Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(84)

“Hetta Osborne.”

“I’m Lucy Waltham … Trescott.”

Miss Osborne regarded Lucy with raised eyebrows. She then glanced around the bedchamber. Drapes yanked from their windows lay in heaps on the floor. The furniture was pushed into a jumble near the hearth.

“I’m redecorating,” Lucy said lamely.

“So I see.”

No, she didn’t. She couldn’t possibly see. No one could understand what had possessed Lucy to go careening about her suite like a madwoman, pulling drapes from the windows and tapestries from the walls. Lucy didn’t understand it herself. She only knew that after a week of her self-imposed seclusion, she’d dreamt of a fog. A thick, dark, choking fog that filled her lungs and wormed into her ears and tightened around her neck—and when she’d awoken tangled in the bed linens, she’d been seized by a desperate craving for light. Bright light and fresh air.

Miss Osborne circled her ankle in one direction, then the other.

“Really, it feels perfectly fine,” Lucy said.

The pain in her ankle had subsided shortly after her fall. Her encounter with Jeremy—from that, she would require a bit of time to recover. First, from the sight of him wrapped in his dressing gown, the wedge of naked chest framed by dark blue fabric; his bare, sculpted legs below the hem. It was obvious that he wore little beneath the robe. If anything. Did he sleep nude, Lucy wondered? Of course, he had done so the night she’d slept beside him, but … even alone? And in nights to come, how would she be able to sleep at all for wondering?

If the sight ofhis legs wasn’t distracting enough, then he’d hitched up her own robe and touched her ankle in that exciting, possessive manner. Oh, and the marvelous displays of brute strength—tossing aside the chair, picking her up as though she weighed nothing, looming over her on the bed. Bright light and fresh air were instantly forgotten.He was what she’d been craving.

“Did that hurt?” Miss Osborne asked suddenly.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You moaned.”

Lucy felt a blush rising on her cheeks. “Did I?”

Curse the man, even as he’d berated her she couldn’t focus on his words. She’d been too busy fantasizing. She’d wanted to slide her hands inside that gaping robe, reach around his broad shoulders, and pull him down on top of her. Until the end of his diatribe, when he’d brought up that “my lord” nonsense. So infuriating. And infuriatingly arousing. Lucy squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled her frustration.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Miss Osborne let her ankle drop to the bed. She threw Lucy a sideways glance as she picked up her gloves. “Not with your ankle, at least.”

Lucy sat up and regarded the young woman at her bedside. Miss Osborne wore a patterned frock and curry-colored spencer. A few pins held her dark-blond hair in a simple knot, and she wore no jewelry or ribbons. She couldn’t have been much older than Lucy, but she projected an enviable air of capability. She tugged on her gloves with precise, efficient movements.

“Why don’t you stay for tea?” Lucy asked. “You’ve come all this way.”

“Thank you, no.” Miss Osborne stood, picking up a small black valise. “I’m already behind schedule, and it’s a long walk back. I’ve a confined woman to visit and a seeping wound to dress. There are some people in the county with real injuries, you realize.”

Lucy smiled. At last, someone in Corbinsdale who did not regard her with veiled disdain. Miss Osborne held her in open contempt. What was better, she hadn’t even curtsied or called her “Lady Kendall” once. And she’d just offered Lucy the one remedy she needed most—an escape.

“If you can wait for me to dress,” Lucy said, “I’ll drive you.”

If Miss Osborne held Lucy in contempt, she regarded the lacquered phaeton and team of perfectly matched black ponies with complete derision. Not to mention the pair of liveried outriders trailing a polite distance behind. Still, she did not seem to begrudge the offer of a ride. And when Lucy gave the team full rein to thunder down the road, she could tell Miss Osborne’s respect for her increased tenfold. From “next-to-nothing” to “perhaps-a-mite.”

It felt wonderful to be outdoors at last, inhaling the crisp autumn air. Lucy drew the phaeton to a halt before a small crofter’s cottage. Four children came running out, followed by their rotund, waddling mother. Lucy rummaged behind the phaeton seat for one of the baskets she’d asked Cook to prepare. A smile warmed her wind-chilled face. Even Jeremy could not find fault with this outing. This was what Marianne had done, visiting the tenants with baskets of food and sweets for the children. Lucy felt more like a countess already.

She turned back to the children, anticipating the squeals of joy her treats would no doubt elicit. They were nowhere to be seen. Miss Osborne had alighted from the phaeton, and everyone had gone inside the cottage without her.

Well.

Lucy clambered down from the carriage, basket threaded over her arm, and made her way to the cottage door. She swept into the room, smiling beneficently. From their seats at the cottage’s small table, Miss Osborne and the confined woman regarded her warily.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” Lucy said, shooting Miss Osborne a look of her own, “but I’m Lady Kendall.”