The Wolf's Pursuit (London Fairy Tales #3)(70)

The fault was his.

He knew it, Hunter knew it, and Lucy, beautiful Lucy, his brother's innocent wife, was dead and it was all because he had lied about who he was, tried to be better than just the second son.

He backed away, slowly at first, and then he ran.

His feet ached, his stomach heaved. Finally he stopped in the middle of the street, hoping, praying that someone or something would hit him. Death, it seemed, was his only option. It was his wish, his choice. For how could he live with himself after what he had done?

Hunter had loved Lucy, but so had Ash. She was his everything, his only relative other than Hunter, and although he had wanted her for himself, he had pushed those emotions so far beneath the surface of his heart that he hadn't understood how far the love ran until now, until it was too late.

Legs like lead, he walked until he reached his parent's tombstones. Both taken from him too soon. What would they think of him now? He was the disappointment in the family, the second son by two minutes. And now he was a murderer.

Disgusted with himself, he sat down on the cold grass, leaned his head against the stone, and cursed. His brother, his only living relative, and he had ruined his life, and ruined his parents' memory in the process. All he had ever wanted as a boy had been to please his father, yet all he'd received had been disapproval. One time, just one time, he wanted to make someone proud, make himself proud.

But it was impossible.

He looked down at blood-stained hands.

His future stared right back at him.

Flee. He needed to flee, to get away. No, not just get away. He needed to die. A life for a life, so he set about doing exactly that. It was not fair that he was able to live, to survive, when the one woman who did nothing but bring happiness to everyone she met was dead in the street.

"Lucy," he whispered as salty tears ran down his cheeks and across his lips, "I'm so sorry… But I will see you soon. I will see you soon." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pistol. With shaking hands he lifted it to his chin and pulled the trigger.





About the Author





Rachel Van Dyken is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks or plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor (she's convinced the best villains exist on reality T.V.). She keeps her home in Idaho with her husband and snoring boxer, Sir Winston Churchill. She loves to hear from readers! Follow her on Facebook and Twitter! You can also keep track of her works in progress and release dates by visiting her website:

www.rachelvandyken.com.





Also by Rachel Van Dyken:





The Ugly Duckling Debutante

The Seduction of Sebastian St. James

The Redemption of Lord Rawlings

Every Girl Does it

The Parting Gift

Waltzing With the Wallflower

Savage Winter

Upon A Midnight Dream

Whispered Music

Beguiling Bridget

Compromising Kessen

The Devil Duke Takes a Bride





Also from Astraea Press:





Chapter One





Lady Clara Huckabee trembled. She felt it in her traitorous knees, which threatened to deposit her in an undignified heap on the Grecian Axminster carpet, and in her throat, tightened almost unbearably beneath her morning gown's simple velvet neckline. Disappointing her guardian was bad enough, but since he started this fiasco, surely he'd endeavor to bear it. Shocking her aunt, though — for shocking her response would be — was far worse, because it must necessarily cause a measure of pain and Aunt Helen's sweet soul outweighed her silly, old-fashioned notions. Clara steeled herself. It was their actions, their insistence, which forced her to this miserable necessity. If they refused to consider her wishes in the selection of a husband, her husband, then they must accept some of the blame for the contretemps that ensued.

Hopefully the housekeeper wasn't listening behind the closed drawing room door.

A deep breath, and Clara softened her clenched hands into gentler folds. Only then did she trust herself to meet the Viscount Maynard's black eyes, unblinking and glittering. No matter how many times she ordered herself to be meek and affable, he still looked like a possessive lizard.

"It distresses me to cause grief in anyone, particularly a gentleman as eminent as my Lord Maynard, and I find no pleasure in disappointing my esteemed aunt and uncle." She paused. Those reptilian eyes widened and bulged; perhaps she was the first person to dare cross the arrogant booby. Clara hurried on before she could be interrupted. "However, the selection of a lifetime partner is too delicate an operation to be entrusted to any third party, no matter how revered. Kingdoms will neither rise nor fall on my lineage and therefore I believe my own desires and tastes should be consulted. I am sorry, but I cannot accept my lord's offer of marriage."

Viscount Maynard's gaze drifted from her face, drifted lower. "The child has an opinion of her own." When he'd asked for her hand, his voice had been courteous and correct; now he drawled his words, taking twice as long to state a simple sentence. His lips curled as if he smelled something unspeakable. "How precocious."

Her skin crawled. His gaze boasted weight and mass, as if his hand explored her without permission. So much for meek and affable; the viscount was surely more interested in her inheritance, in Papa's money, than in her or her hand. "My lord, your anxiety to change my opinion must be unbounded." She dropped her most formal curtsey and escaped from the drawing room. Let him eat cake; just not hers.