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

Never before had Jeremy been happier tonot be the recipient of a lady’s affections. God forbid this hoyden-turned-siren unleashed herself in his direction. He doubted he would survive the experience.

Jealous. What a ridiculous notion. To prove the point, he conjured a vivid mental image of Lucy standing in her nightgown, craning up on tiptoe to kiss Toby, twining her fingers in his hair. He watched detached, a mere observer of a ribald opera revue, as in his mind’s eye Lucy fell against Toby’s chest. She parted her lips, Toby deepened the kiss, and Jeremy felt nothing. A bit of annoyance, perhaps—because Toby was kissing her all wrong. She arched into him and dug her fingers into his shoulders and made little writhing circles with her hips. Jeremy felt … almost nothing. Only the faintest suggestion of something. A flea bite. A tiny sting. Then in his mind, he heard Lucy give a breathy moan of passion, and somewhere deep and low in his body, something snapped. He was no longer an observer of the scene, but taking control of it. Taking control of her.His lips were covering hers.His tongue was teasing hers.His fingers were snaking between the buttons of her nightgown to curve around—

Good Lord, Henry walked unforgivably slowly. What did it take to light a fire under the man? His sister had nearly drowned.

Lucy was still glaring at him, letting that word—jealous—hang in the air, unchallenged. He ought to muster a defense. He ought to set her straight. He ought to take her inside and lay her down by the fire and strip her out of those wet clothes.

“You’re jealous,” she repeated, in an icy tone that cut straight through the heat of his desire. Her eyes flashed with fury. “You’re a cold, unfeeling, heartless man. And you have no idea what it is to care for something—someone—so deeply. To be willing to admit it, to yourself and to the world. To make a complete and utter fool of yourself, if necessary. Real love takes real courage. I have it, and you don’t. And you’re jealous.”

She brushed past him and stalked off toward the house. Jeremy stared after her, numb with shock.

“I take it Lucy’s made a full recovery.” Henry covered the last few paces to stand at Jeremy’s shoulder. “What was that all about, then?”

Jeremy wished he could say. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other; then shifted it back. “Henry, I think we need to talk.”

“I think so,” said Henry, eyeing him with amusement. “Explain to me, kindly, why my little sister is lecturing you on love.”

The gentlemen convened their council over a bottle of fine brandy. Jeremy had drained one glass and was already pouring himself a second while his friends still savored their first sips. “Something has to be done about Lucy,” he announced in a firm voice intended to convince no one more than himself.

“I’ve been trying to do something about Lucy for years now,” Henry said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on his desk. “I’ve quite given up.”

“Did I miss something?” Felix asked. “What’s the matter with Lucy?”

“Besides the fact that she’s forgotten how to swim, fish, and dress appropriate to the weather?” Jeremy topped off his glass and sank into the chair closest to the fire. His shirt was still damp, and Lucy had absconded with his coat. “She fancies herself in love.”

“Aha,” said Henry. He turned to Felix and whispered loudly, “Apparently she and Jem had some sort of lovers’ quarrel.” Both men erupted in laughter.

Toby chuckled into his glass. “Lucy and Jem? Nowthat’s amusing. But better Jem than that spotty son of your vicar, Henry. He wrote her some perfectly dreadful verses last year.”

“The vicar’s boy was writing Lucy verses?” Henry sat up in his chair, suddenly sobered. “Why does no one tell me these things?”

“I thought you knew.” Toby shrugged. “And as I said, they were dreadful. Even if they weren’t, Byron himself couldn’t touch Lucy’s heart, unless he came bearing pie along with his poems.”

“Let’s ring for tea and sandwiches, shall we?” Felix asked. “I’m famished.”

“It wasnot a lovers’ quarrel,” Jeremy interrupted. “Lucy isnot in love with me.” He turned to Toby. “And neither is she in love with the vicar’s son, you idiot. She’s in love with you.”

“Still?” Toby sipped his brandy. “Blast. I was hoping she’d taken a liking to someone new.”

“You hoped no such thing.” Jeremy set his glass down with a forceful clatter. “You know you encourage her. Just like you encourage everything in a skirt between the ages of thirteen and thirty.”

“Jem,” said Henry, “in case you haven’t noticed, Lucy’s been mooning over Toby for years now. Calf-love, that’s all it is.”

Jeremy groaned. “Henry, in case you haven’t noticed, Lucy’s not a girl anymore. She’s grown out of calf-love. She’s—” He stopped himself, edging away from that sentence as if it were a dangerous cliff.

Henry laughed. “Surely you’re not calling my sister a full-grown cow?”