Page 57 of To Hunt the Hunter

Lucian did not dream of Matilda, for he did not sleep, but she filled his thoughts all the same. He closed his eyes, forcing the pain in his throbbing shoulder from his mind and instead reliving the past hours, marvelling at how easily she had stripped him of control. It had been the hardest thing to deny himself, to not breach that fragile barrier and make her his own. Even now, his soul howled with the pain of denial, not just because he had wanted her physically beyond anything he’d ever known, but because he hungered to be close to her, to show her how it could be between them. Instead, she had shown him. Her touch had been sweet and loving, and clumsy with inexperience, and he’d been utterly disarmed. No skilled lover had ever wrung such a response from him with such startling speed, and her touch seemed to have scoured his mind of the past. It was as though no one had ever come before her, for nothing else had ever meant so much.

Everything.

It had been everything, and not nearly enough. He’d been too aware of the fragility of the moment, of the sense that he must hold tight and remember every single exquisite second and never let it go, and then she had cried and he’d wanted to weep too at the raw feeling in his chest, at the weight of guilt, at the unfairness of it.

He had always known that physical pleasure and love were separate things, but he had not appreciated the power of the two combined. How could he bear it? How could he bear not having this again, forever? He calculated the time it would take to get to Matlock Bath, and return, and the handful of days and nights mocked him when set against the eternity of days and nights that would come after. He sought the ice he always reached for, the comforting weight of duty and honour. These things he had clung to all these years. They had given him purpose and the will to survive, at least until Thomas had died… and then he had discovered the existence of his little niece.

Phoebe had given him a new purpose, alongside a growing fear: the fear of failing her as he had her father. But Phoebe would grow, and she would marry and leave him alone, leave him with his duty and his honour to support him. With Matilda warm against his body, the tantalising feminine scent of her filling his head, duty and honour seemed diminished, their substance changed, made frail and brittle from exposure to the powerful light of her love. He feared they would no longer sustain him once she was gone, that they would not be strong enough to make him endure.

No. That could not be. If he did not have his duty to his family, his name, his honour, he would not survive the future. So, he resurrected the ice, forcing his feelings down, burying them deep in the frozen tundra of his soul, but they burned inside him, hot and resentful, melting his resolve.

Chapter 16

Come at once! Matilda is in trouble and we must help her.

―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Helena Knight, copied to each of the Peculiar Ladies.

6th May 1815. Midnight. A meeting of the Peculiar Ladies. Beverwyck, London.

“What the devil is this about?” Nate demanded of Helena as he thrust his hat and coat at Jenkins, the butler. “What on earth did you mean by sending such a missive? Poor Alice has been fretting herself to death all the way here, not to mention the fact we were forced to travel with Leo in the dead of night.”

As he spoke, Alice handed baby Leo, who was sleeping peacefully, into the arms of his nanny.

Helena swallowed, not taking offence at the man’s fury as she knew it stemmed from fear of what trouble his sister was in. She wondered how on earth he would take the news that Matilda was not only in grave danger, but had likely become Lord Montagu’s lover. Well, one explosion at a time.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, embracing Alice, who looked extremely well, despite the anxiety in her eyes and the fraught nature of their journey. “I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped. Do come through, and Gabe and I will explain everything.”

She showed the two latecomers into the huge drawing room and Nate stopped in his tracks as he saw the assembled company.

Prue sat in a chair by the fireplace, with the duke standing behind her. Aashini and her husband, Lord Cavendish, mirrored their stance on the other side. On the sofas, set at right angles to the fireplace, sat Harriet and Bonnie—with their husbands, Jasper and Jerome—then Minerva and Inigo, and Jemima and Solo.

Nate turned to stare at Helena as Gabe came and stood beside her, sliding a reassuring arm about her waist.

“I think you’d best tell me at once,” he said, his expression grim.

Helena looked to Gabe, who smiled at her as everyone sat down. Gabe remained standing, keeping hold of Helena’s hand as she sat and gathered herself for the coming storm. Helena opened her mouth to speak when the door opened once more, and her uncle came in. He paused, his eyebrows going up as he saw everyone.

“Goodness, I had no idea we were having a party,” he said with a smile.

“Not a party, Uncle Charles,” Helena said with regret. “But I think you’d best come in. This involves you too.”

“Oh?” The old man looked puzzled but came in as he was bid and sat down.

“Firstly,” Helena said, wondering how on earth she would explain this, “you must promise me to listen to this to the end and not make assumptions. I know you will find much of it hard to believe, but I swear to you, it is all true.”

“It is,” Gabe said, his voice firm and his gaze settling on her Uncle Charles. “Though I’m afraid some of you will not wish to believe it.”

He nodded at Helena, who took a deep breath and began.

“Mr Theodore Barrington, Lord Montagu’s uncle, is a villain. He has been doing his best to murder Lord Montagu since the marquess was a little boy, and he is—at least in part—responsible for the death of Montagu’s younger brother, Thomas. A few days ago, he sent men after Lord Montagu to murder him on his way to Derbyshire. Montagu is travelling to the dreadful mills which he bought from Mr Burton, who is every bit as wicked as was recently reported. The marquess did not slander him, and Montagu is not mad, but he is in grave danger, and….” Helena took a deep breath, grateful for her husband’s warm grip on her hand. “And Matilda is with him.”

***

7th May 1815. The White Hart, St Albans.

Matilda sighed and buried deeper under the covers. The unfamiliar scent of bergamot and a warm male body enveloped her, and she opened her eyes to the new and intriguing experience of waking beside Lucian. She looked up, blinking even in the dim morning light filtering through the curtains, to discover she was being observed.

“Good morning,” she said, a little shy now, uncertain of what to expect of him, or what he expected of her.