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

He gave her a serious, inscrutable look. Then he turned away.

Lucy shook her head. She couldn’t understand it. Jeremy had just sentenced himself to a lifetime of merciless teasing. Henry, Toby, Felix—they would never let him live that letter down. Endless rabbit jokes would be made at his expense. Countless dishes of cabbage would be served up for his benefit. But Jeremy had taken it anyway. He had purchased that letter at the cost of his dignity, and Lucy knew he would rather have walked through fire. It was either the most utterly idiotic act she’d ever witnessed, or the most breathlessly romantic.

Perhaps both.

Henry perused the letter in his hand. “Your touch, your kiss, make me yours in every way,” he read. He looked up from the paper and regarded Jeremy with a skeptical expression. “You say this is your letter, Jem. I don’t suppose that means you intend to answer for it?”

Jeremy nodded. Lucy’s heart thumped wildly in her chest. Answer for it? Whatever did Henry mean? Surely they wouldn’t be so idiotic as to fight? Orduel? The idea froze the marrow in her bones. She clutched her shawl with both hands. Jeremy couldn’t shoot a pheasant from six paces. Not even one that was already dead.

But Henry’s look to Jeremy was incredulous, not murderous. And, Lucy assured herself, even if he did believe Jeremy had compromised her, Henry would never challenge him to a duel. It just wouldn’t be sporting.

Henry folded the letter with an odd air of leisure, all trace of joking gone from his voice. “You’re really accepting responsibility for this? And all the implications?”

“I’m accepting responsibility forher.” Jeremy crossed to stand beside Lucy, so close she could feel his radiant, masculine heat. Then, in a lower voice, he added, “It’s about time someone did.”

Henry’s eyes sparked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Lucy desperately wanted an answer to the exact same question. And the answers to a few questions of her own. She grabbed Jeremy’s cuff and tugged until she pulled his gaze down as well. His eyes pierced her with their clear blue intensity, robbing her of the breath to manage anything above a whisper.“What are you doing?”

He took her by the elbow and turned her slightly away from the group. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I know this isn’t what you wanted. But it’s the only way.”

“What’sthe only way?”

Jeremy’s only answer was to wheel her back to face Henry. The two men stared at one another in silence. Lucy finally excavated a shred of courage from the pit of her belly, then summoned the tone to match. “Will one of you please tell me what the devil is going on?”

Jeremy’s hand slid down to grasp hers. “We’re getting married,” he said, never taking his gaze from Henry’s.

“What?”Lucy tried to untangle her fingers, but he only tightened his grip. Yanking her close, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. Lucy watched, stunned, as her fingers curled over his forearm of their own accord. As if they belonged there.

Jeremy finally looked down at her. “We’re getting married,” he repeated. His voice rumbled through her body, sending little shivers along her skin that had nothing to do with cold.

“Married?”Lucy felt all the blood rush from her head. The more he insisted on repeating this ridiculous notion, the easier it became to imagine. But that didn’t make it right. If only they could speak alone, she could explain that the letter was all lies and claret. Sophia’s reputation, Toby’s engagement—nothing stood to be damaged, save Lucy’s dignity. And surely Jeremy wouldn’t think that a cause worth proposing marriage.

Not that he had exactlyproposed anything.

She dug her fingers into his arm, clutching the idea desperately. “But … But don’t I have something to say about it? Shouldn’t we have a moment alone? I don’t recall accepting any proposal!”

“It’s a bit late for romance, Lucy.” Henry held up the folded letter and fixed her with a reproachful look. “It would seem you’ve already granted your consent.”

Say something, Lucy prodded herself. This was the moment to tell the truth. She had only to tell Henry, and everyone else, that the letter implied nothing more than two fanciful girls drinking too much wine. Sophia certainly wasn’t going to come out and say it—she probably thought this turn of events would make Lucy ecstatically happy.

But it didn’t. Did it? Surely “ecstatically happy” would feel more like summer sunshine, or a shower of rose petals. Not like a hedgehog digging burrows in her stomach. Happiness wasn’t the reason Lucy felt herself melting against Jeremy’s arm. It was just that the night was cold, and he was warm.