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

“Well?” Lucy prompted. “Surely you don’t mean to stop there.”


“It all started with sketching,” Sophia said to the ceiling. “I was doing a study of Michelangelo’s David. Just a little charcoal sketch from a plate in a book. I couldn’t quite capture the muscles of the forearm, and I became so vexed. Gervais tried to explain it to me, but he couldn’t put the words into English, and I failed to comprehend his French. Then suddenly he stood up, stripped off his coat, and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. He took my hand and placed it over his wrist. He dragged my fingers over every inch of his forearm, tracing every tight cord of muscle and sinew. He was so solid, so strong …”

Sophia rolled over onto her side, propping herself on one elbow. “You will think me wicked, and I don’t care. You will be right. I am wicked. I wanted to rip off his shirt and touch him all over.”

Lucy did not think Sophia wicked at all. Given her own similar reaction in the wardrobe, she thought Sophia wholly sympathetic. In fact, the pattern of behavior was vastly reassuring. Sophia wasn’t to blame, and neither was she. Clearly the sight of a well-muscled forearm incited a woman to utter depravity. How else to explain the invention of cuffs?

“And did you?”

Sophia’s mouth crooked in a half smile. “Not then. Only much later.” She traced the counterpane’s brocade pattern with her fingertips. “I sketched him, you know.All of him.”

“All of him? Even—”

“Yes, even. And I let him sketch all of me.”

Lucy clapped a hand over her mouth and laughed into her palm. And Toby thought Sophia’stea tray was cunning? This took the term “accomplishment” to a whole new level of meaning. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did.” Sophia placed her hand over her heart. “And after he sketched me, he painted me.”

“You mean a portrait? Or a miniature?”

“No, no. He did not paint my likeness. He paintedme . I took off all my clothes and stretched out on a bed, and he stroked every last inch of me with paint. He said I was white and smooth, like a blank canvas.His canvas. He painted little vines curling over my belly …” Sophia’s fingers drew a twining circle over her stomach. Then her hand traced over the curve of her breast. “And flowers here—lavender orchids.” She shut her eyes and sighed. “I feigned the grippe and refused to bathe for a week.”

Lucy gaped at her in awed silence. Questions stuck in her throat. When Gervais had been stroking Sophia with paint, had he stroked herthere? And had she felt the same unbearable, wondrous ache that Lucy had felt … still felt even now? And had Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway never heard of chaperones?

Sophia rolled flat on her back again and clasped both hands over her heart in the throes of romantic agony. “Oh, Gervais,” she sighed. “He loved me. He did.Je t’aime , he would say.Je t’adore, ma petite . He said it over and over again while he …”

Sophia’s voice trailed off, and Lucy wanted to scream. “While he what?”

Sophia threw her a superior look. “Don’t you know?”

“Er … yes, well.” Lucy blushed. “I mean, were you discovered?” Good heavens, and here Lucy had thoughtshe was ruined. A bit of fumbling in a wardrobe was nothing to a torrid affair with a tutor. And with a Frenchman! Society would never forgive Sophia that, were it ever known. Her twenty thousand pounds could go hang. Were such a scandal ever made public, no gentleman of theton would have her.

The hairs on Lucy’s neck stood on end.Toby wouldn’t have her .

“Oh, no,” said Sophia. “We were never discovered. We quarreled, and I sent him away.”

“Quarreled? Over what?”

“Sir Toby had asked permission to court me, and my parents were overjoyed. I was desperate. I told Gervais I wished to elope. We might have a little cottage by the sea. Spend our days painting and our nights making passionate love. Our own piece of paradise.” She shivered. “But Gervais refused.”

“But why, if he loved you?”

“He doubted my devotion. He said that I would live to regret marrying him, that the pain of scandal and poverty would overshadow our joy. I told him he was wrong. I pleaded and begged and shouted and kissed … but I could not move him. So I sent him away.” She put her hands over her face. “Oh, Gervais!” she whimpered.“Mon cher, mon amour . Forgive me.”

Lucy poured herself another glass of claret.

Sophia uncovered her eyes and flung her arms out to either side. “I have tasted passion, Lucy,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “And now that I have—I do not know how I shall endure a bland society marriage. Take a lover, I suppose. But the very idea seems so … gauche.”