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

She had always thought of it as her wardrobe, even though it had actually belonged to her father. Even though it wasn’t in her chambers, and it held none of her clothing. The wardrobe sat in an alcove of the first-story corridor, facing the door to Henry’s study, and it was usually empty—except when she occupied it.

She leaned against the wood paneling at the back of the cabinet. Lacy ribbons of light filtered through the latticework at the top of the doors, dappling the pear-green muslin of her frock with spots of gold. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, drinking in the secret scents that never faded—teasing hints of spice and tobacco and sea salt and rum. The smells of Tortola, as she dreamed it must be.

Her father had brought back the cabinet from the West Indies, when he came home to Waltham Manor. Lucy could never imagine how a ship had managed to stay afloat carrying the monolithic wardrobe. As a girl, she’d had to grasp the carved handle with both hands and lean back on her heels just to wrench open one massive door.

The wardrobe’s exterior was carved with vines and leaves and flowers that blossomed across the surface in sinuous, pagan patterns. Lucy would swear that they grew and shifted ever so slightly with time. Inside, however, the ebony panels were solid and smooth. Like polished stone, but warm to the touch. A deep, black cave shot with arrows of light.

Countless hours she’d spent closeted there. Hiding from nursemaids and governesses. Evading blame for mischief she’d wrought. Listening to Henry and his friends drink and talk well past the hour of her bedtime. Waiting for her mother to die.

Even as she grew older and taller, the space inside the wardrobe never seemed to shrink. There was always room for two. Two of her. There was Lucy—troublesome, orphaned, hoydenish Lucy—and there was the other girl. The better girl. The girl who would push open the ebony door and walk out onto a white, sandy shore in Tortola, swinging hand-in-hand with her mother on one side and her father on the other. The girl who was beautiful and elegant, with fair skin and yellow hair and perfect, unskinned knees. The girl who was really a princess, asleep—waiting for her golden-haired prince to come and wake her with a kiss.

Lucy sighed. She was almost twenty and no longer a girl. Her parents were dead, and she would never see Tortola. Her skin was olive, and her hair was brown, and she’d skinned her knees yet again that morning. And if her golden-haired prince didn’t come for her today … he never would.

Lucy knew precisely why Sophia had suggested this amusement. She wanted to find a dark, hidden corner of the house and then corner Toby. Sophia wanted her moment of passion.

But what did Toby want? More to the point,whom did Toby want? Lucy had felt his gaze on her in the drawing room. She had caught him staring more than once, and the look on his face was wholly unfamiliar. Wholly unfamiliar, and therefore wholly unreadable. She fought the temptation to leave her hiding place and go seek him out. If he knew her at all, he would know she’d be here. If he wanted to find her, he would. And if he didn’t … he didn’t.

She heard heavy footsteps approaching. Slowing. Stopping in front of the wardrobe.

Both doors of the wardrobe swung open, scattering the darkness.

“Lucy, come out of there.” Jeremy loomed over her, his dark silhouette filling the ebony frame.

“Go away,” she squeaked, raising her hand to her eyes and blinking against the flood of harsh light. “Find your own hiding place. There’s a lovely cupboard under the stairs where they keep the mops. Go drip there.”

“I know what you’re up to, Lucy,” he said, his voice a dark warning. “I thought the time for games was over.”

He came into focus as her eyes adjusted to the light. Black hair hung over his brow in thick, damp locks, making a stark contrast with the pale blue of his eyes. He’d changed into a dry shirt—hastily, it would seem, and without the assistance of his valet. The starched linen hung open at the collar, exposing wisps of dark hair curling around the notch at the base of his throat, and the hard ridge of his collarbone running toward either shoulder. His cuffs were unfastened, upturned, and her gaze followed the corded muscles of his forearm nearly up to the elbow.

Her eyes shot back up to his face. “I didn’t suggest the game, now did I? That would be Marianne and Sophia’s idea. Go harass one of them.” She pushed at his chest with both hands. She might as well have pushed against a boulder.

But boulders weren’t warm. And boulders didn’t smell like rain and leather and pine. And boulders didn’t send jolts of electricity humming through her body, tingling all the way down to the tips of her toes and even the spaces between.