Lord Hunter's Cinderella Heiress. Lara Temple
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tired and hungry and just wanted to sleep for a week, but she was not going to back down now. She was twenty-one and financially and legally independent, and no one...no one!...was going to decide her fate any longer. She didn’t know whether it was her father or Lord Hunter who was responsible for the gossip in the Morning Post, but she wasn’t going to wait another moment to put a stop to it.
‘This here’s Hunter House, miss.’
Nell inspected the house as the postilion opened the chaise door. It looked like the other houses on the road—pale, patrician and dark except for faint lines of light sifting through the closed curtains in the room on the right. The hood of Nell’s cloak started sliding back and little needles of rain settled on her hair. She tugged her hood into place, wondering how on earth she was going to do this. She turned to the driver.
‘Will you wait a moment?’
The driver glanced at the sluggish drizzle and a little rivulet of water ran off the brim of his hat onto his caped greatcoat.
‘We’ll see if there’s someone in, but then we’ll have to get the horses to the Peacock Inn, miss. You can send for your trunk there.’
She almost told him to take her to the Peacock as well, but the thought of asking for a room in a London posting house without maid or companion was as daunting as bearding the lion in his den.
Not a lion, she mused, trying to recall what Lord Hunter had looked like. Too dark for a lion. Too tall and lean for one, too.
Whatever the case, he was unlikely to be happy about her appearing on his doorstep at nine in the evening. However, if he had a hand in this outrageous stratagem, he didn’t deserve to be happy. She still found it hard to believe the handsome and wealthy rake described by Mrs Sturges really wanted to wed her at all, especially after her shocking behaviour four years ago, but it was equally hard to believe a columnist would dare fabricate such a libellous faradiddle.
She climbed the last step, gathering her resolution, when the door opened and golden light spilled out and was immediately obstructed by a large shadow. She stepped back involuntarily and her shoe slipped on the damp steps. She grabbed at the railing, missed and with a sense of fatality felt herself fall backwards. She instinctively relaxed as she would for a fall from a horse, adjusting her stance, and she managed to land in a crouch on the bottom step. She pushed to her feet and brushed her gloved hands, glad the dark hid her flush of embarrassment. The figure at the top of the steps had hurried towards her, but stopped as she stood up.
‘That was impressive.’ His deep voice was languid and faintly amused and she glanced up abruptly. Apparently she did remember some things about her betrothed.
‘Lord Hunter...’
‘Impressive, but not compelling. Whatever is on offer, sweetheart, I’m not interested. Run along, now.’
Nell almost did precisely that as she realised the driver had been true to his word and was disappearing down the street at a fast clip. She drew herself up, clinging to her dignity, and turned back to the man who was thoroughly confirming Mrs Sturges’s indictment.
‘That’s precisely the issue, Lord Hunter. I am not interested either, and the fact that you don’t even recognise the woman that according to the Morning Post you are engaged to only confirms it. Now, may we continue this inside? It’s cold and I’m tired; it was a long drive from Keswick.’
At least that drew a response from him, if only to wipe the indolent amusement from his face. The light streaming past him from the house still cast him into a shadow, but she could make out some of the lines of his face. The dark uncompromising brows that drew together at her greeting, the deep-set eyes that she couldn’t remember if they were brown or black, and the mouth that had flattened into a hard line—he looked older and much harsher than she had remembered.
‘Miss Tilney,’ he said at last, drawing out her name. ‘This is a surprise, to say the least. Where is Sir Henry?’
‘I don’t know. May we talk inside? It is not quite...’ She paused, realising the irony of suggesting they enter his house to avoid being seen on his doorstep. His lips compressed further, but he stood back and she hurried into the hall, her heart thumping. Everything had been much clearer in her mind when she had been driven by frustration and anger and before she had made a fool of herself tumbling down the steps.
‘This way.’
He opened a door and she glanced at him as she entered. She went towards the still-glowing fireplace, extending her hands to its heat and trying hard not to let her surprise show. How had she managed to forget such a definite face? Had she remembered him more clearly, she might have reconsidered confronting him alone. She had vaguely remembered his height and the bruised weariness about his eyes; even his irreverence and his tolerance of her skittishness. But she hadn’t remembered that his brows were like sooty accusations above intense golden-brown eyes or the deep-cut lines that bracketed a tense mouth. If she had grown up he had grown hard. It was difficult to imagine this man being kind to a scared child.
‘Lord Hunter,’ she began. ‘I—’
‘How did you get here from Keswick?’
She blinked at the brusque interruption.
‘I came post. What I wanted to say was—’
‘In a post-chaise? With whom?’
‘With a maid from the school. Lord Hunter, I—’
‘Is she outside?’
‘No, I left her with her family in Ealing on the way. Lord Hunter, I—’
He raised a hand, cutting her off again.
‘Your father allowed you to travel from the Lake District to London and come to my house in the middle of the night, unattended?’
He spoke softly but the rising menace in his voice was unmistakable.
‘My father knows nothing about it. Would you please stop interrupting me?’
‘Not yet. What the...? What do you mean your father knows nothing about it?’
‘My father sent me a letter on my birthday informing me I have apparently been betrothed for four years. I wrote back and told him I most certainly wasn’t. His response was to send me this clipping from the Morning Post.’ She fumbled inside her reticule for the much-abused slip of paper and shoved it at Lord Hunter. He took it, but didn’t bother reading it.
‘And rather than communicating your...distaste in a more traditional manner, you chose a melodramatic gesture like appearing on my doorstep in the middle of the night?’
Although his flat, cold voice shared nothing with her aunt’s deceptively soft but vicious attacks, Nell felt the familiar stinging ache of dread and mortification rising like a wave of nausea. She gritted her teeth, repeating for the umpteenth time that Aunt Hester had no power over her and that she was no longer a child. She was twenty-one and very wealthy and she was done being treated like chattel.
‘Do you find it more melodramatic than concocting this engagement behind my back and keeping it from me for four years? You have no one to blame but yourself!’
That might have been going too far, Nell told herself as his stern face lost some of its coldness, but she couldn’t tell what the increasingly intent look on his face portended.
‘Clearly,’ he said, still maddeningly cool. ‘Where are you staying in town?’
Some of her bravado faded at the thought of the disappearing post-chaise.
‘Nowhere yet. I thought Father was in town, but the house is empty and the post-chaise is taking my trunk to the Peacock in Islington.’
The gloves jerked in his hands again.
‘I see. And now that you have delivered your message in person, what do you propose to do?’
Nell had no idea. She was miserable and confused and hungry and she wanted nothing