Delia shook her head, moving out of his arms. Her fingers pulled at the thick strands of her curls. The few remaining pins that had not fallen out during the journey fell from her head. The shallow emptiness in her stomach spread through her, threatening to consume her entire being.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t define you, Delia.”
He leaned closer to her, his handsome face stern like he wanted her to understand his words.
“I tried to look for her once.” The words were hollow, lacking any emotion to her own ears. “I was eighteen, and I begged my father to help me find her.”
She remembered it clearly. The panic she’d felt year after year when her mother never came back for her, never sent a single letter. Surely, something was wrong after all that time.
“I threatened to go after her myself, but he insisted that Margaret needed me, and that it wasn’t safe for an unmarried woman to go gallivanting around London unaccompanied.” She turned to him, her vision blurry from the constant stream of tears.
Suddenly, Delia was engulfed in his warmth and strength. The constant beating of his heart against her wet cheek soothed her in a way she’d never imagined the sound could.
In that moment in his arms, she was the same broken little girl her mother had abandoned, but this time, she wasn’t alone.
“She looked right through me.” The words were wrenched out of her. “Like I was nothing but the bastard she’d abandoned?—”
Both of his hands cupped her face. There was fire and determination in his usually crisp green gaze. “Listen to me,” he demanded. “You are worthy. You’re not nothing. She is.” His fingers stroked at the tears on her cheek. “Being a bastard is just the circumstance of your birth. It doesn’t define who youare.” One of his hands went to the nape of her neck, strong, commanding. He pulled her closer, his forehead touching hers, the green of his eyes deep like she’d imagined the sea would be. “You define who you are, Adelia St. George. Not her. Not Society. You.”
Delia blinked several times, clearing the tears from her eyes. For the first time since she’d met Hunter Wakefield, she saw him, really saw him. Beneath the pretense, beneath the easy smile, beneath the magnificence, he was hurting.
Like her.
“How?” she choked out the words in need of some water.
All of her life she had hidden in Leicestershire, caring for her father’s estate, raising her sister, in hopes that she would finally belong somewhere. But Delia would never belong, no matter what she sacrificed.
He released her cheek, the pads of his fingers caressing her skin. She closed her eyes, basking in his touch. The hand at her nape dragged slowly from her neck, stopping to pull at one of her loose curls.
Delia’s gaze slid from his eyes to his mouth, wanting nothing more than to kiss him and forget everything.
“I’m still figuring that part out myself.” He shook his head slightly, a small tilt to his lips. “But I do know that no matter how someone treats you, it’s up to you to live your life for you, not them.”
Her hand cupped his cheek, the hairs of his neatly trimmed beard tickling her palm. All the air that she desperately needed a moment ago left her body. In his gaze, Delia recognized what had always been missing in her life. With one single look from him, she suddenly felt like she belonged.
She was home.
“I can’t imagine anyone treating you like that.” He placed his hand on top of hers, bringing it to his lips.
The intimacy of the simple kiss to her bare hand had a slow smile spreading across her lips. Warmth—that had nothing to do with the heat from the hearth—spread through Delia.
Bringing her to him, he enveloped her in his arms, stretching out his long legs and laying back against the worn chaise. She placed her head on his chest, playing with his cravat.
“My father was the person who mistreated me,” he whispered, swallowing. “He never wanted a son. Augustus was his heir. His twin brother had died when Augustus was a babe, and my father raised him as his own.” He sighed, his grip around her tightening like she was his anchor. “He never planned to marry, but he and my mother were fond of each other. She was a wealthy widow, and the earldom was in need of funds.”
Delia gazed at him, fascinated by the tale. “He married her to save the earldom?”
“Yes, that and he really found my mother suitable for him.” He chuckled. “She was well past child rearing age at five and forty. They both were shocked when she began increasing. My father wasn’t happy. In fact, he questioned if the child was even his.”
Delia sat up, outraged. “What?” she asked, her voice carrying in the quiet room.
The thought of being treated unfairly by one’s spouse was abhorrent. Delia was not a stranger to mistreatment as Margaret’s mother had often hurled insults at her. Despite that, she still couldn’t imagine being mistreated by a spouse, someone she’d pledged her undying love to.
“When Helen was born, the butler said that he accepted her since she was a girl and would not interfere with his plans for Augustus to inherit.” He breathed deeply for what seemed like an eternity to Delia before he finally continued. “Thirty minutes, exactly thirty minutes later, I came into the world and shatteredevery hope and dream my father had for his precious nephew and the earldom.”
Delia’s heart ached for him. “He wasn’t happy that you were born?” she asked, knowing the answer by the devastating look on his handsome face.
“No, he wasn’t.” He placed one of her curls behind her ear, rubbing the end between his fingertips. “In fact, he often would tell anyone who would listen that Helen and I were not his children. He abandoned my mother, questioned our paternity.” He closed his eyes, as if remembering the feeling of being treated so. “You, Delia are strong, kind, and beautiful. Any mother would be proud to call you her daughter.”
