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

“And didn’t you have any suggestions? Any different dishes to request?”


“No,” Lucy said, sitting down. “I couldn’t possibly imagine a finer meal than we had last night. So when the housekeeper asked me what dishes I’d prefer, I just asked for all the same things again.” And she intended to order the same the next day, and the day after that, and every day in the foreseeable future. That would teach him to demand she plan menus. Tomorrow, she would see about embroidery.

“Allthe same dishes?” A strange look crossed his face. More apprehension, she thought, than displeasure. “Including dessert?”

“Oh, especially dessert.” The footman snapped open a napkin and draped it over her lap. Lucy smiled. “Shall we begin?”

She meant to kill him. Jeremy felt certain of it.

His wife intended to eviscerate him daily by flirting with bodily injury right before his eyes. Then by evening, she meant to devour his self-control, one dainty bite at a time. And she would do it with a smile.

If he survived a month of this marriage, it would be a miracle.

She took a slow, seductive sip of soup, and Jeremy felt a hunger growing inside him that was anything but gustatory. With each subsequent course, it only grew. Each little sigh and moan of delight that fell from Lucy’s lips slid straight down the table and landed in his lap. By the time they reached the dessert course—at the conclusion of which, Lucy extended her moist, pink tongue to lick the last bit of chocolate from her spoon—he thought he would spill in his breeches.

When she announced her desire to retire early, he was relieved. Every hour spent in her company was beginning to feel like torment. She was less accessible and more tempting now than before they married. Before they married, he hadn’t known what he was missing. He’d had a fair idea, of course. But now that he truly knew—now that the contours of her body were etched on his memory and the scent of her skin infused in his blood—every minute he spent in her presence was a minute he longed to spend inside her.

He could wait for her, he told himself. Really, he had no choice. After their row this morning, he’d half-expected to find her writing a letter to Henry that afternoon. But no, she seemed resolved to stay. So far. He would do well to acquire a talent for patience, it seemed, along with a taste for lobster bisque. But the waiting was torment. Pure, sweet, agonizing torment.

And they’d only been married three days.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The torment was only beginning.

After nearly a week of cold shoulders and lobster bisque and the inexplicable proliferation of needles jutting out from every chair and settee, Jeremy awoke one morning to a loud thunk.

Followed by a scream.

Scrambling from bed, he grabbed his dressing gown and shrugged into it as he crossed the bedroom and antechamber in quick strides. He threw open the door of the sitting room and was greeted by another piercing shriek.

He blinked. Bright sunlight flooded the room, blinding him. It was several moments before his eyes adjusted sufficiently to discern the tableau before him. The source of the shrieking was the chambermaid, who stood wringing her hands in the center of the room. By the window, Lucy lay on the floor, tangled in yards of pewter-gray velvet that had recently served as drapery.

“What the devil is going on here?”

The chambermaid put her hands to her mouth and wailed into them. Jeremy brushed past her and strode to his wife. “Lucy, are you injured? Are you daft? Are you mad?” She brushed her hair out of her face and glared up at him. Her eyes affected him the same way the sunlight had, a minute earlier.

She was blindingly beautiful.

Jeremy’s curse died in his throat. He’d scarcely seen his wife all week—she’d kept steadfastly to her chambers ever since that first morning, save her nightly performance at dinner. And it was the first time since their wedding that he’d seen her hair unbound, tumbling around her shoulders in those riotous chestnut waves. The first time he’d seen her ears flush pink, as only passion or anger could make them do. And that fiery challenge in her eyes—it was a spark to dry tinder. Desire singed the hairs on his chest as it blazed a path to his groin.

He recovered his breath and held out a hand to her. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

“I’m changing the drapes,” she said, ignoring his hand. She began to disentangle herself from the swaths of heavy fabric. “You did say I should redecorate.”

“Yes, but now? Before breakfast?”

“How can one enjoy breakfast in this … thistomb?” She unwrapped a corded tassel from about her wrist. “It’s still the Dark Ages in here.”