Page 82 of To Hunt the Hunter

16th May 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.

Lucian took the letter out for the tenth time that morning alone, sliding it carefully from the breast pocket of his coat. The writing had been blurred in places when it arrived and now it was near illegible. Not that it mattered. He knew it by heart. After he smoothed the rumpled paper, he traced the shape of her name with his finger.

He had known it would hurt to leave her, had known it would feel like dying, and yet he had not expected it to be as bad as it was. Each day the pain only grew worse as the realisation that another day would follow, and another, and still more, and not one of them would bring him her smile, the sound of her laughter, the scent of orange blossom and the soft press of her lips.

Lucian closed his eyes against the exquisite pain that cut through his heart, jolting as the door to the library swung open and Great-Aunt Marguerite came through without so much as knocking. He got to his feet, turning his back on her, wiping his eyes and tucking the letter away before she could make some barbed comment about sentimentality. He might just kill her if she did.

“The ball is in three days, Lucian,” she said, with no preamble. “As you are incapable of deciding, it is past time I helped you to come to the point. I have chosen three girls, and I will have an answer as to which one you will take as your marchioness.”

“Go away, Marguerite,” he said, struggling to reach for the ice with which he was so used to freezing out that which he did not wish to feel.

The trouble was, Matilda had melted it all away, and the knack seemed to escape him now. His emotions were in turmoil, forever too close to the surface, ready to spill over, and he did not know how to make it stop.

“I will not go away. This vile gossip about Theodore, not to mention that… that woman….”

“Don’t.” Lucian swung around, fists clenched, and his aunt took a step back at whatever it was she saw in his eyes. “Don’t you dare speak of her.”

Marguerite hesitated, but put her chin up and one by one set down three small framed pictures on his desk.

“This,” she said, pointing at the first painting. “Is undoubtedly the best choice available. Lady Constance Rivenhall, daughter of the Duke of Sefton. She is an heiress, bringing fifty thousand pounds, plus the association with Sefton, and a wealth of property that is hers via her mother’s line. It would be the match of the century, Lucian. Not to mention that she is young and pretty, and that she has four brothers. Good, fertile stock.”

“Get out.”

Marguerite froze in response to the icy command, her finger suspended over the second painting.

“Lucian,” she said, though her voice was a little less certain than before.

“Get out!”

He roared the words with such fury she leapt in shock. Marguerite paled, picking up her skirts and rushing from the room with a swish of black bombazine. Lucian stopped by the desk and stared down at the paintings, at the pretty painted faces of his future bride, whichever one he wished to choose.

With an incoherent howl of rage and pain he swept his arm across the desk sending everything smashing to the floor. He stared at the destruction for a long moment, breathing hard, before turning towards the brandy decanter. The heavy crystal stopper hit the fireplace with a satisfying smash as he snatched up the decanter and strode from the room.

***

17th May 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.

“Uncle?” Phoebe poked her uncle’s shoulder uncertainly.

She knew he wasn’t dead because his chest was rising and falling. It had given her a shock when he’d not come home last night. She had persuaded Denton to come with her to find him at first light and now the sun was higher. Denton was waiting with the pony and cart, as she was aware her uncle wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this, and he was most certainly foxed. She had realised where he must have gone when she’d found the empty decanter in the stables last night, but it had been too dark and she knew he just wanted to be alone, so she said nothing about it and had taken the decanter back to his study. Still, she had felt a deep surge of relief to find him sat under the great oak tree on Mast Head.

When he’d taken her away from Matlock Bath without letting her even say goodbye to Matilda, Phoebe had been angry with him. For a very short while, she’d wanted to punish him, until she saw that he was being punished already. She had heard the people talk about broken hearts before, but she’d never thought you could actually see one.

You could.

“Uncle Monty, wake up. You’ve been out here all night.”

His eyelids opened reluctantly, the silver grey of his eyes dull as he tried to focus on her.

“Bee?”

His voice was thick and scratchy, and Phoebe blinked back tears.

“Yes, it’s me.”

He groaned and clutched at his head.

“I’m afraid you must have a terrible headache,” she said, reaching out to stroke his blond hair. “Pippin is making something to make you feel better.”