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

“You feel no passion for Toby,” Lucy said, taking a careful sip.

“How could I? He professes to care for me, but then he scarcely looks at me. A kiss on the hand, a pretty phrase here or there … all so measured, so proper. Nothing of true desire.” Sophia sat up. “I have no grand expectations. I do not expect the sort of raw, animal passion I knew in the arms of Gervais. That can only come once in a lifetime.”

“Truly?” Lucy wrinkled her nose. “Just once?”

“But if only Sir Toby would show me a glimmer of hope.” Sophia drew her legs onto the bed and crossed them under her. “Just one gesture of pure, unfettered romance. That’s all I wish. Tear off his coat. Fold me into his arms. Sweep me off of my feet. But no, never, not once. I was so hoping the moment would come this afternoon. I didn’t hide at all, you know. I counted ten and went straight back to the drawing room.”

“Really? And what did you do?”

“The most shameless things imaginable. I offered to help him count. He only smiled. I said, ‘We mustn’t have you peeking,’ and then I leaned over the divan until my bosom nearly fell out of my dress. And he put his hand over his eyes! I went to him and took his hand away and kept it in my own. I was ever so brazen, and what did he say? What topic sprang first to his mind?”

“Geometry?”

“Worse!You !”

“Me?” Lucy’s head spun. Or perhaps the room was spinning around her. Whichever the case, she wanted it to keep whirling forever. She tipped her wineglass to her lips and drained the remaining liquid.

“Yes, you. He just gave my hand a little squeeze and said, ‘Let’s go find Lucy.’ In that moment, I truly hated you.” Sophia glared at her, then turned her gaze on the half-full decanter at Lucy’s elbow. “Do you intend to drink that all by yourself? I wouldn’t hate you nearly so much if you’d share.”

Lucy smiled. Sophia Hathaway was welcome to hate her all she wished. So long as Toby didn’t. She refilled the wineglass anyway and handed it to Sophia, who swallowed the contents in one long draught and then held out the glass for more. “You’re still ahead,” Sophia replied to Lucy’s look of amusement.

Lucy poured again, her thoughts swirling like wine in a glass. Toby felt no passion for Sophia. Sophia cared nothing for Toby. And Gervais … Gervais was the answer to a prayer. A sign from above. It would be wrong to ignore a sign, Lucy told herself. Wicked indeed.

“Oh, Gervais,” Sophia lamented into her second glass of claret. “If only I could … oh, but it is impossible. We live in different worlds.”

“Nothing is impossible, if you want it badly enough. You must write to him.” Lucy pushed aside the dinner tray. She opened the drawer of the writing table and drew out a sheet of paper and a quill.

“Write to him?” Sophia looked up sharply. “A letter? What an idea. I couldn’t possibly.”

“Why not?” Lucy uncorked a bottle of ink.

“It’s only … he’s not … I reallycouldn’t.” Sophia chewed her thumbnail. “Oh, but I must.”

“You must.” Rising from her chair, Lucy held out the quill.

Sophia shook her head. “No, you write. My hands will tremble.”

“All right.” Lucy sat back down and dipped the quill in ink. “How do you begin?”

“Mon cher petit lapin,”Sophia dictated.

“If I’m going to do the writing, it will have to be in English. My French is abysmal.”

“Very well,” Sophia sighed. “My dear little rabbit.”

Lucy did not move her quill. “Surely you’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

“Yourrabbit? And a ‘dear, little’ one at that? Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to begin with something a bit less … furry? ‘Dear Gervais’ seems a likely choice.”

“But it’s what I always called him,” Sophia insisted. “And if the letter is in your hand, and in the wrong language, he has to know it’s truly me somehow.”

Lucy shrugged. “My … dear … little … rabbit,” she said, scrawling the words as she spoke. “And then?”

“Forgive me, my darling,” Sophia continued, reclining again on one elbow and gesturing grandly with her wineglass. “I regret our quarrel more than you could know. Sir Toby is nothing to me. You alone are—”

“Just a moment,” Lucy interrupted. “You’re speaking too fast.” She wrote furiously. “You … alone … are … All right, go on.”

“You alone are my love. I cannot forget you. I think of you constantly by day, and your face fills my dreams each night. I long for you. I long for your touch. When I close my eyes, my body remembers the warmth of your hands.” She paused to take a large sip of wine. “When I taste wine, my lips remember your kiss.”

“Ooh, that’s very good,” Lucy said, dipping her quill.

“Thank you. It just came to me.” Sophia studied her glass of claret. “This is very good wine.”

“Go on, then.”