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

“We have this choice to us, though—whom we marry, and when. I’ve a mother and three older sisters, each more unnaturally competent than the last. They’ve never needed me to carry any burden besides the title. This may very well be the first choice in my life of any import, and considering the nature of marriage, it’s like to be my last for a goodly length of time. My engagement is my decision to make. And it may be damned selfish of me, Jem, but I’m not going to make that decision for anyone else’s convenience. Not Lucy’s, or yours, or even Miss Hathaway’s. There will come a moment—and perhaps rather soon—when I simply know it’s time. When I can’t live another hour without securing Sophia’s hand. That’s when I’ll propose, and not a blasted minute before.”


Jeremy stared at his friend. There must be something in the brandy, he thought. For a moment there—almost a solid minute—Toby had soundedthoughtful . “You’re right,” he said finally, taking a slow sip from his own glass. “That is damned selfish of you.”

Toby’s face cracked into a wide grin. He picked up his billiard cue and reset the balls. “You know, being in love isn’t half bad, Jem. I can’t imagine why I avoided it so assiduously all those years.” He took a wild shot that missed both balls completely.

“Can’t you?”

“Must be the brandy,” Toby replied with a sheepish smile. The smile faded, and his gaze sharpened. “You never answered my question. About this afternoon. What do I tell Henry?”

Blast. Jeremy had hoped he’d forgotten that question.

“You tell Henry nothing.” He picked up his cue and chalked it, trying to keep his tone light. “There’s nothing to tell. Lucy’s not infatuated with me, she’s furious with me. That’s why we’re not speaking. The little game is over.”

“Gave you a swift kick in the shins, did she?” Toby chuckled. “Or perhaps a few feet higher? Good for Lucy. Good for you, too, I suppose. Lucy’s had her taste of romance. I’ll propose to Sophia soon. You’re off the hook.”

Off the hook. Toby was right. He ought to feel relieved. No more ribbing from his friends. No more “besotted suitor” nonsense. Lucy said it herself.We’re through playing games .

“And I must admit, I’m relieved as well,” said Toby. “I wasn’t at all looking forward to discussing that scene with Henry.”

“Discussing what scene with Henry?” Henry strolled into the room and crossed immediately to the brandy. Toby looked to Jeremy, eyebrows raised.

Jeremy gave Toby a slight shake of the head. The game was over. There was nothing to be gained from upsetting Henry over a few kisses. Jeremy leaned over the table and focused his gaze on the ivory cue ball. “He’s talking about your Aunt Matilda,” he said. “You’ve got to put a stop to her wandering, Henry. Toby woke up last night to find her standing over his bed in her shift.”

Toby turned away from the table and coughed violently into his sleeve. Jeremy held his shot.

“Really?” Henry asked.

His outburst subdued, Toby turned back with a solemn face. He shuddered dramatically. “Gave me nightmares.”

Henry laughed. “I suppose you’d better bolt your door tonight, man.”

“Better yet,” said Jeremy, “you should station a footman in the corridor. Be certain she stays put.” He plunged his arm forward, his thoughts focused on an entirely differentshe . His cue ball banked off the far side of the table, then banked again to the left; glanced off the red object ball, sinking it into a corner; then connected with Toby’s cue ball and chased it spiraling into a side pocket.

Henry gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Well played,” he said, sipping his drink. “And a footman it is.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Oh, well done!” Sophia gasped, breaking into applause.

“There’s nothing to it,” Lucy said, fitting another arrow to her bow. It was highly satisfying to finally have the better of Miss Hathaway in some acceptable, ladylike occupation. Sophia might hold the advantage in painting, embroidery, cards, and writing letters, but Lucy had her bested when it came to archery. There weren’t many people Lucy couldn’t best at archery. Come to think of it, there weren’t any that she knew.

Lucy raised the bow to her shoulder and drew back the string. “If you want to hit the target, it’s as simple as that—wanting it. Some people will go on and on about proper technique. They will analyze the line of your arm, the way you hold the bow, the length of time you take to release. Absolute rot, all of it. I simply look at the center of the target, and Iwant it. I focus and I wait and I want it. I wait until the rest of the world falls away, and all that’s left are my arrow and the target and the wanting.” Her gaze narrowed, and her speech slowed. “And when I want them to collide so desperately that I can feel the arrow want it, too …then , I release.” She let go the string and watched the arrow zing home.

Sophia applauded again. “Magnificent! Shall we have another go?”

“If you like. I’ll just retrieve the arrows.”

“I’ll walk with you.” Sophia linked her arm in Lucy’s, and Lucy regarded her warily. The two set out across the green toward the target—a fat punchinello, its clownish colors playing against a curtain of dark forest.

“I’m terribly envious of you, you know,” Sophia said as they walked. The morning was gray and cloudy, and traces of the previous night’s frost still lingered on the ground. Damp sucked at Lucy’s toes through her boots.

“It’s only archery,” she replied.

“Oh, no,” Sophia giggled. “You’re brilliant with a bow, to be sure. But it isn’t that skill I envy.”