“Must we talk of him?”
He wasn’t looking at her, his blond brows drawing together, his gaze intent and his elegant, long fingers worked at snapping a twig into increasingly tiny pieces and arranging them as if for a small bonfire. A heavy gold signet ring glinted on his little finger, the eagle crest catching her eye.
“It’s why I came,” she said.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
He swept the small pile of twigs away with the side of his hand, an irritated gesture, and then leant his head back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes.
“Lucian, what happened between you? Your uncle told me you tried to kill him.”
“That’s true.”
Matilda gasped as his eyes flicked open, a flash of silver like the darting of fish in the stream below.
“Fair’s fair,” he said, his tone mocking. “It was my turn.”
Chapter 4
Dearest Aashini,
I am going away for a few days. I have sent word to my brother that I am staying with you. If anyone asks, please confirm this and tell them I have caught a chill and am indisposed. I know it is wretched of me to ask this of you, but I do ask, my dear friend. Please. I assure you I am quite safe and in my right mind—more or less. Don’t worry for me, though I know you shall all the same. I will explain all on my return. I know that you, of all people, understand that we must sometimes take a risk to defend what is most important to us. I thank you with all my heart.
―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to Aashini Anson, Countess Cavendish.
25th April 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.
Matilda stared at him, her stomach roiling. “You can’t be serious. Surely? Lucian, tell me, what happened?”
In one fluid movement he was on his feet and stalked to the far side of the oak tree.
“Lucian!” she called, but he did not answer.
Unable to leave it at that and knowing he would turn the subject given the least opportunity, she got up, ducking under a low branch to follow him. She held onto it, as though needing to cling to something solid as reality shifted beneath her feet. She was standing behind him, seeing only the rigid set of his shoulders.
“He tried to hurt you?” she asked.
“No. He did hurt me. He tried to kill me. He’s tried many times.”
Matilda stared at his back, her breath suspended.
“Why?” she whispered.
There was a disbelieving huff of laughter. “Think about it, Matilda.”
“The title,” she said, realising at once how obvious it was. “Oh, my… oh, Lucian. But surely, if you—”
“If I what?”
He turned around to face her, his expression hard, his voice as cool as emotionless as she’d ever heard it, as light as if he spoke of nothing more devastating than the weather.
“If I told someone?” One blond eyebrow lifted. “Oh, I tried that. The first time, I was twelve. My aunt Marguerite slapped my face and told me I was wicked and hateful, a vile liar with a spiteful imagination. I tried again a year later, and faced questions about my sanity, about my emotional stability and whether I was sane enough to take control when I came of age. Bedlam beckoned, much to my uncle’s amusement, so once again I was forced to back down. No one ever believed me, Matilda. Well, you’ve met him. You tell me. Isn’t he kind? So very genuine, so concerned for everyone’s wellbeing. He’s so terribly reasonable, so easy and charming and likeable, and I…. I am not.”
Matilda felt her chest constrict. When he was twelve. The first attempt on his life had been when he was twelve?
“I think he might have been content with controlling the power through me. It was his intention, I believe. The trouble was, unlike Thomas, I was not the least bit biddable. Uncle Theo tried to destroy everything our father had taught us, tried to discredit him and his ideas. Likely he thought that would be easy to do. It was not hard to see how impatient Father was with us, his barely concealed contempt for Thomas’ sickly nature and timidity, and my lack of enthusiasm for blood sports and all the things he believed made a man what he was.”
He paused and Matilda did not dare speak, not wanting to halt his explanation and sensing how hard it was for him to speak of such things. So she waited, patiently, as he gathered himself to continue.
“My father despised Theo and ignored us, and so Uncle believed we would turn against his values with ease. What he never understood was that I did not resent such treatment. My father was Montagu. No matter what you thought of the man, he held the title and the power and did a deal of good, both for the family and those who depend on it. My brother, Philip, was everything Montagu should be, yet with a warmth of manner none of the rest of us possessed. I knew that and I did not resent him. I admired him, for heaven’s sake… hero-worshipped him, if you want the truth. My uncle never understood it. He could not. Not when he resented his own brother so thoroughly.”
“How?” Matilda asked, hardly daring to, but she had wanted the truth.
He shrugged. “A riding accident the first time. The girth on my saddle worn through—with a little help. It gave way when I took a jump that my uncle assured me I could manage, though it was higher than anything I’d tackled before. Luckily, I only broke my arm, and uncle was so very contrite, so terribly remorseful. He sacked one of the grooms for that. I think I knew even then, in my gut. No one on the staff could have let something like that happen, but we were still friends then, he was still Uncle Theo, despite our disagreements. It wasn’t until a year later and the third unfortunate accident that the scales fell from my eyes. Finally, I allowed myself to believe that I was living with a monster, but by then it was too late.”
There was a such a bleak edge to the words, every one weighted with regret, with guilt.
“Why too late?” she asked, confused, for Lucian was alive and so his uncle had failed.
“He’d found the way to manipulate me. By hurting Thomas.”
Her breath caught, the shock of his words, the implications….
“Lucian, I’m so—”
“Don’t,” he said savagely, turning away from her. He dashed a hand over his eyes and walked farther around the tree, leaning back against the trunk.
Matilda followed him tentatively.
“Don’t spare your tender feelings for me, Matilda. It was Thomas who suffered, Thomas who….” He broke off and shook his head. “No more. I won’t… I can’t talk about this anymore.”
Matilda nodded, hearing the anguish behind his anger. She did not need him to explain that he’d never spoken of this before. It was too obvious. He watched her warily as she moved closer. Good lord, no wonder he kept everyone at arm’s length, when even those nearest to him could not be depended on. How foolish to consider trusting a stranger when your own family would betray you in a heartbeat. She ached for the terrified, lonely boy he must have been, and for the man he’d become, cold and powerful and isolated. But he wasn’t cold, that was the problem. He was alone, but not the least bit cold.
How she had the courage she did not know, but she lifted her hand to his cheek, an offer of comfort to someone who needed it so desperately.
“You suffered too, Lucian. He hurt you badly, and I am sorry. You ought not have been hurt and alone. I am so very sorry, whether or not you want me to be. You can’t stop me, you know. I wish I could make it better.”
He watched her, and his expression made something painful unfurl in her chest, as though he did not know how to take her words, as if no one had said such things to him before.
He shook his head, as if asking her to stop, but then he closed his eyes and turned his face into her palm, seeking the comfort she offered him.
“No more questions,” he said softly. “Just give me today. Please, Matilda. You must go, we both know it, but I am selfish enough to take this day for myself, if you’ll allow it.”
Matilda nodded, stroking her thumb over the high cheekbone of a face that could appear so cold and aust
ere, but that was warm beneath her touch.
“Just a day,” she murmured, knowing what she would do and feeling her blood thrill in her veins at her own audacity.
She took a step closer to him, their bodies almost touching. His gaze sharpened, suddenly intent. “May I…”
“No.”
She had no resistance against him, not if he touched her as he so plainly wanted to. Never knowing what it was to kiss him was too dreadful to consider, but she could risk only this.
“Don’t move,” she warned.
If he put his hands on her they would both be lost. Matilda took hold of his wrists and pressed his hands to the tree trunk.
“Like this, or not at all.”
“But…” he began, and she shook her head.
“Don’t touch me. Promise?”
He let out a pained huff of laughter.
“Promise,” he said begrudgingly, his tone dark.
Matilda glanced down the hill to see Phoebe was still occupied with catching fish before looking back at Lucian, whose eyes were fixed upon her.
“You said it would be sweeter if I instigated our first kiss. Do you remember?”
A sweep of blond eyelashes shuttered his expression for a moment. “Don’t remind me of all I have said and done. I am well aware of how little I deserve this, and yet… I was right, was I not?”
“Let’s see,” she said, and placed her hands upon his chest.
His heart thundered beneath her palm, which was reassuring as he was outwardly as placid as always, save for the way his eyes had grown dark, the pupils wide and blown. She slid her hands to his shoulders, lifted onto her toes and leaned in, pressing her mouth tentatively against his. Her breath caught and sensation lit her up like a lightning strike as desire lanced through her. Lucian kept his word and did not move to touch her, though his breath was coming fast now. Matilda moved her mouth over his, another soft press of lips, and he uttered a low sound that made her heart skip about. She drew back and he followed, seeking more, but she pressed a finger to his lips, a warning.
“Is this retribution?” he asked, his voice husky. “Will you tease and torture me when I have given you my word not to touch?”
Matilda laughed and almost agreed but decided on honesty instead. “No, this is me daring to pet a tiger. It’s self-preservation, Lucian, and you know it.”
“Then for God’s sake, take what you want. I’m dying here.”
So she did, pressing closer, her breasts against his hard chest, her mouth firming over his. He angled his head and she gasped as his tongue traced the seam of her lips, seeking, asking. It was both too much and not enough as his tongue found hers and stroked. Oh, she was lost, this was too sweet, too delicious. He did not move, did not break his word, and yet he was utterly in control, drawing her closer with his kiss, making her want more and more with each press of that sinful, wicked, mouth. She had seen him use words as weapons, seen the cruel set of that mouth when he was at his most austere, and yet now it was so achingly tender, so soft, tempting her down a path she could not take.
Matilda pressed closer still, her body alive with need, the place between her thighs that clamoured for him throbbing and damp. Good Lord, but Phoebe was close by, and she… and she wanted….
Matilda broke away from him and stepped back, breathing hard.
“Matilda.”
Her name was a plea. His eyes said more and please and don’t go. She couldn’t look at him, aware of how close she’d been to asking him to touch her, to do anything he wanted.
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head and turning away from him. “I… I should not have—”
“Don’t,” he commanded, his voice sharp. “Don’t regret it, for the love of God. I’ll remember this until the day I die, Matilda. You did nothing wrong. Damnation, I want you so badly. I don’t know….” He gave a soft laugh, though there was no humour in it. “How do I let you go? Tell me how.”
Matilda wanted to cry but she forced herself to smile, though she could not bear to turn and look at him. “You say, goodbye, Matilda, and I leave. It’s quite simple. But I shan’t go until I know what I can do to help you.”
He made a sound of disgust. “There is nothing you can do, and I suppose that will save you. It is the one thing that can force my hand and make me send you away. My uncle has consistently failed to put a period to my life, and so he will make me pay instead. He will hurt me through those I love, as he has always done.”
“Phoebe,” Matilda said in a rush as she turned back to him, her hand covering her heart as it was struck with fear. “That’s why you left London. That’s why you were afraid, you were scared he would hurt her.”
Lucian nodded, his expression grave and regretful. “And you, Matilda. If he had the slightest idea how I feel for you….”
Her breath caught at the look in his eyes. Did he mean…?
“Look!”
Matilda almost jumped out of her skin, not having heard Phoebe approach, too caught up in Lucian and his words.
“I caught one!”
There was a moment of stunned silence before Lucian rescued them.
“I’m not certain that will feed us if you were hoping to supply lunch, Bee.”
Matilda looked at him in awe. He had crouched down to inspect Phoebe’s catch of a single stickleback, and she was astonished at how calm he sounded, when she was still all a-quiver from their kiss and the implication of his words. Practise, she supposed. He’d had years and years to learn how to disguise his feelings, to hide everything but what he wished people to see of him.
“Don’t be silly,” Phoebe huffed, rolling her eyes. “We can’t eat it, but I am famished. Can we have our picnic now?”
Lucian made a show of inspecting the fish before looking back at his niece.
“You look like you fell in,” he observed, taking in her rumpled dress and its sodden, muddy hem. “But it is a very fine fish, and of course you are famished. There is no other state for you, child: I believe you have hollow legs. But yes, I think perhaps we should eat now. Go and unpack our feast.”
Phoebe gave a little yip of triumph and hurried back around the thick tree trunk to the other side where they’d set out the picnic. Lucian looked up at Matilda, his expression somewhat rueful.
“What an excellent chaperone she is,” he murmured. “And no picnic, no matter how lavish, will satisfy me today, I fear.”
Matilda blushed, but held his gaze as he straightened and offered her his hand. She took it and he raised it to his lips, kissing her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Come along,” he said with a sigh. “Before I steal you away on the pretence of playing least in sight. I am dangerously close to such despicable behaviour, I assure you.”
Matilda smiled, deciding it was best not to mention that she was dangerously close to playing along.
Chapter 5
Theo,
I’ve damn near lost everything, you bloody old fool. Is this the thanks I get for helping you? I want what I was promised. All of it. You’d best find me a way in because if I fail, so do you.
―Excerpt of a letter to Mr Theodore Barrington, from an unknown correspondent.
25th April 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.
It was rather like living in a dream, the kind of dream she had never dared allow herself to even glimpse. It was too lovely to be real, too close to everything she’d ever wanted to be good for her. Such dreams only led to dissatisfaction and disappointment when you realised reality could never, ever compare. Yet here she was, picnicking at Dern, surrounded by wildflowers, sitting under the shade of an oak tree on a warm, spring day, with Lucian and Phoebe.
Phoebe was in high spirits. The little girl had confided that Matilda had the honour of being her favourite person in the world—besides Lucian—though Pippin came a very close third. So, to have her two favourite people together had her full of joy and laughter, which was quite infectious and impossible to resist. No matter how hard Matil
da tried to guard her heart, it was a hopeless venture. She might have had more luck if Lucian wasn’t so irresistible in such a setting.
He was still immaculate, and every inch the marquess, but she realised she was seeing him with a few of his defences lowered. Not all. She caught the guarded look in his eyes on occasion, a wariness that told her she was not the only one risking things here. He’d lost everyone he’d ever cared for, except Phoebe, and Matilda did not doubt he had no desire to be hurt again. The revelations about his uncle were so shocking it only made the dreamlike feel of the day more pronounced, for if this was a dream, that was surely a nightmare. She had so many questions, not one of which she could ask for fear of spoiling the day she had promised to give him.
“I agree, Sidney is a fine name for a stickleback,” Lucian said, with every expression of gravity. “But, nonetheless, he must be put back in the stream.”
“Oh, but, Uncle!” Phoebe pouted. “Can’t I take him home?”
“No. The poor thing will die. Just think how lonely he’ll be.”
“But I’ll keep him company,” she protested.
Lucian sent Matilda an appealing look.
“Yes, but you are not a stickleback,” Matilda said gently. “And perhaps he has a wife. Children, even. They’ll be worried for him.”
Phoebe huffed. “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. Very well, but you have to come too.”
She tugged at Lucian’s arm, and Matilda watched as they walked hand-in-hand down to the stream to set Sidney free. They crouched down by the water, two impossibly blonde heads bent together, the sun turning them to gold, glinting like a field of barley. She drew in a deep breath. One day. Just one perfect day. It must be enough. She smiled as Phoebe waved to her, and waved back, catching her breath as Lucian blew her a kiss once Phoebe had returned her attention to the stream. She laughed and pretended to catch it, making him smile.
A snap of twigs and the indignant squawk of a bird had her glancing away from him towards the woodland they had driven through on the way here, half expecting to see someone walking about in the undergrowth. Matilda squinted into the sunlight but saw nothing moving. Just a deer, no doubt, or perhaps a gamekeeper. She looked back to Lucian, who was holding Phoebe’s hand as she waved goodbye to Sidney, and sighed. Gathering herself, Matilda tidied away their picnic before she grew maudlin.
To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11) Page 4