Chapter Nine
Breathe.
Breathe, Delia.
Breathe.
She repeated the words over and over in her head, ignoring the room closing in around her. Air. She tried to force air into her lungs, but no matter how much she tried, Delia still was unable to breathe.
Eighteen years.
Eighteen years of waiting, hoping, and praying that her mother would return and save her, hug her, acknowledge her. Years of silence, like the woman never existed. When she was a girl, Delia would imagine the day when her mother would finally return, but as the years passed, the truth of her reality closed in on her.
Unlike other abandoned children, Delia wasn’t left at a foundling hospital or on the streets of London. Once she was safely ensconced at her father’s home, she never experienced abuse or hunger. Perhaps for that, she should be grateful, but what child did not long for her mother’s love?
The short, stout man by her mother’s side stepped forward. His gaze traveled down Delia’s form again. She moved closer to Hunt in an attempt to hide herself from the man’s lascivious stare. “Do you know this girl, Madame Belvoir?—”
“She’s not a girl,” Hunt interjected, stepping forward slightly. “She’s Miss Adelia St. George.”
Her mother’s companion whipped his too large head to Hunt, his dull gray eyes cold and judging. “And who are you?”
“This is the Earl of March, Mr. Huxley,” the innkeeper said enthusiastically, like he had not insulted Hunt moments earlier.
Huxley, her mother’s escort, reared back like it was difficult for him to believe what he’d heard. “I see.” His lips thinned, his jowls reddening like he’d stood in the sun too long. “Madame, do you know Miss St. George?” He sneered Delia’s name, like it was a foul taste on his tongue.
Her mother shook her head emphatically, the intricate braids in her hair dangling. She used to braid Delia’s hair while telling stories of her own mother.
“No.” The words slapped Delia across the face. “You must have me mistaken. Although I do see a resemblance, I am entirely too young to be your mother.” She pulled her companion away, not sparing Delia another glance.
“Mother,” the words dragged out of her, raw and unsteady.
She was vaguely aware that she was moving. Her body was led up the stairs, Hunt guiding her the entire way. Words had long disappeared around her, sound had fallen away. Voices blurred in the air. Her breath came fast and shallow—too fast—yet her lungs refused to fill.
Eighteen years of telling herself that her mother’s abandonment had been proof of her love. When they were hungry, cold, and living in the attic of a boarding house, Delia had thought them happy. It was the first time that it wasjust the two of them, and then they’d taken a stagecoach to Leicestershire.
“That’ll be all.” Hunt’s voice reached her, gliding through the fog of her mind, steady and comforting. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, solid, unyielding, holding her upright on quivering legs.
The loud click of the door jounced Delia, snapping her out of her haze.
She blinked, finding herself inside a nicely appointed chamber. Old wood. Scarred furniture. A hearth was roaring, alive and bright. The crackle of the burning wood cut through the ringing in her ears. Hunt squeezed her, anchoring her to him as he led her over to a faded chaise lounge near the fireplace.
Air. She needed air.
“All is well, you’re fine and well,” she said, swaying in his arms.
Strong hands stroked her hair, a firm grip around her waist cementing Delia in place as he gently sat her down.
“Breathe, Delia.”
Hunt’s large hands circled her back, the pressure grounding her in a way nothing else ever had.
“You are well, Delia,” he repeated her mantra to her. His cool lips pressed against her forehead.
The touch of his lips, the safety of being in his arms, broke her. The tears burst free without permission, violent and unstoppable, stealing the last of her composure. She clutched at his waistcoat, her hands balled into fists, not wanting to let him go.
Delia wasn’t sure when he had freed himself of his coat, but it didn’t matter as she snuggled closer to him.
“She looked straight at me,” Delia sobbed, the words hollow. “And said she wasn’t my mother.” She leaned back, looking up at Hunt. “Why would she do that?”
