Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(77)

“Is it a long journey, to your estate?”

“If the roads are dry, we should arrive in time for dinner tomorrow.”

She blinked. “Tomorrow?”

Jeremy swore silently. She’d likely never been outside a twenty-mile radius of Waltham Manor, and here he was hauling her off to a place she’d never seen. He ought to have taken her to Town. She would have been only a half-day’s journey from home. But he’d been absent from Corbinsdale so long already. If he took her to London, he’d only have to leave her there while he attended to the estate. And he didn’t want to leave her.

He didn’t want to be parted from her at all. He wished he’d purchased a smaller carriage, so she wouldn’t be so damned far away, seated across from him on the black tufted upholstery. He despised frail, little Aunt Matilda for taking what ought to be his place, next to her. He hated the furry beast curled in her lap, enjoying her fingers’ soft caress. And even were he seated beside her, he would resent the very fabric of their clothing for coming between her skin and his.

An inch of space between them would be one inch too many. The only thought preserving his sanity throughout the interminable journey was the thought of holding her in his arms that night, with nothing—not an inch of space or stitch of clothing—between them. He planned, in excruciatingly vivid detail, how he would kiss and stroke her until her cheeks bloomed pink again and the saucy sparkle returned to her eyes. Perhaps this wasn’t the marriage she’d wanted. Perhaps he couldn’t give her everything she deserved. But Jeremy vowed to lavish upon her that which he could offer—material comforts and physical pleasure. And it damn near killed him when they arrived at the coaching inn that evening and his wife declared her intent to spend the night—their wedding night—sleeping beside her aunt.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered at the door to their suite. “I didn’t realize we’d be stopping overnight. You know how she wanders. I need to stay with her.”

“Are you certain? I can put two footmen in the corridor. Four, if you wish. One of the inn’s serving girls can stay with her.” Jeremy realized he sounded a bit desperate. He didn’t really care.

Lucy bit her lip, avoiding his eyes. “We’re in a strange place. She might wake up and become confused. I can’t leave her alone.”

You can’t leave me alone, he wanted to argue. Never in his life did Jeremy expect to envy an ancient, turbaned invalid. But damn it all, he did. He was besottedand jealous. “Of course,” he forced between his teeth, straining the childish petulance out of his voice.

Of course.

She didn’t want to be near him. He couldn’t get close enough to her, and she desired nothing but separation. It wasn’t as though he could blame her. He’d rushed her into this marriage and whisked her away from her family and home. She needed time, Jeremy told himself. She needed space.

Lucy had more than enough space. Too much space, she thought to herself the next morning, as the carriage rattled down the road. The way was mottled with ruts and stones, and she bounced off the barouche sides like a billiard ball. Aunt Matilda lay flat on the seat across from her, sleeping through the entire ordeal as only the very young or impossibly old are able to do. If Jeremy had not insisted on riding with the liveried outriders, he might have been next to her, holding her tight against his solid frame. Not that she wished him to.

Lucy scarcely understood her own behavior of the last four-and-twenty hours. Ever since the argument with Henry, she’d been operating in a state of near-panic. She’d barely made it through the ceremony. Afterward, she’d clung desperately to her brother, embracing him with a girlish adoration she thought she’d long outgrown. His sudden tenderness surprised her, as had his offer to come for her whenever she wished. Lucy hadn’t known whether to bless him for his kindness or curse him for his obvious belief that her future held little but misery.

When the time had come to depart from Waltham Manor, she’d panicked by trying to take as much of it with her as possible. Clothing she never wore, books she never read, and all of these creatures, both furred and turbaned.

Then she’d balked at her husband’s company on their wedding night. She thought of his expression last evening as they parted—that intent gaze that made demands, even as his words released her. She’d seen the wanting in his eyes, heard the deep undertone of desire in his voice. The memory made her shiver even now.

Shiver, and frown. She apparently passed Jeremy’s exacting standards whenever they approached a bed—or a desk, or a wardrobe, or a tree. Why did he want to alter her behavior in every other regard? He wanted the real Lucy in the bedchamber, it would seem, but everywhere else, he wanted her to change.

She ought to have listened to him from the first.A man doesn’t want to stoop to love , he’d said.He wants to reach higher, stand taller. He desires something more than a woman—an angel; a dream .

Lucy sank into the barouche cushions with an ironic laugh. If he thought she would blithely assume the role of a demure countess, he would have to think again. It would never work. She’d learned that much from chasing Toby, at least. If Jeremy had wanted an elegant lady, he ought to have married one. It was too late now, indeed.

She stroked the plump tabby sprawled across her lap. If only she could stop loving him. Take back her heart, by sheer force of will. But her will had no say in the matter, it seemed. Love pulsed in her blood, filled her every breath. Inescapable, irreversible. Something had changed inside her, and she would never be the same.