Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(22)

Jeremy shrugged out of his navy wool coat and draped it over her shoulders testily. The front of his shirt was wet. The thin linen clung to his chest, revealing every muscled ridge and hardened plane she had so recently—so mistakenly—molded her body against.

“You’re making a fool of yourself, Lucy.”

If her teeth hadn’t been chattering so fiercely, she would have flung his coat back at him, along with a few choice curses. Leave it to His Lordship to dispense chivalry with a generous dose of condescension.

His disapproving glances at her drenched gown and sodden tangle of hair were wholly unnecessary. She didn’t need him to tell her she looked a fool. Standing in the autumn breeze, dripping river water into her nankeen half-boots was a small clue. She was soaked to the bone with humiliation.

And why should he care?

She firmed her chin and glared at him. “You’re jealous.”

CHAPTER THREE

Jealous?Jeremy wanted to laugh. It seemed hemust laugh. To provoke Lucy, to distract himself—it didn’t matter which. He only knew that if he didn’t muster an ironic little laugh soon, or at least another insult, he might do something truly embarrassing. Like shake her, or kiss her, or just plain crumple to the ground with relief. He couldn’t stop reliving that moment, when Lucy had tumbled into the stream and his stomach had plummeted with her.

Worse, he couldn’t help noticing how she looked wet.

She looked furious and fiercely beautiful. Like a water nymph ripped from the river and set dripping on firm ground. Her hair had worked free of its pins once again, and the wet locks hung down her shoulders like thick, curling vines. Her face was pale, but her eyes glowed green like an ocean in a tempest, and her quivering bottom lip matched the shade of a frosted plum.

And that was the end of her. Lucy did not exist below the neck. Jeremy refused to glance further downward, because he knew what he would see. Wet, all-but-transparent silk clinging to full, high br**sts, a sleek belly, rounded hips … he didn’t have to look. He could picture her body well enough.Had pictured it through a sleepless night. He’d saddled his horse at dawn that morning, ridden breakneck across fields in hopes of leaving that image behind—only to find the same temptations served up to him over breakfast. It was useless. Even if his mind could forget the sight of those sweet, maddening curves, his body recalled every inch of her as she felt pressed up against him.

He would not look. Would.Not .

Even though she was breathing hard, and he knew her chest would be likewise heaving. And even though she was cold and wet, and her ni**lesmust be—

His eyes slipped.

Oh, God. They were.

Jeremy clenched his jaw and looked toward the horizon for some distraction. Ah, yes—Henry, her brother, making his way across the green. Henry would serve nicely.

What the devil had come over him? This was what came of spending the entire Season in Town without bedding a woman, for no earthly reason. Had he been expecting to receive a plaque from the Ladies’ Society for the Promotion of Abstinence? The silver cup awarded for Reformed Rake of the Year? Whatever his perceived reward, Jeremy had spent the last few months polishing his self-control to a sterling luster. Unfortunately, he seemed to have left it in London.

And now, this water-witch—thisLucy —stood before him, accusing him of being jealous.

Lusting? Yes. Addled? Clearly. But jealous? Most certainly not.

Never before had Jeremy been happier tonot be the recipient of a lady’s affections. God forbid this hoyden-turned-siren unleashed herself in his direction. He doubted he would survive the experience.

Jealous. What a ridiculous notion. To prove the point, he conjured a vivid mental image of Lucy standing in her nightgown, craning up on tiptoe to kiss Toby, twining her fingers in his hair. He watched detached, a mere observer of a ribald opera revue, as in his mind’s eye Lucy fell against Toby’s chest. She parted her lips, Toby deepened the kiss, and Jeremy felt nothing. A bit of annoyance, perhaps—because Toby was kissing her all wrong. She arched into him and dug her fingers into his shoulders and made little writhing circles with her hips. Jeremy felt … almost nothing. Only the faintest suggestion of something. A flea bite. A tiny sting. Then in his mind, he heard Lucy give a breathy moan of passion, and somewhere deep and low in his body, something snapped. He was no longer an observer of the scene, but taking control of it. Taking control of her.His lips were covering hers.His tongue was teasing hers.His fingers were snaking between the buttons of her nightgown to curve around—

Good Lord, Henry walked unforgivably slowly. What did it take to light a fire under the man? His sister had nearly drowned.

Lucy was still glaring at him, letting that word—jealous—hang in the air, unchallenged. He ought to muster a defense. He ought to set her straight. He ought to take her inside and lay her down by the fire and strip her out of those wet clothes.

“You’re jealous,” she repeated, in an icy tone that cut straight through the heat of his desire. Her eyes flashed with fury. “You’re a cold, unfeeling, heartless man. And you have no idea what it is to care for something—someone—so deeply. To be willing to admit it, to yourself and to the world. To make a complete and utter fool of yourself, if necessary. Real love takes real courage. I have it, and you don’t. And you’re jealous.”

She brushed past him and stalked off toward the house. Jeremy stared after her, numb with shock.