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

  She wasn’t about to waste what little time they had with regrets; there would be days enough for those later.

  “Here!”

  Matilda looked up from fastening the picnic basket as a bunch of wildflowers was thrust in her face. A tangle of buttercups, dandelions, and cow parsley greeted her, and Matilda exclaimed, touched.

  “Oh, how beautiful. Thank you, Phoebe. They’re quite lovely. I shall ask Mrs Frant if she will have them put in water for me and placed by my bed.”

  “And when they die, I shall pick you some more,” Phoebe said, as Matilda got to her feet. “The roses are lovely, aren’t they, Uncle? We could pick a big bunch. I’m sure Matilda would like the pink ones.”

  “I should love the pink ones,” Matilda replied, “but I shall have to go before then, love.”

  Phoebe’s face fell. “Oh, no. You can’t go so soon. You’ve only just come.”

  “I must, I’m afraid. I ought not be here at all,” Matilda said, reaching out and taking her hand. “But it has been so lovely. I shan’t ever forget it.”

  “But you’ll come back again.”

  It wasn’t a question, and there was a fierce look in the girl’s eyes that Matilda struggled to meet. It would have been easy to lie, to placate her with promises, but that was not fair.

  Matilda shook her head and saw Phoebe’s lip tremble. She looked helplessly at Lucian, whose expression had been wiped clean of emotion, his jaw set. Before Matilda could find her voice, he swept Phoebe up into his arms and walked away with her. Matilda could hear his low voice, but not what he was saying and her throat grew tight as she saw Phoebe clutching at his neck, her face pressed against his shoulder. Lucian held her tightly, and Matilda could not watch any longer.

  By the time they returned, Phoebe was calm, if subdued. She helped Lucian put the pony back in harness, and then climbed up into the gig. She leaned into Matilda, who could do nothing more than put an arm about her.

  When they arrived back at Dern, Mrs Frant bore off the untidy posy as if it were the most exotic of bouquets. Miss Peabody exclaimed in horror as she took in her charge’s bedraggled appearance, and dragged a disgruntled Phoebe off to be changed into something clean.

  Left alone in the great hall, Matilda turned to Lucian.

  “I feel like I’m doing more harm than good,” she admitted, unable to hide the catch in her voice. “I wanted so much to help, but poor Phoebe… I’m just m-making everything….”

  “Matilda, if you don’t want me to hold you, for the love of God, don’t cry,” Lucian protested.

  “I do, though,” she said helplessly. “I do want you to. Please.”

  The words were out before she could think better of them, and Lucian did not need another invitation. She closed her eyes, her head on his shoulder as his arms went around her, pulling her against him. Oh, this, her heart cried. He smelled of clean linen and shaving soap, a faint, lingering scent of bergamot rising from his skin.

  “It is better to have something lovely for a short time, than not at all,” Lucian said, his voice soft. “I admit, it has taken me many years to accept the truth of that. It is too easy to lose yourself in hatred and bitterness and regret, too easy to lose what happiness you might find in something fleeting. It is something I struggle to do, but Phoebe is teaching me to be better, as are you.”

  Matilda swallowed hard, forcing the tears not to fall.

  “I have to go,” she said, utterly miserable despite his words.

  “Yes.”

  “And you have to get married.”

  “Yes.”

  Matilda took a deep breath. “You will not persuade me to be your mistress, then?”

  “I cannot,” he said, his voice heavy. “It is not what you want at heart. We both know it and I won’t persuade you to change your mind. Besides which, Phoebe loves you. One day she would understand what I had done, what I had asked of you. How could I meet her eyes? How could I explain it? I would do anything to keep you with me, Matilda, but I know what you want and, though I do not see it the same way, you are correct. Society would judge you. I won’t bring illegitimate children into the world if I can help it. It is wrong to force a child to bear the stigma, and you, of all people, you need a family around you.” He stepped back a little to look at her, raising her chin with a finger. “It is perfectly obvious to any fool that you will be a wonderful mother, I would be cruel indeed, to take that from you and despite what you might think, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, I’m not entirely heartless—selfish, yes, too used to getting my own way—but not heartless.”

  “I would do it,” she said suddenly, needing him to know why. “I would stay without a second thought, you would need not even ask me. I could be content, with you and with Phoebe, but… but I can’t share you with a wife, Lucian.”

  He stilled, staring at her. She could read nothing from his expression, which she realised now was telling enough. He hid any strong emotion behind that cool mask, likely a habit he could not break after so many years.

  “Not even if you alone held my heart?” he asked, and there was the emotion she craved, the longing clear in his voice.

  “And what if I married, Lucian? Could you bear it, knowing I returned home to my husband, to his bed?”

  He swore violently under his breath and turned away from her. He raked his hands through his hair, his shoulders set, every angle of his body taut. For just a moment, the façade of the ice cold marquess, who never raised his voice, never showed anger or impatience, or anything at all, fell away. She supposed she ought to feel some measure of triumph in that, in having gained such a reaction, but she could feel nothing but sadness for them both.

  “There, you see,” she said softly. “It’s impossible.”

  “Yes.” His reply was bitten off, harsh and angry. “And with a few words you have proven I am a heartless bastard after all.”

  The silence that followed seemed to fill the great hall, pulsing against the magnificent oak panelling, the huge carved coat of arms on the wall reminding her of all the reasons why. Portraits of generations of Barringtons stared down at them, no doubt having seen too many dramas played out beneath them to be impressed by a tragic love story.

  “We still have today,” she said, trying to lighten her voice and the mood. “And I have seen so little of your splendid home. Will you show me some of it?”

  It took a moment before he responded, before he would turn and face her again.

  “Of course,” he said politely, and held out his arm to her.

  Matilda hesitated, uncertain of what he was feeling. “Are you angry with me?”

  “With you?” His blond brows drew together, puzzled. “No. Never with you. With circumstance, and fate, and all the things I have no power over, but never with you.”

  Matilda nodded and went with him as he escorted her through the vast building. Little by little, the simmering tension eased, and he showed her his favourite places, paintings of famous ancestors, and they talked. They talked of everything and nothing and, despite the sorrow in her heart, Matilda found herself laughing and enjoying his company. It was too easy to do, that was the trouble.

  “You’re not at all how I thought you would be.”

  He laughed at that. “Am I not? Don’t fool yourself. I’m that same man. You just bring out the best—and the worst—in me. I am happy now, happy that you came to me, and so I am behaving myself. The truth is I’m just trying desperately to….” He let out a breath and shook his head. “I ought not open my mouth. You make me reckless, foolish beyond measure. I tell myself I cannot possibly make this situation any worse, but with every moment in your company the idea of letting you leave me becomes harder to bear.”

  She smiled, finding some comfort in the fact that he felt the same way. “I know, and that is why you are not how I thought. That man would not have let me be his friend. He could not have allowed me to come here and not tried to seduce me. How much of who you really are is Montagu, and how much of
him is who your father wanted you to be?”

  He didn’t answer, only casting her a curious sidelong glance and changing the subject.

  “Talk to me about your friends,” he said, taking her hand, his fingers twining with hers. It was far too intimate, but it appeared foolish to object now. She had kissed him. The idea seemed impossible. “You were at Lady Helena’s wedding?”

  Matilda nodded, staring up at him and remembering the feel of his lips beneath hers, wanting it again, and wanting so much more. “I was. It was a wonderful occasion. They’ll be very happy, I think. They’re very much in love, certainly.”

  “Lucky Mr Knight,” he said softly.

  “You never considered Helena as your bride?”

  Why on earth had she said that? She hated herself for it the moment the question left her mouth, but it was too late to take it back.

  “Bedwin would never have countenanced the match,” he said, shaking his head. “There was little point in adding her to the list.”

  “The list. Of course there’s a list,” she said with a bitter huff of laughter, wanting to cry, to scream with frustration.

  “Matilda….”

  “No, change the subject,” she said, determined to move on. How much longer did they have? Hours? She must go, first thing tomorrow, and she’d achieved nothing that she’d wanted to. “What are you going to do about your uncle?”

  “You promised me we’d not speak of him today.”

  “Yes, but me being here is upsetting Phoebe and making everything so difficult for both of us. I must leave tomorrow, you know it as well as I do. So what will you do? You cannot hide here with Phoebe forever.”

  His face darkened. “I have no intention of doing so. It was an almighty shock to see him in London when I’d believed him in India. I needed time to think, and I feared…I feared he’d already got to Phoebe. I could not give him the chance, and it is far safer here. I dealt with him before, I’ll deal with him again.”

  “By sending him back to India?”

  “Yes. He has a measure of freedom there and more comfort than he deserves, but he ought to have been guarded.”

  She watched something cold and resolute flicker in his eyes, his jaw growing taut.

  “Something went wrong. Someone helped him to return here, and I shall discover who. They will be dealt with, as will he. Yet, much as it grieves me to admit it, I am not cold-blooded enough to have a man murdered. In the heat of the moment, I could do it. After Thomas died… I could have killed him then, without a moment’s regret. I cannot order an execution, though. I suspect my father could have done it—no doubt he would see my inability to act decisively a failing—but there are some lines I will not cross. I will not become like Theodore. Not even for the family name.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said faintly, wondering at the life he had led, at what it must be like living with the fact your nearest kin meant to put you in the ground. “But why after Thomas died? What happened?”

  “You heard of my brother’s death?” he asked, his voice dispassionate.

  “No, actually. I believe at the time it occurred I had troubles of my own,” she said, smiling a little to take the sting from the comment, as she knew now that it had been shortly after their first meeting, the night when her life had changed. She’d lost her father and her reputation in the space of a few hours. “A friend of mine told me about it, though only that he’d died. She did not know of the circumstances.”

  “She wouldn’t,” he said darkly. “No one did. It took a great deal of work to conceal the truth.”

  “Lucian?”

  His fingers tightened on her hand. “He died in a gentleman’s club. The circumstances were predictably sordid. My uncle might not have forced opium down his throat, or copious amounts of brandy, or whatever the hell else he took to keep his demons quiet, but he gave him the demons that drove him to it. If I had seen him in the days that followed Tommy’s death, I would have killed him.”

  “I’m so sorry, Lucian.”

  He shrugged. “It was inevitable. Thomas was on a road that had one destination and he wanted the journey done as speedily as possible. He achieved his goal.”

  The words were flat and emotionless, and it would have been easy to assume him callous, to believe he did not care. “It must have hurt that he left you alone.”

  She watched as he closed his eyes and let out a breath. “How,” he said. “How do you always do that? Anyone else would have just murmured a polite word of condolence, but not you. Oh, no. You are brutally honest and unflinchingly kind, and I feel like you can see inside my damn soul. You make me want to tell you all of it. To unburden myself, and yet that’s unfair, when I can give you nothing in return.”

  “But in telling me you are giving me your trust,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “And that is more of a gift than I ever hoped for. I know it is not something you give lightly, after all.”

  He watched her, that wary glint back in his eyes. “It is not a pretty story,” he said, shaking his head. Matilda stepped closer to him, taking both of his hands.

  “Life is not always pretty, Lucian. If you lived it, I can hear it. I won’t break.”

  A wry smile touched his mouth, one of the dimples she’d noticed making a brief appearance. Matilda’s breath caught as he moved closer still, so they were almost touching. “No, you won’t break. You look delicate as lace but there is steel at your core, Matilda Hunt. You are the strongest person I have ever met, and the loveliest, inside and out.”

  “Oh, don’t be nice to me,” she pleaded, feeling her eyes grow hot. “You’ll make me cry again, and then you’ll be sorry.”

  “No, I shan’t,” he murmured. “If I make you cry, you’ll let me hold you again, and I want that more than anything.”

  “Lucian….” Matilda shook her head, trying to remind herself of the conversation. “You’ll tell me everything that happened?”

  “I will,” he agreed, though his voice had lowered, and his eyes told her he was not thinking of the past right now. “Tonight, once Phoebe is abed, I’ll tell you the whole sorry tale.”

  “Good.” She could not look away from him, caught in his gaze like he’d cast a spell. “That’s… good.”

  Her breath hitched and she knew she ought to put distance between them, but she could not, would not.

  “I want to kiss you so much.”

  The words were anguished, and she knew the pain of them acutely, feeling just as he did.

  “I know, I want it too, but we mustn’t…” she murmured, a half-hearted protest at best.

  “Make me stop,” he told her, his voice harsh now. “Tell me no.”

  “I can’t.”

  He let go of her hands, raising his to cradle her face and lifting it towards his.

  “I will go mad when you leave,” he whispered, and then his lips were on hers, soft at first, tasting, coaxing, a series of delicate touches that blurred to become one endlessly tender kiss. But there had been too much wanting for too long and little time passed before such gentleness burned away, leaving longing and need and desperation.

  Matilda slid her arms around his neck, needing more of him. She pressed closer and he groaned against her mouth. One hand left her face to settle at her hip, tugging her flush against his body. A gasp tore from her as she felt his arousal, hard and insistent, urgent against her belly. She knew she ought to be shocked, ought to protest, but that was the last thing she wanted, and instead she plastered herself against him, as though she could never be close enough.

  His lips left her mouth, trailing hot kisses along her jaw, down her neck and she wanted to cry with the pleasure of it, with the desire to ask for more, to demand everything he could give her. He moved her then, and Matilda was too dazed to understand why until she became aware of the cool touch of a wall at her back. She leant against it with relief, needing something to steady her when her limbs no longer felt able to support her. The longing to lie down, to take him with her and fee
l his weight upon her body was a desperate ache inside of her, a low, relentless throb between her legs.

  “Lucian,” she sobbed, beside herself with wanting him.

  “My love,” he whispered against her neck. “My dearest love, I have never wanted anything as I want you.”

  “Nor I, and I tried so hard not to want you.”

  He laughed a little, standing with his forehead touching hers. “You ought not want me. I’m not worthy of you and I was an utter fool to think otherwise. Anyone who cannot see that is a damned fool, but the world is full of fools and liars.”

  He took her mouth again and there was nothing left inside of her but needing him. Her body ached and clamoured, the empty sensation deep in her core demanding to be filled and she arched her hips against him, seeking relief. Shifting impatiently, she gasped at the jolt of pleasure she found as she moved against his body.

  He made a harsh sound, tearing his mouth from hers. “Oh, Christ, Matilda. If you want to leave here the same way you arrived, don’t….”

  The words died in his throat as she moved against him again, beyond rational thought, all instinct and desire and longing. This man had always been the one. No matter how she’d fought it, he was her destiny and that fact seemed to override all else.

  She stared up at him, entranced by the darkness of his eyes, the black swamping the silver.

  “Matilda,” he said, his voice soft, reverent. “Matilda, I know I ought not say it, I have no right to, but….”

  He paused, muttering a curse, and turned his head towards the door through which they’d entered.

  Voices pierced her consciousness, far off yet, but growing closer, and some ragged sense of self-preservation belatedly asserted itself.