Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(42)

Now the topic of weather was getting somewhere.Yes , she thought, nodding enthusiastically.Imagine the peril . She would have been perfectly fine, of course, but a few protective masculine instincts could never go astray.

“Imagine,” he said, “poor Miss Hathaway wouldn’t have known what to do.”

Poor Miss Hathaway!Lucy groaned.

Toby’s steps and speech drew to a halt. “I’m so sorry. Am I walking too fast?”

“No … Well, yes. It’s just—” She looked up at him. He gazed down at her. His eyes were clear, patient brown with just a hint of gold—and nothing at all of glass. She licked and pursed her lips, but his gaze never slipped from hers.

“Do you find me pretty?”

The words were out before she could stop them. Out and echoing through the woods, ricocheting off the trees, ringing through the silent space between them. She couldn’t take them back. Wouldn’t wish to, if she could. Toby’s brow wrinkled in surprise. Tension knotted in Lucy’s stomach.

“Why … yes, of course.” He cleared his throat. “You’re a very pretty girl, Lucy.”

There. He’d said it. She was pretty. Sir Toby Aldridge found her pretty. Lucy was perfectly satisfied. She’d never need to hear it again.

“Really?” Once more wouldn’t hurt.

“Really and truly.” The words flipped off his tongue so lightly, she despaired that he didn’t really mean them. But then he cupped her chin in his hand, and his gaze wandered slowly over her face. Lucy held her breath.

“You’ve the most lovely eyes,” he said quietly. “And that hair—” He smiled and tucked a curl behind her ear. “A man could get lost in that tangle and never find his way out.”

Their lips were just inches apart. So close. If she only craned her neck a bit … and then he would bend his head a fraction …

Oh, but would he? She couldn’t tell. He’d been chattering on like a bedlamite, but he hadn’t spoken one syllable of geometry.

“Next Season,” he said, “you’ll go to London, and you’ll have a pack of suitors nipping at your heels. Henry will have to fend them off with a stick.”

“And you?”

“Me?”

“Where will you be next Season?”

“Right there with you.” He brushed a finger down her cheek and smiled. “I’ll bring my own stick.”

Then he turned his gaze to the path and began walking again. Though her ankle felt nearly well, Lucy clung to him more tightly than ever.

They walked along in silence. The sky was growing dark. A bitter wind bit through the fabric of Lucy’s spencer, but a smile warmed her face. Next Season, Sir Toby Aldridge would beat her admirers away with a stick. The very thought was ridiculous and barbaric and the most romantic thing she’d ever heard. Of course, the question remained … would he be bludgeoning half theton for the sake of brotherly affection or out of jealous love?

Right now, it didn’t matter. Next Season could go hang. Toby had called her pretty, and his arm was tight about her waist. Right now, this felt like all she had ever wanted.

Oh, Toby, the truest words came to her now,you’re the only person in the world who makes me feel perfect just as I am. Who never scolds or reproaches or wants me to change. And if you marry Sophia Hathaway, I fear I’ll go my whole life without ever feeling this way again . She gripped his coat tightly.Toby, if I lose you, I’m afraid I’ll lose me, too .

But these words, her pride would never let her speak.

As they finally neared the house, Toby asked, “How does your ankle feel? Much improved?”

She nodded. The throbbing in her ankle had subsided. All that remained was a faint tingling.

Lucy frowned. Shemust be in pain. She must have broken a bone, and the shock had rendered the rest of her body numb. Because she’d just walked a quarter-mile tucked under Toby’s arm, and as surely as her ankle tingled like mad … she didn’t tingle anywhere else.

CHAPTER NINE

The storm broke that afternoon.

Jeremy tried to outride it, but the rain caught up with him in the south fields. It was a long, wet, muddy ride back to the Manor. Cold rain drenched his shirt and waistcoat, plastering the linen and silk to his skin. Just as well he no longer had his coat. There was nothing more vile than the smell of damp wool.

And the cold felt good. The rain felt good.

He’d ridden off in a blind rage, furious with Henry beyond all reason. And he knew, from years of experience, that the only thing for anger like this was to ride. Ride hard and fast, until he shook off the demon breathing down his neck. Or a cold rain washed it away.

He was getting damned tired of watching Lucy get hurt. In the space of a week alone, she’d almost drowned in the stream and nearly been thrown by a horse. It was completely irrational, that seeing her tripped up by a bit of cord should send him into a chest-seizing panic.

But it had. Of course it had.

Jeremy could walk the seven continents of the Earth and the nine circles of Hell and never hear a more sickening sound than the dull twang plucked from a tripwire. Because in his mind, that sound would always echo with the deafening crack of a gunshot. Followed by the most terrible, haunting sound of all—not a warning, not a scream. Just silence. Years of silence.

He told himself it could have been anyone. Had it been Sophia, or Aunt Matilda, or even Toby who tripped the snare, he would have reacted the same.