entire life, Hunt had been mistaken for a servant, questioned as the heir, or outright labeled a bastard, not worthy of the title, according to his own father.
He’d learned early in life that explaining himself was only wasted breath.
Instead, Hunt perfected the art ofproving them wrong. Providing for his mother and his sister, living his life the way he wanted, were the only things he could do.
Anger towards his father and the rumors he’d started had plagued Hunt his entire life. But his father was dead. And Hunt, not Augustus, was the Earl of March.
“How do you tolerate it?” she whispered, her gaze flicking around the room like she was assessing the threat.
The other patrons kept stealing glances at them behind mugs and lowered voices as though Hunt and Delia were on display.
He leaned forward, catching her gaze. “It doesn’t matter what they think.” He waved his hand in front of him. “They don’t define me.” The realization struck him like a runaway horse. “I do.”
Her expression softened, her head lifted higher, like she too had come to the same realization. They were the only two people in the room—again—as it had been in his parlor.
“Your rooms are ready, my lord, my lady.” The innkeeper hovered nearby, breaking the spell.
Hunt rose, offering Delia his hand. They followed the now deferential innkeeper toward the long staircase, leaving behind the large dining area. As they reached the first step, Hunt slowed, moving aside to allow the couple descending to pass.
The woman was older, beautiful, but a little too painted. The cut of her gown was tight, revealing, her dark brown braids arranged dramatically. Her liquid brown eyes assessed Hunt appreciatively before moving to Delia.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to slow—to the staircase, the woman, and the uncanny likeness between her and Delia at his side. Same smooth brown skin, dark hair, and liquid brown eyes.
Delia’s fingers clenched around his arm, her body trembling. Instinctively, Hunt shifted closer to her, wanting to shield her from whatever was to come.
The woman’s short companion’s eyes roamed over Delia in a way that made Hunt want to pummel him into the ground until he learned how to respect a woman.
The older woman stumbled, her eyes wide in recognition before she quickly recovered with a mask of indifference.
Delia stepped forward, her breath loud and shallow. “Mother.”
