Pinching the bridge of his nose, he stepped away from his cousin. Delia came to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“It’s over. They can’t take anything away from you,” she whispered in his ear.
His hands went around her waist, pulling her to him, not caring how improper it was to show emotion. He needed her, and he wouldn’t pretend otherwise.
“It can’t be true! Delia, I don’t know who this man is, but clearly, he is lying to you.” Lady Margaret’s shrill voice rang through the small room.
Augustus let out a bark of laughter. “You fool of a girl, even now you believe me,” he said coldly. “You were easy tomanipulate. Rather difficult to get into bed, but once we were on the road, your legs parted like the Red Sea?—”
“You scoundrel, have you no decency?” Delia shouted.
Augustus laughed, and it took every ounce of strength Hunt had not to pummel him again. “Decency? This from the bastard daughter of a whore. I should thank you, really. With you by his side, Society will never accept him or you or any mongrels you produce?—”
Hunt broke. That was enough. He reached his cousin in two quick strides, pushing aside the much bigger magistrate and punching Augustus in the face. A loud crunching sound ripped through the room, blood falling down his cousin’s face.
“My nose! You broke my nose!”
Hunt stood back, pointing at his cousin. “If I ever catch you saying one filthy word about my wife-to-be, my mother, my sister, or Lady Margaret, I will kill you and take joy in it. Do I make myself clear, Augustus?”
“Two known bastards will never be accepted in Society,” Augustus shouted as Hunt turned his back on him.
Addressing the magistrate, Hunt said, “I want him arrested and shipped to London for theft and for impersonating a peer.”
“You can’t do that. He was my real father! I would’ve been legitimate if he married my mother and not his brother!” Augustus called out, but Hunt ignored him, ushering Delia and her distraught sister from the room.
The truth no longer mattered to Hunt. All that mattered was that he could finally live his life with the woman he loved.
Loved.
He loved Adelia St. George, and he would tell her as soon as they were alone.
Delia held her sister close as the carriage came to a stop in front of Aunt Francis’ small townhouse in London. It had been a leisurely four-day journey back, and she still felt quite uneasy about how everything played out. Not only was her sister absolutely devastated by Augustus Wakefield’s deceit, but Delia herself could not stop thinking about his haunting words.
“With you by his side, Society will never accept him.”
Those words had followed Delia to London and ruined all her hopes and dreams for a future and a family with Hunt. It didn’t matter that he accepted her for who she was. He didn’t love her. He wasbesotted, but he didn’t love her.
After spending the night in Sheffield, where she stayed with a crying Margaret all night long, they left for London at first light.
She was thankful that there had not been a real opportunity for her and Hunt to speak. Delia wasn’t positive she would’ve been able to conceal her emotions from him. The truth was painful, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a fact. If Hunt married her, he’d always be a bastard in Society. It didn’t matter that he was the legitimate son of the former Earl of March. All that mattered was that his paternity was questioned.
“We’re here,” Hunt said, his gaze on Delia.
He had tried several times to engage her in conversation, but Delia had used her sister’s sensitive state like a shield. It was rather despicable, to be sure, but what choice did she have?
Looking into those crisp green eyes would surely be her undoing. She knew what she had to do, and it wasn’t marryingthe Earl of March. Marrying Hunt would ruin him and his family.
“Thank heavens,” Margaret said, sitting up as Aunt Francis came running out the door.
She moved exceptionally well for a woman her age.
Hunt exited the carriage and reached back to hold his hand out for Margaret, who had been avoiding him at every opportunity. She took his hand, quickly accepting his assistance, but then released it like he had burnt her.
Delia was next, taking his offered hand, remembering the feel of it against her palms, savoring the last time she had kissed those plump lips of his. It was the previous night, and he had placed a soft chaste kiss on her lips outside of the room she and Margaret were staying in.
She’d closed her eyes then, reveling in him.
“Oh, thank heavens, you’ve returned! The Ton is in an uproar! Everyone knows that Mr. Wakefield stole the earl’s identity and deceived my poor Margaret,” Aunt Francis rushed out, taking hold of an ashen-faced Margaret.
