Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(16)

“Yes, but you’re no gentleman.” She gripped his arm again and looked him square in the eye. “Are you?”

He froze. All that muscle rippling with energy, the rugged profile animated by insolence—for an instant, it all turned to stone. Sophia held her breath, knowing she’d just wagered her future on this, the last remaining card in her hand.

But this was so much more thrilling than whist.

Goddess of the Huntis a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by Eve Ortega

Excerpt fromSurrender of a Siren by Tessa Dare copyright © 2009 by Eve Ortega

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

BALLANTINEand colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-345-51511-7

www.ballantinebooks.com

v3.0

CHAPTER TWO

Lucy Waltham’s appetite was insatiable.

Henry liked to jest that when she married, he would provide her a dowry of two cows, six pigs, and two dozen chickens—just so her husband could keep her fed. It was only a joke, of course. In all likelihood, her dowry would be worth far less.

But no one would be jesting to say Lucy downed meals that would put a farm laborer to shame. Lucy lived hungry. She devoured every day. This appetite for life required a steady supply of actual food. She nicked hot rolls from the kitchen, rang for cold chicken at midnight, and spent long afternoons grazing in the orchards. And she never missed breakfast.

Marianne and Aunt Matilda were already at table when Lucy entered the breakfast room. Lucy leaned over to kiss Aunt Matilda’s papery cheek. The old lady responded by taking a loud slurp of chocolate.

No one knew exactly how old Aunt Matilda was—Aunt Matilda least of all—but Lucy thought she was eighty if she was a day. She also thought Aunt Matilda the most beautiful woman she knew. Lucy’s grandfather had built his fortune farming indigo in the West Indies, where Aunt Matilda had spent her youth. She still dressed head-to-toe in yards of the deepest indigo blue. Her spine had not curved one whit with age, and she kept her chin held high to balance a formidable turban. She smelled of ocean breezes and exotic spices and snuff.

Henry turned from the buffet bearing two plates. He froze momentarily, eyes wide in disbelief, before setting one plate before his wife. “Lucy, what on earth have you done to yourself?”

“Henry, hush,” Marianne said. “I think Lucy looks lovely.”

“Yes, lovely,” Aunt Matilda warbled.

Lucy smoothed her palms over cool silk as she made her way to the sideboard. The dress had been made up by a London modiste nearly three years ago, for what was to have been her first season in Town. That was before Marianne learned she was with child for the second time. The gown had languished in Lucy’s closet through that confinement, and then another—a bit of shimmering silk promise amid yards of everyday muslin. The pale blue fabric matched the shade of a starling’s egg, and creamy lace edged the cap sleeves.

Her figure had rounded considerably in the three years since the dress had been fitted. Her br**sts strained against the bodice, pulling the fabric taut. The neckline dipped scandalously low for morning.

It would do perfectly.

She really ought to wear silk more often. The gown flowed around her body, gliding over her skin like water. She touched a hand to her neatly coiled hair. Her maid had nearly dropped the hairbrush when she’d requested a more elegant style than her usual simple knot. The jewels were perhaps a bit much for breakfast. Her mother’s opal earrings pinched on either side of her head. They were far heavier than she’d anticipated. Surely her earlobes would sag to her shoulders by noon.

But no matter. If jewels were required to outshine Sophia Hathaway, Lucy would drape herself in diamonds.

She had seated herself at the table when Felix entered the breakfast room with Kitty on his arm. Sophia followed a few paces behind. Both ladies were attired in simple frocks of sprigged muslin. To Lucy’s mind, they might as well have been wearing frogged blue uniforms with tasseled epaulettes. They were hostile invaders.

The enemy.

“My, my.” Kitty eyed Lucy with amused disdain. “I had no idea breakfast at Waltham Manor was such a formal affair.” She turned to Marianne. “Forgive me, Mrs. Waltham, I see we are underdressed.”

“Not at all,” Marianne replied. “Won’t you be seated? Do you take tea or coffee? Or chocolate, perhaps?”

“What a charming breakfast room.” Sophia settled into a chair opposite Lucy. “Such a delightful view of the park.”

Kitty slid into the next seat down and unfolded her napkin with a ruthless snap. “The windows face full west,” she said. “It must be unbearably warm in the afternoon.”

Lucy smiled. “How fortunate then, that we take breakfast in the morning.”

Kitty’s eyes narrowed. She tapped her knife against her plate and spoke over Lucy’s shoulder, addressing her husband. “Felix! Toast!”

Poor Felix, to be saddled with such a shrew for a wife. Lucy could not imagine enduring a lifetime of breakfasts across the table from Kitty’s pinched face. The very thought curdled her cream.