will never accept you with me, a bastard, as your countess.
You’ve spent your entire life trying to prove that you were not born
on the wrong side of the blanket. It would be unfair for me
to ask you to remain there
So, I free you Hunter Wakefield,
the Magnificent Earl of March. I pray one day
that you will find love and
be happy.
Yours always, Delia.
Hunt stared at the words, not understanding their true meaning. Surely, she knew that he had already found love with her. He searched his mind, trying to recall every moment that he told her he loved her, but there wasn’t one. Not one single damn moment where he’d actually said the words.
I love you.
He was a fucking fool.
“My horse!” he shouted to the waiting footman.
Hunt marched toward Molly, mounting her like he was going to battle. He was. He had to catch Delia and tell her that he loved her. If she still wanted to be free of him, then he’d consider it in a hundred years, maybe.
He rode hard and fast through London, wondering if he should’ve stopped to retrieve a carriage, but surely, they could not be that far ahead of him. One could barely leave London in an hour with all the carriage traffic.
He would come upon them, confess his love, and marry as soon as he had the special license. Obviously, there was no time to delay because his bride-to-be had run away, assuming he didn’t love her.
Fool, he was a monumental fool.
Dear God, he couldn’t lose her.
Pushing Molly to her limits, Hunt enjoyed the wind on his face, the fresh smell of the impending spring. Hunt loved riding more than anything. It gave him a chance to be free and enjoy the outdoors. He couldn’t wait to teach his and Delia’s children how to ride and care for horses.
A lone carriage on one side of the road came into view, and he urged Molly to move faster. She obliged him, happy to be outside and running as much as Hunt was.
Cliffbury’s carriage moved at a leisurely pace on one side of the road, as a queue of carriages waited eagerly to enter London filled the other.
Hunt rode to the side of the carriage, getting the driver’s attention. “Stop the carriage!” he shouted, the wind blowing around him.
Delia and her sister stared out of the small window at him as the carriage slowed then stopped completely.
He dismounted Molly, making quick strides toward the stalled carriage.
Delia burst out of the carriage, wide-eyed and in shock. “What are you doing?” she asked, staring up at him.
Those liquid brown eyes he’d grown to love cemented him in place.
He wrapped an arm around her waist; his other hand cupped her cheek. “I’m a damn fool,” he said, his thumb circling her cheek. “I assumed that my intentions and feelings were perfectly clear, but obviously, they were not since you felt compelled to leave me?—”
“Hunt, be reasonable,” she interrupted him, but he did not let it sway him in the least.
“Adelia St. George, I love you.” He pressed his forehead to hers.
She closed her eyes, tears falling down her cheeks. “You can’t. Society will never?—”
