Delia covered herself with the counterpane, as Hunt rose from the bed.
“We should clean up and leave before it gets too late,” he said, locating his breeches and shirt.
Delia rose, finding her discarded shift and placing it over her still vibrating body. Reaching her bag, she pulled out her dressing gown, covering herself quickly.
“Who do you think is at the door?” she asked, picking up her worn dress and folding it to put away.
“It’s probably John, looking for me.” He put on his boots and then strolled to her. “I’ll send a maid up with food and water for a bath. Meet me downstairs when you are ready.”
He pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was deep and long, and Delia couldn’t help but pull him closer to her.
Three more knocks rang through the room, forcing her to release him.
Hunt walked to the door and opened it slightly, blocking Delia’s view of whoever was on the other side.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was told this was Miss St. George’s room.” Delia froze at the sound of her mother’s voice on the other side of the door.
“What do you want with Miss St. George?” Hunt asked, his voice menacing. “Last night, you said you did not know who she was. Now you knock on her door like nothing happened.”
“Aren’t you a protective one?” her mother said, amusement in her voice. “I would like to see my daughter.”
Hunt stood up straighter, his height intimidating. “No. I won’t allow you to upset her again. Please leave.”
Delia rose, her own anger rising at the nerve of both of them discussing her as if she was not capable of making her on decisions. She’d taken care of herself for twenty-five years, andshe wouldn’t stop now just because she allowed Hunt into her bed.
Pressing her hand to his forearm. “It’s fine, Hunt.” She tied her dressing gown tighter around her body, her heart pounding. “I have some things I’d like to discuss with my mother.”
His gaze met hers, making sure that she was fine.
She softened under his caring gaze. No one had ever cared for her like he had the previous night, and even now, he was ready to turn her mother away for upsetting her.
“Very well.” He nodded at her, opening the door wider to reveal her mother, dressed and wearing too much powder and rouge so early in the morning. “I’ll send up a maid with water and meet you downstairs.”
The longing in his eyes made it clear he wanted to kiss her again, but he simply turned away and walked past her mother without saying another word.
The previous night, Delia had been caught unawares by seeing her mother again, but she had recovered, thanks to the man who had vacated the room, and now she had eighteen years’ worth of words to say to the woman who had given birth to her.
The door clicked loudly behind Hunt, leaving Delia standing alone with her mother. Her mother was still a very pretty woman but worn in ways Delia had not noticed the night before. The dark circles around her eyes could not be hidden by any amount of powder. She had gained weight, her small frame bulkier around the middle and in the face.
Delia was finding it difficult to speak. Years of writing down what she wanted to say to her mother failed her in that moment.
“I see some things are inherited, and an earl. Well done, you,” her mother said, folding her arms. She wore a fading red gown that looked like it had seen much better days.
Ignoring her comment, Delia went and sat on the chaise lounge, trying not to remember lying there in Hunt’s arms.
“Mother, I see your memory has returned.” Delia sat back against the chaise, happy to be sitting, fearful her shaking limbs would betray her.
“Come now, Adelia,” her mother said in a bored voice. “I am a courtesan. I cannot have a grown daughter.”
“But you do, Mother, one that you left on a doorstep, like I meant nothing to you.” Delia raised her hands, cursing the tears that were suddenly forming in her eyes. “W-what if Father had not accepted me? Did you even think about that?”
Her mother stepped forward, then stopped. “Your father is many things, but he would never be cruel.” She shook her head. “I did what was best for you. Have you any inkling how difficult it would have been to secure a benefactor with a child at my skirts?”
Delia opened her mouth, not believing the gall of the woman who’d given birth to her. “You didn’t seem to care as long as that benefactor was a duke.”
When Delia was younger, she recalled the lavish townhouse she and her mother had lived in. It was small, but filled with the finest of furnishings and servants that catered to their every need.
“I was foolish. I thought that if I had his child, I would live in luxury for the rest of my days.” She let out a humorless bark. “It lasted five years, then he was married, had a daughter, and soon, we were just a place for him to visit a time or two. Until he decided that he could no longer provide for my lifestyle. Only a hundred pounds a year to care for you. A hundred pounds!” she shouted, supercilious at the amount of funds offered.
