Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(50)

If Toby hadn’t come …Her whole body flushed with the question, burned to know the answer. Her hands strayed lower, smoothing over her belly.

A light knock at the door yanked her out of the memory and out of the wardrobe … again. She sat up in bed.

“Lucy, it’s me.”

Lucy slid back the bolt and cracked open the door. Sophia stood in the corridor, wrapped in a blue silk peignoir. Her golden hair was loose, flowing over her shoulders in soft waves.

“May I come in?”

Lucy opened the door in a silent invitation, and Sophia entered.

“I came to see if you were feeling better,” she said, flouncing onto the edge of the bed. She eyed Lucy’s stockinged ankle dubiously. Then her gaze wandered up to Lucy’s flushed cheeks. “But I daresay you are,” she said, arching an eyebrow. She smiled. “In fact, you look very well indeed.”

Lucy sat down at her writing table and plucked a roll from the dinner tray. She bit off the end and chewed furiously. Lord, but she was hungry.

“You disappeared this afternoon,” Sophia accused.

“And so did Lord Kendall. You cannot expect me to credit coincidence.”

Lucy took another bite of bread and shrugged.

Sophia bounced on the edge of the bed. “Lucy! You know you must tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened.”

Sophia pouted. “I know the difference between something and nothing,” she said, reclining back on her elbows. “And the look on your face does not come of doing nothing.”

“Doesn’t it?” It was just as Lucy had suspected. One look at her face, and Sophiaknew . She would never be able to leave her chamber again. Then she recalled Sophia’s aborted “shocking” tale that morning. “So tell me aboutsomething,” she said, “and I will tell you whether this afternoon fits the definition.”

Sophia toyed with the lace neckline of her peignoir. “Shall I tell you about Gervais?”

“Gervais?” Sosomething had a name.

“He was my painting master. And my tutor in the art of passion.” She sighed and laid flat on the bed. “Divinely handsome. Lean and strong, with jet-black hair and silver eyes and long, sculpted fingers. I was madly in love with him. Perhaps I still am.”

Lucy choked on her bite of roll. She poured herself a glass of claret and threw back a healthy swallow. Then another. When she had drained the glass, she drew her knees up to her chest and coiled into her chair. Sophia was still lying flat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her bare feet dangled over the edge, and she flexed her ankles idly.

“Well?” Lucy prompted. “Surely you don’t mean to stop there.”

“It all started with sketching,” Sophia said to the ceiling. “I was doing a study of Michelangelo’s David. Just a little charcoal sketch from a plate in a book. I couldn’t quite capture the muscles of the forearm, and I became so vexed. Gervais tried to explain it to me, but he couldn’t put the words into English, and I failed to comprehend his French. Then suddenly he stood up, stripped off his coat, and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. He took my hand and placed it over his wrist. He dragged my fingers over every inch of his forearm, tracing every tight cord of muscle and sinew. He was so solid, so strong …”

Sophia rolled over onto her side, propping herself on one elbow. “You will think me wicked, and I don’t care. You will be right. I am wicked. I wanted to rip off his shirt and touch him all over.”

Lucy did not think Sophia wicked at all. Given her own similar reaction in the wardrobe, she thought Sophia wholly sympathetic. In fact, the pattern of behavior was vastly reassuring. Sophia wasn’t to blame, and neither was she. Clearly the sight of a well-muscled forearm incited a woman to utter depravity. How else to explain the invention of cuffs?

“And did you?”

Sophia’s mouth crooked in a half smile. “Not then. Only much later.” She traced the counterpane’s brocade pattern with her fingertips. “I sketched him, you know.All of him.”

“All of him? Even—”

“Yes, even. And I let him sketch all of me.”

Lucy clapped a hand over her mouth and laughed into her palm. And Toby thought Sophia’stea tray was cunning? This took the term “accomplishment” to a whole new level of meaning. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did.” Sophia placed her hand over her heart. “And after he sketched me, he painted me.”

“You mean a portrait? Or a miniature?”

“No, no. He did not paint my likeness. He paintedme . I took off all my clothes and stretched out on a bed, and he stroked every last inch of me with paint. He said I was white and smooth, like a blank canvas.His canvas. He painted little vines curling over my belly …” Sophia’s fingers drew a twining circle over her stomach. Then her hand traced over the curve of her breast. “And flowers here—lavender orchids.” She shut her eyes and sighed. “I feigned the grippe and refused to bathe for a week.”

Lucy gaped at her in awed silence. Questions stuck in her throat. When Gervais had been stroking Sophia with paint, had he stroked herthere? And had she felt the same unbearable, wondrous ache that Lucy had felt … still felt even now? And had Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway never heard of chaperones?

Sophia rolled flat on her back again and clasped both hands over her heart in the throes of romantic agony. “Oh, Gervais,” she sighed. “He loved me. He did.Je t’aime , he would say.Je t’adore, ma petite . He said it over and over again while he …”