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

Or solid ebony.

Her gaze shifted to the doorway. Through the doorway and across the corridor, to the shadowed alcove that hid her wardrobe. Only it wasn’t her wardrobe any longer, she knew. It wastheir wardrobe.

She had nowhere left to hide.

And even though she half expected it—even though it made perfect, unquestionable sense—when Jeremy rounded the doorway, saw her, and halted mid step, Lucy was caught completely unprepared. If she had known how the sight of him would send a shock wave rolling through her body, she would have grabbed the desk. If she had anticipated how splendid he would look—wearing a black coat thrown carelessly over an open shirt, his dark hair so touchably tousled—she would have lit more candles. And if Lucy had had the faintest inkling that this man would turn her plans to chaos and her will to water and her knees to absolute porridge, she would never have crept into his room and kissed him that night, less than a week past. She would have done it years ago.

Her shawl slipped to the floor.

Jeremy’s heart lurched in his chest.

She wore the same dress. Even in the dim glow of a single candle, he recognized it. He would know it in the dark. The same light-green muslin he had hungrily peeled from her body and then re-laced with sharp tugs of regret. At the realization, his body reacted quickly, violently. His mouth went dry. His chest grew tight. His breeches, as well.

She wore the same dress. She had not bathed. All the places he had touched, all the places he had kissed—something of him lingered still. On her. Inside her.

She hadn’t washed him away.

And God, she had never looked more beautiful. Flickering light kissed over her cheeks, her brow, her lips. Her hair tumbled over one shoulder in a chestnut cascade. Her skin drank in the candlelight and glowed. Or perhaps the candle drank in her beauty and burned.

“Oh,” she said finally. “It’s you.”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

“No.” Her gaze flitted away for an instant, but then came home to his. “Not really.”

Jeremy wanted to step closer, but his feet wouldn’t move. He’d come here intending to leave, but he knew he couldn’t do that either. He would stand on this bit of ground until the candle guttered or the sun rose or the manor walls crumbled to dust at their feet.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice smoky with warmth.

She wanted to know what he was doing here. Jeremy paused, considering his response. It didn’t seem wise to tell her exactly what he was doing there, at that precise moment.Picturing you naked , should he say? Or perhaps,recalling the exquisite softness of your lips against my skin? She probably wouldn’t care to hear,cupping my hands around the memory of your br**sts .

He cleared his throat and flexed his hands at his sides. No, it was probably wise to confine his answer to what he hadmeant to do here. Before the sight of her, and the dress she hadn’t changed, had changed everything. “I was going to leave a note for Henry.”

“You were going to leave Henry a note.”

He nodded.

“But now you’re not.”

He shook his head. “I’m not.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You’re here.” It was part of the truth. The whole of it being,you’re here, and I can’t bear to be anywhere else .

She stiffened. Her eyes narrowed. “Well, I’ll clear out then. Leave you to your note.” She pushed back from the desk. Catching the paper between her teeth, she crouched down to gather her shawl.

He was at her side before he realized he’d taken a step. “Don’t.”

She stood up, swinging the shawl around her shoulders. With the paper still grasped in her teeth, she flipped her hair out from under the pearl-gray wool of her wrap. Finally she took the paper back with her hand. “Don’t what?”

“Go.”

A strand of hair was caught in her mouth, and she blew it out with a gust of breath. Jeremy smelled wine. “Iam going. You’ve no need to growl at me.” She started to turn from him, but he caught her wrist.

“Don’t. Go.” He forced the words from his throat.

Her face softened. “Oh.”

She looked at his hand where it gripped her wrist. He released her abruptly. He wanted to grasp far more than her wrist, yearned to pull her into his arms. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t watch her flee from him again.

“I only mean,” he said, straightening his coat, “you came here for some reason, I presume.”

“I was going to post a letter.” She held up the folded paper.

“You were going to post a letter.”

She nodded.

“But now you’re not.”