To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11) Read online

  When Mr and Mrs West excused themselves and retired for the night, with Mrs Frant blushing like a newlywed, Lucian watched them go before turning to Pippin and lifting a pale blond brow in enquiry.

  Pippin returned a smug grin.

  “What you don’t know don’t hurt you none, my lord,” she said, before her expression turned stiff. “And you’ll not punish them none for it, neither, I hope. It’s about time they got themselves sorted. Best part of twenty years she’s been pining for him and him none the wiser. Took her nearly as long to ask for my help too. Still, I sorted them out. They’d marry if it didn’t mean losing their positions.”

  She gave him a pointed look, and Matilda watched as Lucian returned her expression with a frown.

  “Oh, was it a love potion, Pippin?”

  Lucian scowled harder as he looked around, remembering too late that Phoebe was listening in and that the child was far too perceptive not to have figured out the gist of the conversation.

  “Of course it wasn’t a love potion,” Lucian said in exasperation. “There are no such things, Phoebe.”

  Pippin pursed her lips but said nothing. Instead, she turned to Phoebe. “Come along then, my lamb. You can sleep with your grandmama tonight. I don’t doubt they’ve not aired the bed properly, and you’ll make a fine bedwarmer.”

  “Wait. What?” Lucian said, sitting up. “No. There is a bed made up in our room for Phoebe.”

  “Oh, but you’ll not be wanting her chatter all evening, talking your ear off, not when you’ve had her all day. Besides, I’ve missed my little Mistress Barrington, and it will be nice to have some company for a change.”

  “No, Pippin….” he said, his voice stern.

  Matilda saw, as Lucian could not see, the sly wink that Pippin gave Phoebe, and the alacrity with which the child responded.

  “Oh, yes, Pippin. Will you tell me stories too, about when uncle was a little boy, with his brothers, and all the naughty things he did?”

  “Reckon I could be persuaded,” Pippin said, holding out her hand and blithely ignoring Lucian.

  “Hurrah!” Phoebe exclaimed and ran to Lucian to kiss his cheek. “Good night, Papa, good night, Mama.”

  She kissed Matilda too and rushed from the room with Pippin as fast as they could manage.

  “I get the distinct feeling I am being managed,” he said bitterly.

  Matilda smiled. “Don’t be cross. This is Phoebe’s dream come true, and Pippin is an old romantic.”

  Lucian snorted. “Romantic? Giving me leave to debauch an innocent young lady is not romantic.”

  “But she’s not giving you leave, Lucian,” Matilda said softly. “I am.”

  His breath caught, and the first faint touch of colour she’d seen in his face all day marked his cheeks. He closed his eyes, but not before Matilda saw them darken with longing.

  “No.” The hand that rested on the table clenched. “I’ll sleep in a chair. On the floor, if it comes to it. God alone knows what damage I’ll have done to your reputation when this debacle is over. I’ll be damned if I’ll ruin you in truth.”

  Matilda reached out and covered his hand, easing her fingers between his and unclenching his fist. “I can’t turn back now, Lucian. We have this time together, this strange little theatrical we are acting out. Let us at least make the most of it. Give me something to remember you by, my love.”

  “Like a bastard?” he demanded, his voice hard and cold.

  Matilda withdrew her hand.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said, her voice unsteady. “At the very least you need to rest that shoulder, or you’ll be in terrible pain tomorrow, and I don’t doubt the rest of us will suffer for it too. It is up to you whether you wish to make these days we have been granted ones of misery and regret, or whether they will be memories we can cherish in years to come. I will not beg, Lucian. You will do as you think best.”

  ***

  Lucian closed his eyes as Matilda walked out of the room. When a pretty maid poked her head around and batted her eyelids at him to ask if Mr Bennet required anything else… anything at all, he curtly ordered a bottle of brandy and demanded he not be disturbed again. His shoulder was throbbing like the devil himself was poking at it with his blasted pitchfork, he was tired and irritable, and the moment Matilda had said Pippin was not giving him leave to debauch her but she herself was, all that had disappeared and the only throbbing he was aware of was much farther south. He groaned and put his head in his hands. He was despicable and Matilda was doing her damndest to encourage him, confound her.

  Utterly wretched, he stared at the bottle of brandy and contemplated getting foxed and sleeping in the carriage, but knew he could not face the reproach in Matilda’s eyes in the morning. He had to go up the stairs and into their room, and he knew damn well that she would not lie down and go to sleep without a murmur, though she certainly did not need to beg him. Hell, she didn’t need to open her mouth or so much as look in his direction. He’d do anything she wanted, anything, but the thought of taking her innocence and then marrying another woman was so obscene it made him want to do something violent and destructive, or crawl into a dark hole and weep.

  Though it was inadvisable, his thoughts drifted back to the morning they’d spent in his bed. He remembered the heady scent of her, orange blossom and something uniquely feminine and utterly her. He closed his eyes and remembered the silk of her skin and the warm, taut nub of her nipple as he’d taken it in his mouth. Before he knew what he was doing he was on his feet, climbing the stairs, his heart hammering in his chest.

  He did not have to take her innocence, said the devil on his shoulder. It was possible to bring them both pleasure without stealing her virtue, and he knew all the ways. He could show her, he could give her the memories she’d asked for, memories that would be all he had in the frozen landscape of the future that beckoned him. They could have this much. No one would know, she would still be a virgin, would still bleed when her husband….

  Lucian stopped halfway up the stairs as pain lanced through his heart like a dagger had struck, up to the hilt. He leaned upon the wall to brace himself against the impact, looking down, almost puzzled when there was no sign of a blade, not a trace of blood when the wound had to be mortal, sucking the life from him.

  Matilda would not be his. No matter what happened between them, she would one day belong to another man. He would marry a well-bred lady who didn’t give a damn for him past his title and his wealth, and the only woman he’d ever love would be lost to him. The thought was like dying. He would die. Not all at once. He would sire his heirs and see Phoebe married to a man who would cherish her as he ought… but every day a little more of him would wither and die without Matilda’s love to sustain him, until there was nothing left.

  Lucian drew in an unsteady breath. Don’t think of it. He knew how to do that. He’d had plenty of practise. The pain was buried down deep and covered over in ice, freezing it and locking it away like he had always done with anything that was too painful to endure. But that was the trouble with Matilda, and with Phoebe too. They were warm and alive. They had thawed his heart and made him feel things, things that he could not afford, could not have.

  He took another step, then another, moving forward because he could not go back. He was Montagu and he would endure. Matilda would survive the loss of him and, whilst he would not survive the loss of her, he would cast himself in ice and go through the motions of living until his title and Phoebe were safe.

  Tonight, though, tonight and all the nights they had of this crackbrained scheme, those belonged to them both, and he would not waste them.

  Chapter 15

  Sir,

  I have the information you sought, though I do not think it will please you any. I have tracked Mr Barrington down and may inform you that he is established in rooms in a small village outside of Loughborough. I followed him and took note of everyone he spoke to as you asked me to. He has met twice now with a man who could be nothing but a v
illain. On investigation I discover that he is known as Flash Jack and is a highwayman of some notoriety. Shortly after the meeting I discovered that this man immediately set off with three others of equal disrepute and the destination of Matlock Bath in mind. I believe he means to do Lord Montagu harm.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Mr Gabriel Knight from an informant.

  6th May 1815. The White Hart, St Albans.

  Matilda readied herself for bed and tried her hardest not to listen out for every creak of the floorboards that might announce Lucian’s appearance. The White Hart was an ancient building, close to four hundred years old, and the blasted place groaned and protested every time anyone so much as breathed heavily.

  So, naturally, she was a complete basket case.

  She’d washed and changed into one of her own nightgowns. She saw no reason why she ought not. Her disguise—such as it was—was for public consumption. No one would know Mrs Bennet had a taste for lavish bed wear… not that it was in any way provocative. She had not packed to visit Dern with the idea of seducing Lucian in mind. A pity, as she might have been better prepared if she had. Still, the gown was a very fine cotton lawn and trimmed with delicate lace scallops around the neckline and sleeves. Matilda had let down her hair and now sat at the dressing table, brushing it out.

  Her heart leapt to her throat as she heard the door open and the hum of background noise from the busy inn grow louder as Lucian stepped through. He closed the door, muting the sound once more, and leaned against it, staring at her, his expression unreadable.

  Matilda swallowed and willed herself not to drop the heavy silver-backed hairbrush. With great care, she set it down on the dressing table and clasped her hands in her lap to stop them trembling.

  “You ought to have locked the door,” he said, his tone gruff. “It’s not safe in a place like this.”

  “I was waiting for you,” she replied, relieved her voice did not quaver.

  Lucian didn’t reply, but there was something hot and agitated blazing in his eyes that made her pulse flutter.

  He would not sleep in the chair tonight.

  She watched as he dragged his gaze from her. It appeared to be an effort, which was reassuring. Instead, he looked around the tiny room and, though he did not react, she knew he was displeased with what he saw. It was small and cramped, and no doubt a great deal less luxurious than what he was used to. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

  “It’s the best Mr Bennet can afford,” she said lightly. “And Mrs Bennet is well pleased with it. The bed is comfortable.”

  It was. It looked to be as old as the inn, too, and was heavily carved. Lucian moved to it and stood staring down at the dark red coverlet, one elegant hand curving around one of the ornate posts.

  “You ought not be here at all, Matilda, but at the very least it ought to be the best room. You ought to be treated like a queen, not—”

  “Stop it,” she said, her voice firm and somewhat impatient. “Little I care for such fripperies. I’ve told you before. I do not lack for money, and I do not need or want you to buy me things. Do you think a bigger room and better furnishings could make me love you anymore than I do, could make being with you mean more than it does?”

  He didn’t reply, but his shoulders were stiff with tension. Matilda got to her feet and walked to stand behind him. She slid her arms about his waist and rested her head on his back. His hands covered hers, holding on tight.

  “I do not want to feel shame for taking you to my bed,” he said, and the aching emotion she heard in his words, the anger that grew harsher as he spoke, made her eyes prickle. “I want to stand beside you and let everyone know you are mine, that I love you and that I am loved, and I cannot, and it is killing me.”

  “I know,” she said, wanting to weep but trying to be strong for him. Crying would change nothing. “But we are not the first lovers torn apart by circumstances, and we won’t be the last. We shall fight this battle with your uncle, and this time you will win, and you and those you care for will be safe from harm. Until then, we will have these days together, and that must be enough. Whether or not we spend those days in a carriage, a cramped little room in an inn, or a hole in the ground matters not a whit, so long as we are together.”

  He turned and took her face between his hands, stroking her skin with his thumbs, his silver eyes glinting.

  “My love,” he said, staring down at her.

  Matilda smiled. “Yes. Always.”

  He bent his head and put his lips to hers, a delicate brush of his mouth that was a prelude to another featherlike caress, and another. Matilda sighed and touched her tongue to his lips. It was like dropping a lit taper upon spilled brandy.

  He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight and kissing her harder, deeper, plundering her mouth with something close to desperation. Far from being daunted, Matilda’s heart soared and she clung to him, twining her limbs around him like honeysuckle scrambling up a trellis.

  His hands slid down her sides to cup her bottom, pressing her closer against him, kneading the plump flesh until he reached down and lifted her up. Matilda tore her mouth from his with a cry of surprise, wrapping her legs about him.

  “Your shoulder!” she protested in alarm.

  “Damn my shoulder,” he cursed, carrying her to the bed.

  He set her carefully on the mattress. Matilda moved back and lay herself down and he watched until she settled, before climbing over her. His knees pressed into the layers of bedding beside her thighs and he stared down, watching her, his usually cold eyes full of heat and longing.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, so solemnly that Matilda could only swallow hard as emotion rose in her throat. “Not just on the surface. Your goodness, your kindness, shines from you. It is like staring at the sun. Even after I have looked away, it is still imprinted on my mind, upon my soul. You have changed me, Matilda, and I wish that you had not, for I want so many things that I had believed to be nothing more than fairy stories. You have made me wish for impossible things, and knowing I can’t have them is so much worse than believing they did not exist at all.”

  “It is better to have loved and lost….” She blinked hard and tried to smile, to take away the anguish in his eyes.

  “No it isn’t!” he said fiercely. “I keep trying to believe it, but it isn’t.”

  “No,” she agreed, her voice quavering. “It isn’t, and yet I don’t regret it. I will never regret it.” She reached up and tugged at his coat. “Take it off.”

  Lucian closed his eyes and gave a huff of laughter. When he opened them again, he had composed himself, and he looked down at her with a wry smile.

  “You are forever demanding I take my clothes off.”

  “I know,” Matilda replied with a heavy sigh. “I just can’t help myself. I am not only in love with you, but wild with lust. Can you bear it?”

  “I shall do my best,” he said gravely, and struggled out of his coat.

  Matilda helped him as best she could, tugging at the sleeves and then unbuttoning his waistcoat and pushing it off his shoulders. She fought with his cravat and finally loosened it, before sliding it free. He cursed and muttered, trying to get the shirt over his head without jostling his injury, but at last his top half was bare and she drank him in. The wound on his shoulder was uncovered now, and healing well, though it was still pink and angry against his fair skin. The sight of it made her heart clench with fear at how close she had been to losing him, and she looked away, preferring to enjoy the view of his impressive physique.

  “Oh, Lucian,” she said, running her hands over his chest. “I wish we could be naked all the time. I can never get enough of looking at you.”

  “If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be responsible for the consequences,” he murmured, his voice so low it sent shivers coursing over her skin.

  “Oh, good,” she said happily.

  He chuckled and tugged at her nightgown. “My turn. Take it off.”

  “Oh, but I wasn
’t finished,” Matilda protested, pulling at the waistband of his trousers.

  “Too bad. Off,” he commanded, and Matilda squeaked and wriggled as he yanked at the nightgown, pulling it up and over her head and flinging it to the floor.

  He stilled, staring down at her, his fierce gaze devouring her. There was nothing of the icy marquess present here now. He was all ablaze and she could feel the heat radiating from his body as though an inferno burned beneath his skin. He traced the curve of one breast with a tentative fingertip, his breath catching as though he’d dared to reach for something forbidden.

  Matilda held her breath, shivers running over her as her body caught fire. She wanted to grab hold of him and draw him down to her, into her, to never let him go. Instead she held herself still, allowing him to touch her at his leisure. His thumb traced a circle around her nipple, a lazy, caressing movement that made her arch like a cat seeking further attention from the hand that stroked it.

  “Lucian,” she said, her breath coming faster as both hands stroked and touched with something close to reverence. She reached her arms up to him, wanting him to come to her, wanting his body against hers, his mouth on her.

  “Yes?” he said, amusement glinting in the silver of his gaze. “Is there something you want, my love?”

  “Yes,” she said, turning her head to the side, closing her eyes against the jolt of pleasure as he lightly pinched her nipples. The sensation shot through her, tugging at her core, making the place between her legs throb and clamour for attention. She arched her hips, but he sat astride her thighs and offered her no relief.

  His hands slid down her torso and, for one blissful moment, she thought he would touch her there, would seek out the intimate place he had found before and send her off into glittering ecstasy with his clever fingers. He did not, and Matilda huffed and pouted.