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

“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.

“Mrs. Wrede?”

“That’s it. Mrs. Wrede. I asked her to give Cook the menu, since she said she’s known you for ages.”

Jeremy sipped his wine again. “Indeed she has. She wasmy nursemaid. Kept me on a steady diet of broth, boiled mutton, potatoes, porridge …”

Lucy groaned. What an idiot she was. Mrs. Wrede had given Jeremy’s favorite menu, all right—from when he was five years old. She might as well have poured him milk in place of claret. Propping her elbows on the table, she buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “Truthfully, I’m not very hungry anyway.” He waved away the remainder of the dishes. “Let’s just skip to dessert, shall we? Let me guess.” He smiled. “Suet pudding?”

She propped her chin on her hand. “I didn’t order any dessert,” she said plaintively.

“No dessert?” He looked stricken. “Why would you do that?”

“You don’t like dessert.”

“On the contrary,” he said, in a dark voice that made her ears tingle. “It’s my favorite course of the meal. I had rather looked forward to dessert.”

“But—” Lucy halted, at a loss for a response. What was he saying? That although, in eight years, she’d never seen a morsel of sherry trifle or gooseberry fool pass his lips, he suddenly desired suet pudding? How was she—how was any countess to guessthat?

She folded her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry. There isn’t any dessert.”

He set his napkin aside. “Very well, then,” he said, rising to his feet. “It’s late. You must be wanting to retire.”

She stared down at her hands, running her thumb along the callused ridge of her palm. “I said I’d sit with Aunt Matilda. I think she’s a bit homesick.”