Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(41)

“Who’s setting snares in this part of the woods?” Felix directed his question at Henry.

Henry shrugged. “Tenants, I suppose.”

“Poachers, you mean,” Jeremy said. His voice was low and terse.

“If you call a man a poacher who traps a hare to feed his family from time to time,” said Henry, “then I suppose they’re poachers. I’m of a mind to turn a blind eye, myself.”

“It isn’t me who calls them that. The law does.” The gravity in Jeremy’s voice pulled it down to a growl. “This is your land. If you turn a blind eye to the law, you encourage lawlessness. People—” he pointed at Lucy without turning his gaze, “get hurt.”

Henry made a dismissive snort. “The law would send a man to Australia for the sake of a few miserable animals. Should I have all my farmers transported because I begrudge them a few hares? This isn’t Cambridge, and I’ll thank you to end the lecture. As you said, it’smy land. And Lucy’s fine.”

Jeremy’s hand curled into a fist at his side. “How do you know Lucy’s fine?” he demanded. “You haven’t asked. And you should—”

Lucy cut him off. “Actually, no one’s asked.” She took the hand Felix offered and scrambled to her feet, brushing dirt from the sleeves of her spencer. “But Lucy is fine. The only person Henry should be sending to Australia is Aunt Matilda’s nurse. Really, Henry. This makes the third time this month.”

Everyone turned to stare at Aunt Matilda, who had taken advantage of the pause to forage in the folds of her skirt for her snuffbox. Sophia went to her side and placed an arm around the old lady’s shoulders.

“She doesn’t even have a cloak, the poor dear.”

Aunt Matilda snorted and sighed her way through a pinch of snuff. “Lovely.”

Jeremy shrugged off his coat and thrust it at Sophia. With a parting glare at Henry, he turned and stalked off in the direction of the stables. Lucy was glad to see the back of him. And not because his broad, muscled shoulders looked so irritatingly splendid rippling under the crisp linen of his shirt. She knew he was furious with her over the incident in the orchard. He’d scarcely glanced in her direction since the previous afternoon. If he had any sense, he ought to be furious with himself. Being seen together was his grand idea. But angry with her or angry with himself, he had no reason to pick nonsensical rows with Henry. Poachers, her foot.

Ouch. She winced as she shifted her weight. Her foot.

Sophia draped Jeremy’s coat over Aunt Matilda’s shoulders, and the frail spinster disappeared into its large proportions. She looked like a column of brown wool topped by an indigo turban.

“We’d best get her back to the house,” Felix said. “The wind’s picking up. It looks like rain.” He led the way back toward the Manor. Henry and Sophia followed, shepherding Aunt Matilda between them.

“Are you all right, Lucy?” Toby asked. “You’re not hurt at all?”

“Of course not.” She took a firm step forward, and her twisted ankle exploded with pain. She faltered, but suddenly Toby was there, shoring her up with his arm.

His arm, stretched across her back. His hand, curled around her waist. His everything, right there up against hers.

If her ankle weren’t throbbing, Lucy would have jumped for joy. She was brilliant. Had she truly chided herself for tripping in that snare? Had she honestly felt shamed to have triggered a device designed to trap small-brained rodents? Well. She had never been more wrong. Stepping in that little noose was the cleverest thing she’d done in an age.

“My ankle … It seems I’ve twisted it.” Lucy tried another step. The pain felt less intense this time, but she winced dramatically for effect.

“Just lean on me.”

In a perfect dream, she would have been swept off her feet and carried back to the Manor. But this wasn’t a dream, she reminded herself with every pain-hobbled step. This was live, waking, in-the-flesh reality, and what was more—it was herchance .

She had so much to tell him. Where to begin? She dreamt up and discarded a series of bold declarations.

Toby, I’ve loved you since I was a girl. Too much in the past, she told herself. Talk about the present.

Toby, you can’t marry Sophia Hathaway. Probably best not to mention the enemy. Focus on the future.

Toby, make me your wife and you’ll never be sorry. I’ll warm your bed, and I’ll give you beautiful babies, and we will never—well, hardly ever—disagree. Lucy chewed her lip. Perhaps a bit too forward?

Figuring outwhat to say was only half the problem. The other half being, carving out a moment to say it. Toby was nattering on incessantly as they made their slow progress toward the house.

“It’s a bit of luck we decided to cut our hunting short this morning,” he was saying. “We were over toward the eastern edge of the woods, and the sky kept growing darker. A proper storm brewing, Henry thinks. This wind has a boar’s teeth, I’ll say. Odd time of year for it. Not unheard of, mind you. Was it three years ago we had that snow just before fox season began? Maybe just two.”

Lucy opened her mouth to tell him it had been four, but she never had the chance.

“Yes, it’s fortunate we headed back when we did. Exceedingly so. Imagine,” he said, “you might have been here in the woods with a wayward aunt and a twisted ankle and rain about to fall …”