Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(51)

Sophia’s voice trailed off, and Lucy wanted to scream. “While he what?”

Sophia threw her a superior look. “Don’t you know?”

“Er … yes, well.” Lucy blushed. “I mean, were you discovered?” Good heavens, and here Lucy had thoughtshe was ruined. A bit of fumbling in a wardrobe was nothing to a torrid affair with a tutor. And with a Frenchman! Society would never forgive Sophia that, were it ever known. Her twenty thousand pounds could go hang. Were such a scandal ever made public, no gentleman of theton would have her.

The hairs on Lucy’s neck stood on end.Toby wouldn’t have her .

“Oh, no,” said Sophia. “We were never discovered. We quarreled, and I sent him away.”

“Quarreled? Over what?”

“Sir Toby had asked permission to court me, and my parents were overjoyed. I was desperate. I told Gervais I wished to elope. We might have a little cottage by the sea. Spend our days painting and our nights making passionate love. Our own piece of paradise.” She shivered. “But Gervais refused.”

“But why, if he loved you?”

“He doubted my devotion. He said that I would live to regret marrying him, that the pain of scandal and poverty would overshadow our joy. I told him he was wrong. I pleaded and begged and shouted and kissed … but I could not move him. So I sent him away.” She put her hands over her face. “Oh, Gervais!” she whimpered.“Mon cher, mon amour . Forgive me.”

Lucy poured herself another glass of claret.

Sophia uncovered her eyes and flung her arms out to either side. “I have tasted passion, Lucy,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “And now that I have—I do not know how I shall endure a bland society marriage. Take a lover, I suppose. But the very idea seems so … gauche.”

“You feel no passion for Toby,” Lucy said, taking a careful sip.

“How could I? He professes to care for me, but then he scarcely looks at me. A kiss on the hand, a pretty phrase here or there … all so measured, so proper. Nothing of true desire.” Sophia sat up. “I have no grand expectations. I do not expect the sort of raw, animal passion I knew in the arms of Gervais. That can only come once in a lifetime.”

“Truly?” Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Just once?”

“But if only Sir Toby would show me a glimmer of hope.” Sophia drew her legs onto the bed and crossed them under her. “Just one gesture of pure, unfettered romance. That’s all I wish. Tear off his coat. Fold me into his arms. Sweep me off of my feet. But no, never, not once. I was so hoping the moment would come this afternoon. I didn’t hide at all, you know. I counted ten and went straight back to the drawing room.”

“Really? And what did you do?”

“The most shameless things imaginable. I offered to help him count. He only smiled. I said, ‘We mustn’t have you peeking,’ and then I leaned over the divan until my bosom nearly fell out of my dress. And he put his hand over his eyes! I went to him and took his hand away and kept it in my own. I was ever so brazen, and what did he say? What topic sprang first to his mind?”

“Geometry?”

“Worse!You !”

“Me?” Lucy’s head spun. Or perhaps the room was spinning around her. Whichever the case, she wanted it to keep whirling forever. She tipped her wineglass to her lips and drained the remaining liquid.

“Yes, you. He just gave my hand a little squeeze and said, ‘Let’s go find Lucy.’ In that moment, I truly hated you.” Sophia glared at her, then turned her gaze on the half-full decanter at Lucy’s elbow. “Do you intend to drink that all by yourself? I wouldn’t hate you nearly so much if you’d share.”

Lucy smiled. Sophia Hathaway was welcome to hate her all she wished. So long as Toby didn’t. She refilled the wineglass anyway and handed it to Sophia, who swallowed the contents in one long draught and then held out the glass for more. “You’re still ahead,” Sophia replied to Lucy’s look of amusement.

Lucy poured again, her thoughts swirling like wine in a glass. Toby felt no passion for Sophia. Sophia cared nothing for Toby. And Gervais … Gervais was the answer to a prayer. A sign from above. It would be wrong to ignore a sign, Lucy told herself. Wicked indeed.

“Oh, Gervais,” Sophia lamented into her second glass of claret. “If only I could … oh, but it is impossible. We live in different worlds.”

“Nothing is impossible, if you want it badly enough. You must write to him.” Lucy pushed aside the dinner tray. She opened the drawer of the writing table and drew out a sheet of paper and a quill.

“Write to him?” Sophia looked up sharply. “A letter? What an idea. I couldn’t possibly.”

“Why not?” Lucy uncorked a bottle of ink.

“It’s only … he’s not … I reallycouldn’t.” Sophia chewed her thumbnail. “Oh, but I must.”

“You must.” Rising from her chair, Lucy held out the quill.

Sophia shook her head. “No, you write. My hands will tremble.”

“All right.” Lucy sat back down and dipped the quill in ink. “How do you begin?”

“Mon cher petit lapin,”Sophia dictated.

“If I’m going to do the writing, it will have to be in English. My French is abysmal.”