Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(44)

“We’re about to play a nursery game,” Henry grumbled, rubbing his shin. “Just trying to get in the spirit of things.”

Sophia clapped her hands together. “Let’s begin, shall we? Sir Toby, you must count to one hundred—very slowly, mind. We must have ample time to find our hiding places.”

“Don’t concern yourself, Miss Hathaway,” said Henry, lurching out of his chair and pulling down his waistcoat. “Very slowlyis the only way Toby can count. In fact, I doubt he’ll make it to one hundred without losing his place and beginning again at least twice.” Marianne dug an elbow in his ribs. “Ow!”

Toby smirked. “I’d come over there and thrash you, Waltham, but I shan’t waste the effort. Your wife’s doing the job admirably.”

“I shall be hidden before Toby counts ten,” Lucy said, rising from the window seat. She sidled up to Toby with a pointed look and a little smile. “With a sore ankle, I can’t stray far. I expect I shall be terribly easy to find.”

Jeremy winced. Flirtation did not become Lucy in the slightest. She employed feminine wiles with all the subtlety of an elephant stamping a waltz. If Aunt Matilda herself failed to comprehend that invitation, he would have been surprised.

He told himself he shouldn’t care. The rest of the party might be preparing to commence this childish diversion, but he was through playing games. Lucy wasn’t his sister or his admirer. She wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t hisanything , he told himself sternly. She wasn’t his at all.

Toby stood flanked by Lucy and Sophia. Both ladies regarded him expectantly, pulling his attention in two opposing directions. He cleared his throat. “I suppose we all understand the object, then.” His glance flitted from one lady to the other. He looked like a man being stretched on a rack.

Devil take it. Jeremy turned on his soggy heel and quit the drawing room, heading swiftly for the stairs.

“That’s cheating, Jem,” Henry called after him. “But don’t think your head start will do you a bit of good. You’re leaving a trail of rainwater.”

Lucy waited in her wardrobe.

She had always thought of it as her wardrobe, even though it had actually belonged to her father. Even though it wasn’t in her chambers, and it held none of her clothing. The wardrobe sat in an alcove of the first-story corridor, facing the door to Henry’s study, and it was usually empty—except when she occupied it.

She leaned against the wood paneling at the back of the cabinet. Lacy ribbons of light filtered through the latticework at the top of the doors, dappling the pear-green muslin of her frock with spots of gold. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, drinking in the secret scents that never faded—teasing hints of spice and tobacco and sea salt and rum. The smells of Tortola, as she dreamed it must be.

Her father had brought back the cabinet from the West Indies, when he came home to Waltham Manor. Lucy could never imagine how a ship had managed to stay afloat carrying the monolithic wardrobe. As a girl, she’d had to grasp the carved handle with both hands and lean back on her heels just to wrench open one massive door.

The wardrobe’s exterior was carved with vines and leaves and flowers that blossomed across the surface in sinuous, pagan patterns. Lucy would swear that they grew and shifted ever so slightly with time. Inside, however, the ebony panels were solid and smooth. Like polished stone, but warm to the touch. A deep, black cave shot with arrows of light.

Countless hours she’d spent closeted there. Hiding from nursemaids and governesses. Evading blame for mischief she’d wrought. Listening to Henry and his friends drink and talk well past the hour of her bedtime. Waiting for her mother to die.

Even as she grew older and taller, the space inside the wardrobe never seemed to shrink. There was always room for two. Two of her. There was Lucy—troublesome, orphaned, hoydenish Lucy—and there was the other girl. The better girl. The girl who would push open the ebony door and walk out onto a white, sandy shore in Tortola, swinging hand-in-hand with her mother on one side and her father on the other. The girl who was beautiful and elegant, with fair skin and yellow hair and perfect, unskinned knees. The girl who was really a princess, asleep—waiting for her golden-haired prince to come and wake her with a kiss.

Lucy sighed. She was almost twenty and no longer a girl. Her parents were dead, and she would never see Tortola. Her skin was olive, and her hair was brown, and she’d skinned her knees yet again that morning. And if her golden-haired prince didn’t come for her today … he never would.

Lucy knew precisely why Sophia had suggested this amusement. She wanted to find a dark, hidden corner of the house and then corner Toby. Sophia wanted her moment of passion.

But what did Toby want? More to the point,whom did Toby want? Lucy had felt his gaze on her in the drawing room. She had caught him staring more than once, and the look on his face was wholly unfamiliar. Wholly unfamiliar, and therefore wholly unreadable. She fought the temptation to leave her hiding place and go seek him out. If he knew her at all, he would know she’d be here. If he wanted to find her, he would. And if he didn’t … he didn’t.

She heard heavy footsteps approaching. Slowing. Stopping in front of the wardrobe.

Both doors of the wardrobe swung open, scattering the darkness.

“Lucy, come out of there.” Jeremy loomed over her, his dark silhouette filling the ebony frame.