Page 16 of To Hunt the Hunter

“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 feel 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.”