Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(72)

He closed his eyes briefly. There was no safe place to let his gaze linger. The rolls of smooth vellum recalled her skin. One glance at the post, with its round, red, bumpy seals, and his thumbs itched for the feel of her ni**les. And the tableau of quill dipped into inkwell led his mind to places that were patently obscene.

No woman had ever done this to him. Jeremy had known lust. He’d known wanting. He’d known the sweet release of thwarted desire at long last fulfilled. And on its heels, he’d known the inevitable languor. Boredom. The sluggish satisfaction that lingered for days or weeks—until a fresh conquest stirred his blood.

Well, he had lusted for Lucy. He had wanted her with a feverish need beyond anything he’d ever experienced. And now, he’d known the sublime joy of her body. Twice. He’d reveled in the sweet music of her love cries while he made her come. Thrice. She’d held nothing back from him, showed him no fear. Only innocent passion and an unblinking trust that made his heart ache with the beautiful mercy of it. He’d meant to be gentle, and he had managed it—somewhat—the first time. But the second time … Sweet heaven above, the second time. Her passionate response and keening cries had stripped him of all gentleness, and he’d thrust into her tight, slick embrace again and again until he lost himself completely.

And he was anything but satisfied. As for languor or boredom, Jeremy suspected those two words had been permanently removed from his vocabulary. After she’d left his bed, he’d nestled against the linens where her warmth and her sweet scent lingered, and he’d dreamed of her in brilliant, luminous color. He’d awoken hard and aching for her, as if they’d never made love. He’d tasted every inch of her, but he only hungered for more. Jeremy doubted he could ever get enough of her.

But starting in—he glanced at his pocketwatch—about forty minutes, he’d make it his life’s ambition to try.

“You really mean to do this, don’t you?” Henry waved the sheaf of papers at him.

“Hmm?” Jeremy shook himself out of his reverie.

“All these past two days, I’ve been waiting for you to flinch. Cry off. But you really mean to do it.” Henry sighed heavily and tossed the papers on the desk. “I can’t let you, Jem.”

“You can’t let me what? If there’s some problem with the settlements, it can be easily remedied.”

“I’m not quibbling with the settlements, man. I can’t let you marry Lucy.”

Jeremy stared at his friend, dumbstruck.

“This is absurd,” Henry continued. “I’m looking at these papers—properties, trusts, titles … You can’t honestly mean to do this.”

Jeremy didn’t give a damn about papers. Or titles, or property, or trusts. The only thing he wanted was to slide back into that hot, silken heaven where none of it mattered. Where he forgot it all. Where he forgot his own name, until she gave it back to him in breathy moans.

Henry let his boot fall to the floor and hunched forward over the desk. “Jem, I know I asked you to show Lucy a bit of attention. I didn’t mean for you to go marrying her. She’s a good girl, but she’s not the sort of wife you’d want.”

Jeremy felt violence rush through him in a blur of red, pounding in his blood. He checked the powerful urge to run Henry through with his own letter opener.

“You’re an earl,” Henry continued. “You’re supposed to marry a lady from an established family. Someone with money, connections. You’ve held off marriage longer than any of us. I don’t suppose it’s simply because you hadn’t found the right penniless country chit.”

The violence surging through Jeremy’s blood took on the potent charge of panic. Sweat beaded under his cravat. He willed his voice to remain steady and took a slow, deep breath. “Henry, I’m betrothed to Lucy. I’m going to marry her.”

A light knock preceded the gentle creak of the door. A familiar voice asked, “Marianne said you wanted to see me?”

Jeremy stood and turned, just in time to watch Lucy float into the room in a cloud of ivory silk. And then he forgot how to breathe entirely.

He noticed her hair first—the profusion of dark coils crowning her head, and the dangling tendrils that teased his gaze lower. To her cheek, where a rosy blush drifted under translucent gold. Along the delicious slope of her bare neck. Down to where her gown’s neckline ought to be. Down lower, to where her neckline actually was—where ivory silk clung to warm, sweet flesh like a dream.

Jeremy would have thought she could never look more beautiful than she had the night previous, in his bed. And indeed, she didn’t, not quite. But damned close. And there was a completely different thrill to this beauty. It affected him in a strange new way. Lucy looked her most glorious when naked and well-loved, of course. But that was a private display for his eyes alone. This morning, she would stand at his side before man and God alike, radiant as an angel. No one could look at her and not be struck by her loveliness. This wasn’t desire, swelling up in his chest, replacing the breath in his lungs.

It was pride.

“Good morning, Jeremy.” She smiled at him, a coy twinkle in her eye.

Jeremy nodded in reply, not trusting his voice. But inwardly, he agreed that it was, indeed, a very good morning. For the first time since she’d left his bed, he began to imagine something other than passion-filled nights—a lifetime of pleasant mornings. And when he thought about starting each day like this, hearing those words drop sweetly from her lips, knowing that smile was for him alone—this particular morning got even better. “Good” did not begin to describe it.