Page 7 of To Hunt the Hunter

Matilda smiled at the footman who drew out a chair for her to the left of Lucian, who sat at the head of the table. Once seated, she accepted a cup of hot chocolate before glancing up at Lucian. He was still standing, staring at her.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked, a little anxious now.

He shook his head and sat down again.

“No,” he said softly. “Not a thing.”

She gave him a quizzical look, uncertain of his mood and a little daunted by the intensity with which he looked at her. Self-conscious now, she reached for a fresh baked roll and tore it in half, applying butter before regarding the preserves.

“The cherry jam is exceptional,” he said. “We have the most marvellous crop every year. I used to make myself ill as a boy, gorging on them.”

Matilda gave him a sideways glance, amused. “I cannot imagine you indulging in anything to excess. You’re far too controlled. You don’t even drink, do you?”

His brows drew together a little. “I drink, but not a great deal, certainly not to excess. Is it not the mark of a gentleman to control such urges? An excess of anything is unbecoming, is it not?”

“I suppose it depends on how far one carries the theory. Drunkenness and gluttony, or any addiction to vice, is certainly unbecoming in anyone. But too much control can be as damaging as none, if it is exercised too rigidly.”

“We must beg to differ,” he said, a taut note entering his voice. “If you wish me to behave myself.”

Matilda felt the blush creep up her throat, and returned her attention to her breakfast.

“Why did you leave London?”

She dared to look up and saw him lift his hand, a small, silent movement that nonetheless had the servants filing out one after the other and closing the door behind them.

“I don’t wish to speak of that now.”

“Later then?” she pressed, reminding herself why she had come.

“Perhaps.”

“What do you wish to do, then?”

He gave her a long, scrolling look that made her stomach quiver.

“To spend the day enjoying my extraordinarily good fortune in having your company,” he said softly.

Matilda licked her lips, failing to settle the sudden burst of nervousness that had her all a-flutter.

“Phoebe suggested a picnic.”

She knew she ought not to have said it; it was too beguiling, as though this was a place outside of reality, somewhere they could exist without the world intruding on their idyll. That was a dangerous facade, but one in which she could too easily believe.

“Then we had best not disappoint her. I’m delighted to have an excuse to cancel a meeting with my solicitor. I shall rearrange it for tomorrow morning. I’ll have Denton occupy the fellow and keep him out of my hair until then. We would not wish for our day to be interrupted.”

Though she tried her best to concentrate on her breakfast, Matilda had become all fingers and thumbs and the knife clattered onto her plate.

“Drat,” she exclaimed, embarrassed, and then what little composure she possessed left her in a rush as Lucian reached across the table.

He trailed a fingertip down the back of her hand.

“You’re real,” he said with a breath of laughter, sounding astonished and as mystified as she felt.

“Of course,” she said, a little tart now in her confusion. “I’d hardly be this clumsy otherwise.”

“You’re everything I dream of, exactly as you are.”

“Lucian,” she protested, with the strangest feeling in her chest, as though someone had reached in and squeezed her heart.