“Is it obvious?” Delia asked.
“Yes, everyone in the Ton knows exactly who my brother is. After all, he is magnificent.” She waved toward the gossip sheet. “Lady Helen Wakefield.” She held out her hand to Delia.
Dread filled her at the thought of revealing who she was. When people found out that she was the bastard daughter of the Duke of Cliffbury, everything changed.
“Adelia St. George,” she said quickly, wanting to get it over with.
She waited for the disgust to fill those green eyes, but it never came. Lady Helen arched a perfect eyebrow, a knowing gleam on her face. “The Duke of Cliffbury’s other daughter? You’re nearly talked about as much as Hunt.”
Hunter.
For some reason, Delia had thought perhaps Lady Helen misunderstood who Delia was reading about, but the name confirmed they were speaking of the same man. The Earl of March.
She wanted to question his sister on his intentions with Margaret, but she would do that when they were formally introduced with their siblings.
Lady Helen stood, fluffing the skirts of her gown. “I must go tend to my mother, but we should be friends.” She pointed between Delia and herself. “Come to March House for tea on Wednesday.”
“Are you sure?” Delia asked.
Lady Helen was born respectable. Adelia didn’t know the dynamics between the earl and his sister, but for the woman to introduce herself as a lady meant she was legitimate.
“Why wouldn’t I be sure?” she waited for Delia to answer.
“Because I’m a bastard, and you are not,” Delia told her simply.
“To fathers, all girls are bastards. I’ll see you Wednesday, Miss St. George.” Lady Helen marched out of the retiring room, passing a pair of debutantes who gaped wide-eyed at Delia before they put their heads together and whispered furiously.
Delia released a weary sigh and stood to leave. It was nice to talk to another woman who didn’t judge her by her birth. Margaret was really her only confidante, and often she didn’t quite understand Delia’s lot in life. Three years younger and blessed with a much more pleasant disposition, Margaret was the more docile of the two.
Entering the crowded ballroom, Delia gazed around in search of Margaret or Aunt Francis but could not locate either in the crush. Turning, she bumped into a hard body, nearly toppling backward. Before she could completely embarrass herself, strong hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her upright.
Delia couldn’t find her breath, her heart thumping like rain on a stormy night. Her skin burnt where the man’s grip branded itself around her. Dragging her gaze up his long body, she gasped when their eyes locked on each other.
Dazzling green eyes, like the forest on a rare sunny day, stared back at her. High cheekbones that should’ve been out of place on such a man but suited his obscenely proportional face perfectly. The man in front of her was blessed with an aristocratic nose, smooth mahogany skin, a scandalous beard that had her longing to run her fingers through its short, cropped hair. A thin upper lip, accompanied by a plump bottom that was made for kissing, created the perfect man to threaten everything Delia held dear.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice deep and commanding.
This man…was magnificent.
Chapter Three
Hunt swallowed repeatedly, trying to gain control of himself. Was he ill? He had to be ill. What other possible reason could contribute to the way he was feeling in that moment?
His heart punched in his chest, his cock hardened as his gaze stayed sealed to the uniquely beautiful woman in front of him.
He’d seen beauty before—how could he not when it had been paraded in front of him on a daily basis—but this enchantress staring up at him with a slightly disapproving glare was like no other woman he’d ever seen. She had an oval-shaped face, slightly longer than the classically beautiful women of the Ton. The bridge of her nose was long, leading to a slightly upturned tip. Her mouth was a perfect bow, full and ripe.
Hunt licked his lips, unable to take his eyes or hands off her. He was aware that he was still holding her, but he couldn’t remove his hand not even if the king himself demanded it.
The whispers surrounding them intensified, turning into a loud, unrecognizable buzzing in his ears. He was accustomed to Society gossiping about his family; they had always taken a greatinterest in the Wakefields. Hunt ignored it all, too captivated by the woman in front of him to care about anything, even propriety, because surely, he had held on to her longer than what was considered appropriate.
“Please release me, sir,” she commanded him, her wide eyes closing into small snake-like slits. Her voice was deep, not sweet or timid, but strong and domineering, as if she knew exactly who she was and wasn’t afraid to show it.
Releasing her, he took a step back, needing some distance between them so that he could gain clarity. He wasn’t the type of man that would lose himself over a woman, but somehow, he had momentarily lost all of his senses.
“Forgive me, I was captured by your beauty?—”
She huffed out, rolling her eyes up to the painted ceiling. “Really, I wager that you are captured by beauty often.”
