Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(3)

She stretched a bare foot toward the fire and absently flexed her ankle. The sinuous grace of the motion caught Jeremy’s gaze. Caught it, and trapped it. He couldn’t look away. She circled her foot idly, her skin glowing golden in the firelight. His eyes swept upward, tracing the sweet curve of her calf to where it disappeared under her dressing gown.

Then Lucy shifted, crossing her legs. Red velvet fell like a theater curtain, abruptly ending the show. A swift blow of disappointment caught Jeremy in the chest. The sensation drifted downward, mellowing to the familiar ache of thwarted desire. God, this night was simply rife with surprises.

“I suppose you’re not,” he muttered, tearing his gaze away and giving himself a mental shake. “Very well, let us speak as adults. You can begin by dropping that childish nickname and addressing me in a proper fashion.”

“You mean by yourtitle? I don’t even remember your old one, let alone the new.” She looked up at the ceiling.

“You can’t possibly expect me to call you ‘my lord,’ Jemmy.”

Jeremy sighed, abandoning any effort to soothe. “Then let us be perfectly plain. Toby is going to marry Miss Hathaway.”

“But he can’t! It isn’t fair!”

He snorted. “Spoken like a girl, Lucy.”

She ignored him. “I’ve always known I would marry Sir Toby Aldridge, ever since the day we first met.”

“That’s absurd. The day you first met, you were twelve years old.”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven, then. And Toby shot at you.”

“He didn’t shoot at me. He shot at a partridge I startled. He didn’t know I was there, because—”

“Because you were following us after Henry forbade you,” Jeremy finished impatiently. “Yes, yes. I remember it clearly.”

Too clearly, he added in silence. He remembered everything about that day in painful detail. The glaring afternoon sun, the acrid odor of gunpowder. But he especially remembered the sounds. How could he forget? A frantic staccato of wingbeats, the crack of Toby’s gun, a piercing shriek. The dreadful silence as all four of them charged through knee-deep brambles, only to find Lucy sitting in a clearing, unharmed and unrepentant.

Ensuing years had proven that near miss to be the beginning of a pattern. Lucy Waltham was always flirting with disaster, and therefore Jeremy had always avoided Lucy. He didn’t want to be in the vicinity when disaster inevitably struck.

With a sniff, she reached out and took the glass of whiskey from his hand. Her fingertips grazed his wrist. So much for safe distances.

She rested her chin on one knee and stared morosely into the amber-brown liquid. “What does Sophia Hathaway have that I haven’t?”

“Besides impeccable breeding, accomplishment, and a dowry of twenty thousand pounds?” He extended his hand to retrieve his drink.

She downed a generous swallow of whiskey before relinquishing the glass. “She doesn’t love him.”

“More girlish fancies. This is marriage. Love is hardly required. They get on well enough, and their families will approve. She has wealth but no title; he is a baronet. It’s a fortuitous match for them both.”

“Fortuitous?”She narrowed her eyes. “Only you would speak of marriage as a prudent business arrangement.”

“It isn’t only me. It’s society. Love matches like your brother’s—they are the exception, not the rule. Ladies who insist on romance end up disappointed. You’d realize the truth of this, if only you—”

“If only I what? If only I were cold and jaded, like you?”

Jeremy clenched his jaw. “If only you had paid the slightest attention to any of those governesses Henry hired for you. If only you’d had some model of female behavior, aside from an overburdened sister-in-law and a senile aunt. If only you had a modicum of sense.”

“If only I were like Sophia Hathaway.”

“You said it. Not me.”

She crossed her arms. “Well, I don’t care what you—or society—say. I’m going to marry for love, and that means I won’t marry anyone but Toby. I refuse to believe he could marry anyone other than me. He loves me. I know it, even if he doesn’t yet.”

“Lucy, the matter is all but settled. I expect he will propose any day.”

“Then I shall have to act tonight.” She rose from the chair and began pacing the floor. Her brow was furrowed, and she toyed absently with a lock of her hair, catching it between her teeth. It was a warning sign he’d learned to heed. Lucy always fidgeted with her hair when she was scheming.

She usually wore her hair up—for convenience, not fashion. But they hadn’t yet invented the hairpin or bonnet that could contain Lucy’s curls. They were forever working loose at the edges and winding between her fingers, finding their way to her lips. Now her hair fell in heavy waves down to her waist, rippling like a thick, luxurious pelt as she prowled the carpet’s knotted fringe. She turned and swept back across the room, fluid fabric wrapping around her curves.

Curves. Great God. When had Lucy grown curves? Lucy was always a collection of bony, awkward angles, held together by sheer force of will. Now that hard frame of determination was cloaked in soft, supple, womanly curves. And sheand her curves were parading about his bedchamber in a state of undress. At the ungodly hour of—he stole a glance at the clock on the mantel—two o’clock. The impropriety of the entire situation struck him with sudden force.