Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(13)

“I suppose we do.” His hand slid to cover her belly. “And a very tiny debt, as well.”

Lucy laid her head against his shoulder and tapped the letter against her smile. “I wish Sophia nothing but happiness,” she said thoughtfully. “But cling as she might to those girlhood dreams”—she craned her neck to brush a light kiss against her husband’s jaw—“I am exceedingly grateful that mine didnot come true.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Becoming a published author is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, and it never would have been possible without my family. I’m so grateful to my husband, for his love and support, and to my two children, for their patience with a highly distracted mother. My parents gave me the best gift imaginable by encouraging my early love of books, and my grandparents always believed I’d someday publish one of my own.

In writing this book, I was blessed to have two brilliant critique partners who helped me every step of the way: Courtney Milan and Amy Baldwin. Several other writers, readers, and friends read early drafts of the book and provided invaluable feedback. Lindsey, Sara, Lenore, Maggie, Michelle, Susan, Pamela, Kalen, seton, Darcy, Elyssa, and Lacey—I am indebted to each of you.

Many thanks to my amazing agent, Helen Breitwieser, and to the entire team at Ballantine, especially my editor, Kate Collins, and her assistant, Kelli Fillingim.

Thank you to Kelly and Brian, for all the Starbucks, sympathy, and Internet savvy.

I wouldn’t be writing historical romance if not for the works of Jane Austen, and the inspiring creative environment fostered by her many online fans in the Lounge, the Gardens, and the Tearoom.

Finally, I want to acknowledge the wonderful network of friendship and support that grew out of the 2006 Avon FanLit competition and to thank Mary, for all her encouragement and advice.

Read on for a preview of the next tale of

romantic escapades from Tessa Dare

SURRENDER

OF ASIREN

GRAVESEND, DECEMBER 1817

In fleeing the society wedding of the year, Sophia Hathaway knew she would be embracing infamy.

She’d neglected to consider how infamysmelled .

She paused in the doorway of the fetid dockside tavern. Even from here, the stench of soured ale accosted her, forcing bile into her throat.

A burly man elbowed her aside as he went out the door. “Watch yerself, luv.”

She pasted herself against the doorjamb, wondering at the singular form of address implied in “luv.” The man’s comment had clearly been directed towardboth of her br**sts.

With a shiver, she wrapped her cloak tight across her chest.

Taking one last deep breath, she sidled her way into the dank, drunken confusion, forbidding her gray serge skirts to brush against anything. Much lessanyone . From every murky corner—and for a squared-off tea caddy of a building, this tavern abounded in murky corners—eyes followed her. Suspicious, leering eyes, set in hard, unshaven faces. It was enough to make any young woman anxious. For a fugitive young lady of quality, traveling alone, under the flimsy shield of a borrowed cloak and a fabricated identity …

Well, it was almost enough to make Sophia reconsider the whole affair.

An unseen someone jostled her from behind. Her gloved fingers instinctively clutched the envelope secreted in her cloak. She thought of its brethren, the letters she’d posted just that morning, breaking her engagement and ensuring a scandal of Byronic proportions. Seeds of irrevocable ruin, scattered with the wind.

A cold sense of destiny anchored her rising stomach. There was no going back now. She could walk through far worse than this shabby pub, if it meant leaving her restrictive life behind. She could even endure these coarse men ogling her br**sts, so long as they did not glimpse the secret strapped between them.

Her resolve firmed, Sophia caught the eye of a bald-headed man wiping a table with a greasy rag. He looked harmless enough—or at least, too old to strike quickly. She smiled at him. He returned the gesture with a completely toothless grin.

Her own smile faltering, she ventured, “I’m looking for Captain Grayson.”

“’Course you is. All the comely ones are.” The gleaming pate jerked. “Gray’s in the back.”

She followed the direction indicated, moving through the crowd on tiptoe in an effort to keep her hem off the floor. The sticky floorboards sucked at her half boots. Toward the back of the room, she spied a boisterous knot of men and women near the bar. One man stood taller than the others, his auburn hair looking cleaner than that of his company. A brushed felt beaver rested on the bar nearby, an oddly refined ornament for this seedy den.

As Sophia angled for a better view, a chair slid out from a nearby table, clipping her in the knee. She bob-bled on tiptoe for a moment before tripping forward. The hem of her cloak caught on her boot, and the cloak wrenched open, exposing her chest and throat to the sour, wintry air. In her desperate attempt to right herself, she clutched wildly for the wall—

And grasped a handful of rough linen shirt instead.

The shirt’s owner turned to her. “Hullo there, chicken,” he slurred, his breath rancid with decay. His liquor-glazed eyes slid over her body and settled on the swell of her br**sts. “Fancy bit of goods you are. By looks, I would have priced you beyond my pocket, but if you’s offerin’ …”

Had he mistaken her for some dockside trollop? Sophia’s tongue curled with disgust. Perhaps she was disguised in simple garments, but certainly she did not lookcheap .