To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11) Page 3

  Matilda made her way down the stairs to find Denton waiting to greet her.

  “Good morning, Miss Hunt. I do hope everything was to your satisfaction?”

  With a little laugh, Matilda nodded. “I would defy a queen to find a single thing not to her satisfaction. It’s all beautiful and quite beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.”

  Denton nodded his approval. “His lordship likes things just so, Miss Hunt, and we take pains to ensure everything is as he likes it.”

  “Is he an exacting master, then?” Matilda asked with interest.

  “Only in as much as he expects everyone to do their best, miss. The standards he sets for himself are far more exacting than anything he demands of his staff.”

  Matilda nodded, unsurprised by this. “You’ve worked here a long time, I think?”

  “Five and thirty years, Miss Hunt. I was a footman until Lord Montagu did me the great honour of making me his valet when he was a very young man, but I had always held an ambition to be butler, which his lordship well knew. Thanks to him, I have held the position for almost fifteen years.”

  Their conversation was curtailed as they’d reached the breakfast parlour, and so Matilda thanked him and went in. Lucian sat at the table reading a letter, looking as pristine and coolly elegant as he always did, the crumpled shirt of last night a distant memory, though one Matilda would never forget. He looked up as she approached, and stared for a moment before getting to his feet, still holding the letter.

  “Miss Hunt,” he said, never taking his eyes from her.

  “My, we’re very formal this morning. Are you still angry with me?”

  He frowned as though the question puzzled him and then glanced at the letter, his frown deepening. He set it down and cleared his throat. “I was never angry with you… Matilda.”

  Matilda smiled at the footman who drew out a chair for her to the left of Lucian, who sat at the head of the table. Once seated, she accepted a cup of hot chocolate before glancing up at Lucian. He was still standing, staring at her.

  “Is there something wrong?” she asked, a little anxious now.

  He shook his head and sat down again.

  “No,” he said softly. “Not a thing.”

  She gave him a quizzical look, uncertain of his mood and a little daunted by the intensity with which he looked at her. Self-conscious now, she reached for a fresh baked roll and tore it in half, applying butter before regarding the preserves.

  “The cherry jam is exceptional,” he said. “We have the most marvellous crop every year. I used to make myself ill as a boy, gorging on them.”

  Matilda gave him a sideways glance, amused. “I cannot imagine you indulging in anything to excess. You’re far too controlled. You don’t even drink, do you?”

  His brows drew together a little. “I drink, but not a great deal, certainly not to excess. Is it not the mark of a gentleman to control such urges? An excess of anything is unbecoming, is it not?”

  “I suppose it depends on how far one carries the theory. Drunkenness and gluttony, or any addiction to vice, is certainly unbecoming in anyone. But too much control can be as damaging as none, if it is exercised too rigidly.”

  “We must beg to differ,” he said, a taut note entering his voice. “If you wish me to behave myself.”

  Matilda felt the blush creep up her throat, and returned her attention to her breakfast.

  “Why did you leave London?”

  She dared to look up and saw him lift his hand, a small, silent movement that nonetheless had the servants filing out one after the other and closing the door behind them.

  “I don’t wish to speak of that now.”

  “Later then?” she pressed, reminding herself why she had come.

  “Perhaps.”

  “What do you wish to do, then?”

  He gave her a long, scrolling look that made her stomach quiver.

  “To spend the day enjoying my extraordinarily good fortune in having your company,” he said softly.

  Matilda licked her lips, failing to settle the sudden burst of nervousness that had her all a-flutter.

  “Phoebe suggested a picnic.”

  She knew she ought not to have said it; it was too beguiling, as though this was a place outside of reality, somewhere they could exist without the world intruding on their idyll. That was a dangerous facade, but one in which she could too easily believe.

  “Then we had best not disappoint her. I’m delighted to have an excuse to cancel a meeting with my solicitor. I shall rearrange it for tomorrow morning. I’ll have Denton occupy the fellow and keep him out of my hair until then. We would not wish for our day to be interrupted.”

  Though she tried her best to concentrate on her breakfast, Matilda had become all fingers and thumbs and the knife clattered onto her plate.

  “Drat,” she exclaimed, embarrassed, and then what little composure she possessed left her in a rush as Lucian reached across the table.

  He trailed a fingertip down the back of her hand.

  “You’re real,” he said with a breath of laughter, sounding astonished and as mystified as she felt.

  “Of course,” she said, a little tart now in her confusion. “I’d hardly be this clumsy otherwise.”

  “You’re everything I dream of, exactly as you are.”

  “Lucian,” she protested, with the strangest feeling in her chest, as though someone had reached in and squeezed her heart.

  “It’s true.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them, his hand still rested beside hers on the table, palm up, close but not touching. He wouldn’t, she realised. He’d given his word and he wouldn’t break it. That brief touch was as much as he would allow himself. Matilda swallowed, knowing she was a fool, but she inched her hand closer. Her heart thudded unevenly, and her conscience screamed danger, but she ignored it and lifted her hand, resting her palm upon his. Their fingers twined together, neither of them saying a word, neither of them looking at the other, only at the place their hands met. The moment was unbearably sweet, ridiculously innocent and yet the air between them simmered with everything that was unsaid, everything they could not have.

  The door burst open and Matilda snatched her hand back as Phoebe ran into the room.

  “She stayed!” she cried, triumphant as she crossed the floor in the space of a second and threw her arms about Lucian’s neck. “I told you so. I told you.”

  “So you did,” Lucian said dryly. “And, seeing as you are in such good spirits, do you think you could refrain from strangling me and ruining my cravat? And sit down like a young lady. I’d rather Miss Hunt did not believe you have been raised by wolves.”

  “Oh, pooh. Miss Hunt doesn’t mind. Do you, Miss Hunt? And your cravat is just as perfect as it always is, but I will sit down because I’m famished! Oh, is that cherry jam? Lovely. It’s my favourite. Have you tried it, Miss Hunt? Can we call you Matilda, please? I should like it if you called me Phoebe. She can, can’t she, Uncle?”

  “I doubt it, bearing in mind she cannot get a word in edgewise at present.”

  Phoebe snorted and Lucian raised his eyes to the heavens. Matilda just watched, utterly enchanted, and with a fatalistic sense of panic growing in her chest. She was in deep, deep trouble.

  ***

  After breakfast, arrangements were made for their outing. Matilda had been to picnics given by those of the haute ton on many occasions. It differed little from eating in a lavish, formal dining room, except that the poor servants had the onerous task of carrying everything outside and setting it up under an awning. So she admitted herself surprised when she met Phoebe and Lucian outside the house to discover a very modest pony and gig, which had an enormous wicker basket strapped on the back. Lucian held the reins, with Phoebe practically bouncing with impatience beside him.

  “How charming this is,” Matilda exclaimed as a footman handed her up. She settled herself beside Phoebe.

  “There’s a lovely spot unde
r a great oak tree at the Mast Head, and at the bottom of the hill there’s a little stream,” Phoebe said, her eyes alight with excitement. She held up a large glass jar with string tied about the neck to make a handle. “You can catch sticklebacks, too, and it’s ever so pretty, but it’s too far to walk. I suggested the gig. It is a good idea, isn’t it?”

  “It’s perfect,” Matilda assured her as Lucian urged the pony into a smart trot.

  Lucian glanced over at her. “Did you think me too high in the instep to sit on a blanket and eat with my fingers?”

  “Yes,” Matilda admitted, earning herself an amused smile.

  “What an opinion she has of me, Bee.”

  “And what would you expect me to think?” Matilda countered.

  “Oh, but I told you he’s not like people think he is,” Phoebe explained. “Not nearly so proud and cold as he seems.”

  Matilda smiled at Phoebe’s earnest assurance. “That’s because he loves you best, Phoebe. It’s different for the rest of us mere mortals.”

  “Oh, but not for you, Matilda. I know he feels the same way about you. Don’t you, Uncle?” It was an innocent, childish remark, but the impact on Matilda’s heart was a devastating one. A blush crept up her throat and she turned her head away, pretending to be engrossed in the passing scenery.

  “Not quite the same way, child,” Lucian replied, though the teasing note Matilda had expected to hear was not in evidence.

  “Well, no, of course not. Matilda is a grownup, a lady.”

  “Indeed.”

  An uneasy silence settled over them which Phoebe was oblivious to, thank heavens, and the little girl chattered and laughed and soon the atmosphere dissipated. It was impossible to be uneasy with her animated company and the droll things she said.

  On the way, Lucian halted the pony so that they might admire the deer which abounded in the vast parkland surrounding Dern Palace.

  “The park was first enclosed in the mid-fifteenth century,” Lucian said as they viewed dozens of deer peacefully grazing in an open field. “Today there are close to four hundred fallow deer in the park.”

  “They’re wild,” Phoebe said with a heavy sigh.

  “Phoebe is determined to tame one.” Lucian gave his niece a reproachful glance.

  “Oh, but they are so pretty,” Phoebe retorted. “I just want to stroke one.”

  “Oh, yes, and feed it cake and tie it up with ribbons, no doubt,” Lucian said with the lift of one eyebrow. “What a pitiful fate for such a beautiful creature.”

  “Oh, pooh,” Phoebe scoffed. “I bet it would like cake and ribbons if it had the chance to try them.”

  Lucian laughed, a proper full-hearted laugh, and Matilda was so astonished that she stared at him, wide-eyed. He caught sight of her shocked expression and stopped abruptly.

  “What?”

  “Dimples,” she said faintly.

  Oh lord, she was doomed.

  Lucian frowned, glancing between her and Phoebe.

  Phoebe snorted. “I told you,” she crowed, laughing at her uncle, and bouncing in her seat. “Ha ha! I told you so.”

  Lucian mock glowered at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I do not have dimples.”

  “He does, doesn’t he, Matilda?”

  “I’m afraid so. How shocking,” Matilda replied, shaking her head as though it was the most scandalous thing she’d ever heard. “Just wait until the ton hears about this.”

  “Now we have something to blackmail him with,” Phoebe said with a smug smile. “We can make him do anything we want.”

  “Two against one. How cruel you women are,” he lamented, and Matilda could not look at him, could not withstand the warmth in his eyes. She ought not have come. She knew she ought not have come, yet she could not regret a moment of this day, would not regret it.

  Lucian turned the pony onto a narrow ferny path that led uphill, winding through hawthorn bushes and thick clumps of yew and hornbeam, and graceful, lofty ash trees. A pheasant lifted from the bracken with an indignant squawk and a flurry of wings, and Lucian soothed the startled pony, who shook his head and huffed before walking on.

  “This part of the park hasn’t changed since the middle ages,” Lucian said. “There are vast areas which have been replanted recently, that’s to say two centuries ago. Beech stands and tree-lined avenues. There’s the chestnut walk and others of beech and oak. They’re very grand, but I rather like it here. It’s wilder and terribly ancient. You can sense it, I think. The ancient nature of the place, a connection to an undisturbed earth which is sometimes missing elsewhere. It’s peaceful.”

  Stop it. Matilda wanted to say it out loud. To demand he not speak so, not reveal more of a man about whom she wanted to know everything. She had been attracted to him from the start, though she’d never understood why. His beauty, perhaps, or his damned arrogance, for she had never been able to refuse a challenge. Yet, over the past months, that had changed. He had changed. He had allowed her a glimpse of the man, not the marquess, and with each glimpse her interest had grown, her desire for more of him had led her on. She had foolishly offered her friendship, and that she could not take back.

  Now, here she was, falling too hard and too fast for a man she could never have, unless she would share him with a wife. How could she love a man and watch him go to another, have a family with another, and call his wife beloved in public? No matter the truth of his feelings… no. No. Her heart hurt.

  The woodland opened out again and they crested a hill crowned by a single, proud oak tree. It was thick and gnarled, with a vast trunk and a heavy low-hanging green canopy. Lucian drew the pony to a halt and climbed down, moving around to the other side to give Matilda his hand. Matilda took it, avoiding his eye, and releasing her hold the moment she’d stepped down.

  “Come along,” Phoebe said, grinning at Matilda and holding the jar she’d brought aloft as she jumped down from the gig with a flurry of skirts, before her uncle could lift her down. “I want to show you the stream.”

  They left Lucian to see to the pony and walked down the hill to where a twining stream glittered and burbled in the spring sunshine, worrying its way around rocks and over glistening pebbles. It was exactly the kind of place Matilda had loved as a child, hiding from her governess and escaping to her own world of small adventures, where she could strip off her stockings and paddle, and search for little creatures under rocks and catch tiny, darting fish. She watched with amusement as Phoebe did just that, hitching up her skirts and splashing into the water as she tried to catch the elusive silver sticklebacks, with their sharp spines and glaring eyes.

  Matilda watched for a while, calling encouragement and commiserating when the fish proved too speedy and slippery. Taking her own turn, she very nearly fell in, much to Phoebe’s delight, and soaked her gloves. It was a good excuse to take them off, though, as it was growing hot, and the lovely day Phoebe had promised hung warm and golden upon the lush green surroundings. She could not resist an occasional glance up the hill. Lucian had unhitched the pony, who was nosing at the grass and chewing with peaceful content. What a beautiful spot this was. She could see why it was a favourite place for them to visit. She did not see Lucian at first and had to search for him, finding him sitting deep in the shade of the great oak, his back against the trunk.

  “You can go back if you like.”

  Matilda looked around to see Phoebe watching her with a satisfied smile, and she felt a surge of embarrassment for having been caught staring. Phoebe only laughed, grinning broadly.

  “Oh, go on,” the child urged. “He’ll be pleased if you go and talk to him. Can’t you tell how happy he is that you’ve come?”

  Yes, Matilda thought desperately. Yes, she could. Despite knowing better, she walked back up the hill, her skirts swishing through the meadow grass, brushing past yellow cowslips and shiny buttercups, bold dandelions and drifts of cow parsley.

  “You look like a meadow sprite,” Lucian observed as she drew nearer. “Like the embodiment
of sunshine in that yellow gown.”

  “Such pretty compliments. You won’t turn my head, you know,” Matilda lied, throwing her wet gloves down and trying to keep her voice impassive.

  “I wasn’t trying to. It’s mine that been turned, I assure you.”

  He’d laid two thick blankets on the ground beside the basket and Matilda sat down, carefully arranging her skirts and not looking at him.

  “You’re so far away. Am I so untrustworthy? You have Phoebe to satisfy propriety, after all. Surely you do not believe me so depraved as to make love to you with her close by?”

  “Of course not!” Matilda exclaimed, flustered.

  It wasn’t him she doubted. It came as something of a shock to discover she did trust him after he’d been so blasé about her becoming his mistress. He knew her feelings and, finally, he seemed to have accepted them. So, she was trusting him with her reputation, her virtue. Everything. He would not betray that trust. She believed that.

  “Are you afraid of your uncle?”

  The question slipped out, rather balder than she’d intended, but she needed to put some emotional distance between them as badly as she did the space of a picnic blanket.

  Remember why you came.

  His demeanour changed in an instant, and she regretted her demand, but still, it had to be asked. She was not here to become his mistress. She really had no right to be here at all, not as she was, neither lover nor an acceptable friend, fish nor fowl. It was unfair to Phoebe to allow her to believe that Matilda could be a part of their lives. She must help Lucian resolve whatever trouble he was in—if it was within her power—and then she must leave.

  “Yes.”

  She hadn’t expected such an answer and was momentarily too surprised to react. So it had been fear she’d seen in his eyes. How strange. She had thought of Lucian—no, of Montagu, for she was beginning to see that these were two distinct personalities—as being arrogantly confident, fearless, emotionless. Powerful. Yet that rather bumbling, gently smiling man with the sparkling eyes had turned him as white as alabaster and sent him running from town. Why?