Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(90)

“But …” Jeremy’s gaze clouded with confusion. “Didn’t your father die before you were born?”

“Oh, yes.” When he continued to simply stare at her, Lucy decided to humor his lack of imagination. “I have found,” she said quietly, “and perhaps you have, as well …”—she tilted her head toward the row of portraits—“these things have a way of speaking to me, whether I wish it or not. And it’s more comforting by half to imagine they have pleasant things to say.

“For example,” she continued, pulling him toward a portrait of a frightfully ugly gentleman dressed in Navy regalia, “your father is telling me that he was greatly relieved, on the day you were born, to see that you did not have your great-uncle Frederick’s ears. Like bat-wings, those ears. Positively terrified him when he was a child.”

She turned to the portrait of his mother. “And your mother says she was simply glad you didn’t come out all puckered and orange, because she ate nothing but jellied quince for the whole of her confinement.”

Jeremy shook his head. “Lucy, when you asked earlier if there was a bedlamite locked in the turret—I didn’t realize you meant to apply for the position.”

She ignored him and pasted a sweet smile on her face. Gently tugging Jeremy’s arm, she led him down the row to yet another portrait of Thomas. “Now this handsome young man is complaining that it’s dreadfully difficult to haunt twenty portraits at once. He’s begging us to pare down the number to three or four.”

“You may do as you wish, Lucy. You’re mistress of this estate. It’s your house now.”

“Mine?” She tightened her grip on his arm. “Oh, dear. I had been under the rather comforting impression that it wasours.”

He looked down at her, the corner of his lips slightly crooked. It was the barest suggestion of a smile, and the most wonderful thing she’d seen in the past week. “So it is.”

He placed his hand over hers where it lay on his arm. “I believe I’ve had enough ofour house for one morning. Would you care to go riding? I imagine Thistle would enjoy the exercise.”

“I can ride Thistle?” She lifted an eyebrow. “But must I have a complement of footmen trailing along behind me?”

“No.” His smile widened. “You’ve no need of an escort, if you’re with me.”

“Oh.” Lord above, at that moment he looked dizzyingly handsome. But somehow Lucy managed to grasp a few strands of thought and braid them into a realization. “Well, that makes more sense now.”

“What makes sense?”

“Why you never wanted me along, on the shooting trips.” She leaned against his arm as they turned to leave the gallery. “All that talk about my being just a girl, it being unsafe—imagine, you truly meant it!”

“What, did you think I was just being severe?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied with a shrug. “For the first year I knew you, perhaps two—I thought you were put on this earth simply to vex me.”

His eyebrows lifted. “And after two years?”

“Oh, then I figured out the truth,” she said as they walked out of the room. “I was put on this earth to vexyou.”

If breakfast had been a pleasant surprise, dinner that night was a disaster.

Lucy watched from her end of the table in silence as her husband pushed food around his plate. Grateful the soup course was over, she took a long draught of wine, rinsing her mouth of the lingering film of salt and grease. How Jeremy could abide oxtail broth, she couldn’t guess.

“Finally grew tired of lobster bisque, did you?” he asked, sawing into a hunk of mutton.

“Not really.” Lucy stabbed at a bit of carrot with her fork, but it squirted off her plate and flew across the room. She looked up, mortified. Jeremy’s attention remained focused on his mutton. She dared not look to the left, however, for she felt reasonably certain that the missile had connected with a footman. Fortunately Aunt Matilda was taking dinner in her room this evening, else she might have been the unhappy target. “It’s just that … Well, I thought I should request the dishes thatyou like for a change.”

After their conversation in the gallery that morning, Lucy felt like a shortsighted girl who’d just been fitted with spectacles. In preparation for their ride, Jeremy had checked the security of her saddle straps twice, ordered the maid to fetch Lucy’s warmer gloves, and cast her more stern looks than she could count. And all these small actions that would have yesterday seemed simply overbearing, Lucy now understood to be … still overbearing, but protective at base.

He’d witnessed too much pain already. He didn’t want to see her hurt, too.

Was it any wonder she hadn’t seen it? Lucy wasn’t at all accustomed to being protected—with two dead parents and a guardian like Henry, she’d learned to fend for herself. Jeremy’s concern was completely unnecessary. But it was also touching, and she wanted, in some small way, to acknowledge it. To thank him for it. Totry .

“I see.” Jeremy placed a morsel of mutton in his mouth and chewed. And chewed. Taking a sip of wine, he asked, “And who informed you of my partiality for boiled mutton?”

“One of Aunt Matilda’s nursemaids. Mrs….” Lucy churned air with her hand, as if to conjure the name from the ether.