Page 14 of To Hunt the Hunter

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.”