Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(56)

He shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “You could hide under the desk.”

“Are you daft? This is my house. I’m not hiding under the desk. If anyone’s hiding under the desk, it’s going to be y—”

He clapped a hand over her mouth. His voice was low and gruff, and she felt it rumble through her, down through her chest and between her thighs. “Hide, don’t hide. Do as you wish. But whatever you do, you’d better do it quickly.”

He removed his hand. They looked at each other.

Lucy gave herself a shake. She opened her mouth to swear at him, but he cut her off again. This time with a kiss, raw and possessive.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice husky as he tore his lips from hers. “Don’t hide.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When Henry entered his study, Jeremy was seated at the desk, sharpening a quill by the light of a single candle. Lucy sat perched on a corner of the desktop, studying a paper by the glow of a few red coals. If Henry had been an observant guardian, he might have taken exception to the fact that his friend and his sister were alone in a room at an ungodly hour of night, studiously avoiding one another’s gaze. He might have noticed that their clothing was rumpled and their hair mussed and their breathing labored. He might have seen that the paper in Lucy’s hand was blank.

But Henry was not observant. He wasn’t even much of a guardian.

“Oh, good,” he said. “You’re both awake.”

Lucy stared at her brother. He had breeches pulled on under his nightshirt and a loose-fitting greatcoat slung over all. His dark brown hair stood up at wild angles.

“Jem, come with us,” Henry said. “Lucy, go find Marianne. She’s checking the house.”

Lucy looked at Jeremy. He merely blinked at her, his expression blank.

“Come on then,” Henry said impatiently. “She can’t have gotten far. The rain’s stopped at least, but this wind is the devil’s own bitch.”

“Aunt Matilda.” Lucy and Jeremy spoke as one.

Jeremy followed Henry’s lead, pausing at the door to cast Lucy a parting glance, intense and unreadable. She wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and took up the candle before venturing out into the corridor.

Marianne greeted her at the bottom of the staircase. Sophia was descending the steps, the hem of her blue silk peignoir skimming above her bare feet.

“How long has she been missing?” Lucy asked.

“We don’t know for certain,” said Marianne. She knotted the sash of her dressing gown with brisk tugs. “Her nurse left her at ten, and it’s well past midnight now. Henry’s taken all the men out in search of her.”

“Two hours.” Sophia shivered. “She could be halfway to the village by now.”

Lucy glared at Sophia and placed an arm about Marianne’s shoulders. “I’m sure she’s no such thing. She’s probably just ambled into an unused room and gone to sleep. We’ll find her.”

“I’ll keep searching down here,” Marianne said. She turned to Sophia. “Miss Hathaway, would you be so kind as to search the upstairs rooms with Lucy?”

“Of course,” Sophia answered. “I’ll wake Kitty as well.”

“Thank you.”

Lucy mounted the stairs two at a time, with Sophia scampering up behind her. She headed down the East corridor, where the guestrooms were located. Most of them were in use at the moment, but a few surplus chambers remained untouched. Perhaps they would find Aunt Matilda curled up between a divan and its dustcover.

“Lucy!” Sophia grabbed her elbow as they entered an unused chamber. Lucy shook her off and began lifting the sheets from the furniture and checking in the cupboards.

Sophia cornered her by a bookcase. “Lucy, where did you go? What did you do with the letter?”

Lucy paused. It took her a moment to remember which letter Sophia meant. It took her another few moments to recollect its current home—the breast pocket of Jeremy’s coat, snugly tucked between the layers of fabric, nestled against his hard chest. It then took her a long minute to recover from that image.

“You didn’t put it with the post, did you?” Sophia grabbed her by the shoulders. “Tell me you didn’t post it.”

“Why? Didn’t you want me to?”

“Of course not!”

“But what about Gervais? How is he going to know to come for you if he never receives the letter?”

Sophia let out a strangled sigh. “Gervais is never going to come for me. Gervais doesn’t exist.”

“What?”

“He doesn’t exist. I made him up. My real painting master is a balding prig called Mr. Turklethwaite. I’d lighten my tea with paint before I touched his forearm, let alone any other part of his body.” Sophia shuddered.

Lucy was stunned. “But, the letter …”

“Wasyour idea!” Sophia exclaimed in a loud whisper. “I thought you were suggesting a bit of fun, just like you proposed writing that letter to the pirates. I thought you understood.” Her face softened. “All that talk about wishing for something so hard it would come true … Lucy, I thought youunderstood .”

“I do,” she said, thinking of her own infatuation with Toby. Lucy took her friend’s hand and squeezed it. “I do understand. Oh, but how did you ever invent such a sordid tale in the first place? The sketching, the … thepainting! The rabbits and cabbage!”