Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(28)

He exhaled with obvious relief. “Let’s not get carried away,” he growled, moving his king out of danger. “Besotted should do.”

“Besotted it is, then.” She repositioned her rook.

“Check.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I do believe a besotted suitor would let me win.”

“Never.” He captured her rook with his queen.

The smug set of his jaw charmed his lips into the curve of a smile. Lucy was strongly tempted to stick out her tongue at him. She doubted, however, that sticking out one’s tongue was how a lady treated a besotted suitor. At least, not when prompted by a fit of petulance. In a moment of passion, however … sticking out one’s tongue appeared to bede rigueur . Her face flushed with warmth.

There was a burst of applause from the card table. Lucy turned to watch as Sophia laid the winning card and raked in the pile of tokens from the middle of the table. Toby took her hand and kissed it before leaning closer to murmur something in Sophia’s ear. Something that made her smile and blush bright pink. Roses on porcelain, with a halo of gold. An angel. A dream.

“It’s your move,” Jeremy prompted.

“I don’t feel like playing anymore. I’ll finish beating you tomorrow.”

He followed her gaze to the table, where Toby and Sophia’s heads were bent close together as she examined the cards in his hand. “Lucy, you have to accept—”

She cut him off with a look. She picked up her book and held it out to him. “Here. Read to me.”

“Read to you? You must be joking.”

She tossed the book at him, and he caught it instinctively. “Abesotted man would read.”

He glanced at the cover. Smirking, he read the title aloud.“Methods and Practice of Leporine Husbandry? Lucy, tell me this is notthe book.”

“No, it is notthe book.” She wrapped her shawl about her shoulders. “It is merely thefirst book I picked up.”

He shook his head. “I suppose I should be grateful it isn’t Byron.”

He opened the volume at random and began to read in a slow, steady voice. Lucy leaned against the side of her chair, pressing her cheek against the upholstery. Her eyelids fluttered shut. The room melted away. Exhaustion claimed her, and she slipped into that drowsy place between wakefulness and sleep. There, in that half-dream world, she could almost recapture those few blissful minutes from earlier that day, when the same deep voice had rumbled through rough fabric. When she had imagined herself to be safe and protected, wrapped in the arms of the man she loved.

It was a very pretty dream.

CHAPTER FIVE

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Jem.” Henry fell in step alongside Jeremy, his worn Hessians treading briskly through fallen leaves and shriveled ferns. “It’s a question I’ve been pondering for quite some time, and—well, you know I value your opinion.”

He pulled up, gripped the brim of his beaver, and turned to Jeremy with a serious expression. “Does this hat make my face look round?”

Behind him, Felix and Toby doubled with laughter.

“Jem, d’you suppose,” Felix wheezed, “that pink ribbons would suit me better, or lavender?”

“Oh, definitely lavender,” Toby answered, schooling his expression to one of mock sincerity. “I’m sure Jem would agree that ginger hair and pink ribbons are a horrid combination.”

Jeremy steeled his jaw and inhaled slowly through his nose. “I am carrying a loaded rifle, you know.”

“No good, Jem. We all know you piss with better aim than you shoot.” Toby brushed by him, digging an elbow into Jeremy’s side as he passed. “You’re no marks man. But clearly you missed your calling in millinery.”

“Need I remind you,” Jeremy said, his grip tightening around his gun, “that this wasnot my idea? I recall someone pleading with me to do a man a favor.”

“And I hereby nominate you for sainthood,” said Henry, clapping him on the back. “You’re a better man than I. No humanitarian cause could possibly entice me to escort three ladies bonnet shopping.”

Good Lord, thought Jeremy. He would never live this down. And his friends didn’t know the half of it. They’d only seen him driving the barouche back from the village, buried under tittering ladies and pink hatboxes. Thank God they hadn’t seen him hunched over a tiny tea table laden with dainty cream-filled cakes, or holding up three lengths of satin ribbon—one in either hand, the third caught in his teeth—just so Lucy could stand back three paces and compare them from afar.

And it didn’t end there. The events of the past three days formed a chain of small degradations. New links were added hourly, as Lucy spun ridiculous fantasies of how a besotted man ought to behave.

A besotted man, according to Lucy, would gather hundreds of hawthorn berries from a thorny hedgerow, happily sacrificing several hours and a nearly-new coat for the distant promise of tart, seedy jam.

A besotted man, evidently, would sit by his lady’s side at the pianoforte and turn pages for her—even if the only tune his lady knew was a vulgar drinking song, which she played from memory at a dirge-like tempo for nearly an hour straight.

A besotted man would share his brandy.

A besotted man would pet the cat.

A besotted man wouldsmile .