Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(46)

“I wish I knew,” he said, his voice rough. “I should have made you walk, you little minx. Obviously I wasn’t thinking.”

“Were you thinking yesterday? When you followed me into the orchard?”

“Apparently not. I haven’t been thinking clearly all week.” His thumbs pressed into the flesh of her arms. “I’ve run myself ragged trying to look after a scheming chit with an eye toward complete ruination.”

“Don’t pretend to be vexed with me. You’re only vexed with yourself.”

“Explain to me,” he said through gritted teeth, “why I should be vexed with myself.”

A saucy lilt crept into her voice. “Because you like yourself better when you’re not thinking. And it’s driving you absolutely mad.”

He moved toward her, his face crossing into shadow. “If anyone’s driving me mad, it’s—”

She shushed him by putting her fingers to his lips. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered, slowly tracing the shape of his mouth with her fingertips. “I like you better when you’re not thinking, too.” His lips parted, and she let her thumb slide into the corner of his mouth.

Lucy didn’t know what was coming over her. She told herself it was the rush of power, this palpable power she had over him. It felt infinitely preferable to confusion or heartache. Or perhaps she kept chipping away at his glacial composure because she craved what seeped through the cracks. Hints of a different man altogether—someone dark, fierce, thrilling. That sense of danger that rose from deep inside him, and the excitement of teasing it to the surface. The taste of it in his kiss.

No, thought Lucy. It was only habit. She’d spent eight years mastering the art of provoking Jeremy Trescott. It was a game, a sport. It had nothing to do with emotion or sentiment or, God forbid, love. Nothing at all.

There was a pause. A brief moment of silence and heat. Lucy inhaled, drawing a slow, thick breath of leather-scented steam. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck.

Jeremy swore under his breath. He slid his hands from her shoulders down to her back and crushed her against him. Her br**sts flattened and ached against his hard chest. His thigh wedged between her legs. Soft muslin shifted over muscled strength, kindling a burning ache between her thighs.

“What are you doing?” She squirmed against him, and the tiny movement sparked an inferno of sensation. “Oh,” she said weakly. She already knew the answer. The answer that fell from his lips the moment before his lips fell on hers.

“Not thinking.”

CHAPTER TEN

Jeremy was through thinking. Ever since he’d been pulled into this cursed wardrobe, his mind had been racing in a dozen directions at once.

He’d tried to remember who he was. He was Jeremy Allen Dumont Trescott, the sixth Earl of Kendall. He was a gentleman and a peer of the realm. He was a man of nine-and-twenty, not a randy youth. He was a man who would never want for anything—not wealth, property, influence. But he was kissing this woman as though his life depended on it, devouring her mouth with a desperate hunger.

He’d tried to remember whoshe was. She was Lucy Waltham, Henry’s sister. She was a gangly hoyden, an impertinent chit, a perpetual thorn in his side. She was nineteen years old, and she was not even out. And she was kissing him back with an innocent passion that made his knees buckle and his head spin.

He’d tried to remember where they were. They were in Henry’s home, where he was a guest. They were in a wardrobe in the middle of the corridor, where anyone might—in fact someoneshould —come by at any moment and fling open the wardrobe doors and expose his perfidy to the world. And they were drifting into the corner of the wardrobe, tongues tangling and bodies melding as one.

And when all other efforts at rational thought failed, Jeremy tried to remember Latin.Basio, basias, basiat ,basiat, basiamus … I kiss. You kiss. He kisses. She kisses. We kiss.

That’s when Jeremy gave up on thinking. He couldn’t remember the conjugation for “they kiss,” and he didn’t bloody well care. The wardrobe was only big enough for two, and for this moment, the wardrobe was the world.I, you, he, she … we . No one else.

She tasted wild and sweet, like pears and honey and the fresh air after rain. He stumbled backward, pulling her with him into the dark corner of the wardrobe. His hands roved over her back as he ravished her mouth. Tiny ridges teased his fingertips.Laces .

The very thought was wicked and depraved.

Good thing he was not thinking.

He tore his lips from hers, slowly kissing his way down her throat as his hands wandered down the length of her back. His fingers lingered over each taunting eyelet of her dress, and his lips savored every delicious inch of her neck. She threw her head back and wove her hands into his hair. His fingers found the knot of lacing at the base of her spine and teased it apart while he teased the hollow of her throat with his tongue. He wrapped the end of the lace around his finger and slowly pulled as he ran his tongue up the length of her neck.

She sighed with pleasure, and the dress sighed loose from her body, and Jeremy thought he would be completely undone.

He brought his hands to her shoulders and pulled her away slightly. Her hands fell back to her sides. Shadow cloaked her face and body, but thin shafts of light filtered through the latticework to gild her silhouette. A single curl of hair glowed russet against her brow. A petal of light floated over her cheek. A thin ribbon of gold undulated over her shoulder as her chest rose and fell with each breath.