Hunt ran his hand down his face. “Mother is probably in an uproar,” he said, his warm hand on Delia’s back.
“I’ll explain everything inside. Come along!” Aunt Francis said, leading Margaret into the townhouse.
Delia faced Hunt, finding it impossible to stare into those eyes that had sealed her fate the first time they’d met. “It’s late. I know you must return home. Go.”
He pulled her close, placing a kiss on her forehead. The oncoming darkness shielded them from prying eyes. He’d taken to touching and kissing her anytime they weren’t in the presence of other people. It lit her up from the inside, and Delia wanted to hold each kiss, and touch close for the rest of her life to remember him by.
“I will call on you tomorrow, after I write to the archbishop and your father,” he said, squeezing her waist.
Delia nodded, unable to find her voice, fighting the tears that threatened to fall.
He left, and she rushed inside to find Margaret and Aunt Francis in the small parlor.
“I received a missive from your father. He is insisting that you both return to Leicestershire immediately.” She held up the small missive. “Word of Margaret’s unfortunate situation has reached him, and he finds that there is no reason for you both to remain in London. I agree with him.”
Margaret shook her head. “I will return home, but Delia is marrying?—”
“I’ll go pack. We can leave in the morning. Have the carriage ready to go.” Delia rushed away, unable to stop the tears from falling from her eyes.
For one glorious moment, she’d thought that it didn’t matter that she was born on the wrong side of the blanket. All that mattered was that he accepted her, but what sort of life would they have if Society turned their backs on him?
He was an earl and deserved respect when he entered a room, not whispers and judgment.
Reaching the room she shared with her sister, Delia began to pack their few remaining things, not bothering to stop the tears from falling.
“What are you doing?” Margaret asked, closing the door behind her.
Delia took the last of her drab dresses out of the wardrobe. “Packing.”
“Why? I know you love him, and he wants to marry you. I heard you talking the other night.” Margaret sat on the bed, her red-rimmed eyes wide.
“I’m a bastard, Margaret. He can’t marry me. It’ll ruin his family, his life.” Delia placed the dresses on the bed, wiping at her wet cheeks. “I must return to Leicestershire, and he must marry another.”
Margaret laughed. “My whole life I wanted someone to love me. Father never did; my mother only cared about having an heir. Perhaps that was why it was easy to believe Augustus’s lies.” She sighed. “But, you, Delia, loved me from the moment you arrived.” She stood and took Delia by the hand. “You deserve to be happy. You’re not a bastard to those who love you. You’re just you.”
“It doesn’t matter. You can’t fall in love with someone in a sennight,” Delia whispered, the words breaking her heart.
“Perhaps not, but you have, and if I ever found that type of love, I wouldn’t run away from it.” Margaret released Delia’s hand and walked out of the room.
Delia stood alone, her mind recalling every moment she had had with Hunt. She loved him, of that there was no doubt, but she couldn’t ruin his life. She wouldn’t.
No, Delia would return to her father’s home and Hunt could marry another.
She sat on the bed, tears wracking her body, and mourned the whisper of love that she’d had, if only for a moment.
Chapter Fourteen
Hunt walked through March House with a disgruntled Reg by his side. He’d risen early to retrieve his closest friend in order to join his mother and sister for breakfast. Everyone in his family needed to be present for his monumental announcement.
The first order of business was sending missives to the Duke of Cliffbury and the archbishop. He kept his words to the duke quick and brief, informing him that he would be marrying Delia in a sennight at the latest. If Hunt had his way, he’d marry her that afternoon, but he understood it took at least two days for a special license to be issued.
He walked through the massive mansion, seeing it differently for the first time. It wasn’t the place his father had kept him from. No, when Hunt looked around, he saw a home. A place where he and Delia’s children would be loved and cared for. A refuge from the outside world, where his mother would feed them biscuits from the cook and they could hide from Helen, their protective but overbearing aunt.
It was all right in front of his eyes, because Delia was in his heart, and she made everything brighter. From the moment she had crashed into him, Hunt was a changed man, and he was better because of her.
“Are you going to tell me what’s so important that you came and dragged me out of my bed, insisting that I come for breakfast?” Reg asked, as they rounded the corner toward the conservatory. “Also, why the devil are you smiling so damn much?” Reg stopped in front of the conservatory, gaping at Hunt.
Ignoring his friend, Hunt pushed past him, walking into the conservatory to find both his mother and sister sitting around the table breaking their fast.
