“I think we had all better go inside,” Hunt said, placing his hand on the small of Delia’s back.
They walked into the small inn, but she stopped in front of Hunt, allowing her sister to go ahead of them.
“Are you well?” Her cool, gloved hands touched his cheek, and Hunt couldn’t help but close his eyes and sink into her warmth if only for a moment.
“No.” The word dragged out of him, raw and hollow. “But I will be, because I have you.” He took her gloved hand in his and kissed it.
“You do have me,” she whispered, her gaze on his lips.
He desperately wanted to pull her to him and ravish her mouth and forget about his cursed father and Augustus.
“Delia?” her sister called, forcing Delia to move her hand from Hunt’s cheek.
He was immediately cooled.
“The magistrate is waiting this way, my lord,” a short man said, his arms outstretched to a room off the side of the hall.
Hunt led the ladies into the small room. The wall was covered in the likeness of different kings and queens of England. An old square table sat against one wall, a worn brown sofa that had seen better days against another.
Augustus sat at the head of the table, lip busted, cheek bruised. The sight of him gave Hunt a bit of satisfaction. His cousin—or whoever he was to Hunt—had plagued him his whole life. Like Hunt’s father, Augustus would announce to anyone who listened that he, not Hunt, should be the Earl of March, and Hunt was a bastard.
Now, it seemed that Augustus was the true bastard son of Percy Wakefield. Hunt wasn’t positive how to perceive this newinformation about his family, nor did he know what he would tell his mother and sister once he finally returned to London.
“I demand you let me go! I am the true earl!” Augustus shouted, banging his hand against the table again.
Hunt couldn’t believe that the mongrel had the gall to continue with this farce. “Stop the fucking pretense this instant!” Hunt shouted, having heard enough of Augustus and his lies.
“My lord, the ladies,” the magistrate said, reminding him that both Delia and her sister were in the room.
He knew Delia would not be offended or swoon from his harsh words. His hellion was no wilting flower, and for that, he was thankful.
A gasp came from behind Hunt. “Will someone please tell me what is going on? Why are you calling this man my lord? Hunter, tell them you are the Earl of March.”
“Tell her,” Hunt demanded, lifting Augustus out of the chair.
Augustus threw out his elbow, catching Hunt in the chin. He stumbled backward as the other man threw out a punch, missing him. Hunt punched his cousin in the jaw, causing him to crash into the wall.
“Gentlemen, please!” The magistrate broke them apart.
Hunt heard the ladies gasp behind them as he stepped away, remembering himself.
“Tell Lady Margaret the truth,” Hunt growled out menacingly.
“It doesn’t matter. You will never get my family’s fortune. It belongs to me!” Augustus shouted, spittle falling from his mouth.
“What truth?” Margaret asked, stepping forward. “What is he talking about, Hunter?”
For God’s sake, Hunt didn’t want to speak ill of Delia’s sister, but was she daft? Had she not witnessed everything that had happened outside?
“He’s not Hunter Wakefield. I am.” Hunt turned to her, slapping himself in the chest. “He’s my cousin, or brother, if he’s telling the truth.” He added the last sentence, his gaze darting to Delia briefly.
“You are no brother of mine. Everyone knows that your mother had lovers. You’re a bastard!” Augustus shouted, his hand slapping against the wall.
“What if I am,” Hunt shouted, tired of the accusations. “Who cares? The truth of the matter is that I am the legitimate son of the former Earl of March, and there is nothing you, or my dead father—may he rot—can do to change that.” He lifted his hands in triumphant, the words that he’d told Delia just a few short days earlier ringing true in his own heart. “You can join him in hell as his son.”
Augustus lunged at Hunt, bypassing the magistrate, but Hunt was ready, grabbing his cousin by the arms and throwing him against the wall. He punched the other man in the abdomen and released him, allowing him to bend over in pain.
“Hunt! Please stop this,” Delia said, and he remembered himself.
