Goddess of the Hunt: A Novel

by Tessa Dare

  “We won’t lose her. She’s already found.”

  Lucy looked up from her foot in exasperation. A cutting retort twitched on the tip of her tongue. Couldn’t Sophia dispense with the coy remarks? It wasn’t as though Toby were around, after all.

  Oh. But he was.

  Toby and the other three men were walking toward them. Henry led the way, Aunt Matilda’s arm tucked firmly in his. Felix and Toby chatted companionably as they followed. Jeremy brought up the rear.

  “Hullo, Lucy.” Henry came to a halt and loomed over her. “Did you need rescuing, too?”

  “No,” she huffed, finally sliding the loop of cord off her toes and jamming her foot back into her boot. “It’s a snare, is all. I had my eye on Aunt Matilda, and I didn’t watch where I was stepping.”

  “Who’s setting snares in this part of the woods?” Felix directed his question at Henry.

  Henry shrugged. “Tenants, I suppose.”

  “Poachers, you mean,” Jeremy said. His voice was low and terse.

  “If you call a man a poacher who traps a hare to feed his family from time to time,” said Henry, “then I suppose they’re poachers. I’m of a mind to turn a blind eye, myself.”

  “It isn’t me who calls them that. The law does.” The gravity in Jeremy’s voice pulled it down to a growl. “This is your land. If you turn a blind eye to the law, you encourage lawlessness. People—” he pointed at Lucy without turning his gaze, “get hurt.”

  Henry made a dismissive snort. “The law would send a man to Australia for the sake of a few miserable animals. Should I have all my farmers transported because I begrudge them a few hares? This isn’t Cambridge, and I’ll thank you to end the lecture. As you said, it’s my land. And Lucy’s fine.”

  Jeremy’s hand curled into a fist at his side. “How do you know Lucy’s fine?” he demanded. “You haven’t asked. And you should—”

  Lucy cut him off. “Actually, no one’s asked.” She took the hand Felix offered and scrambled to her feet, brushing dirt from the sleeves of her spencer. “But Lucy is fine. The only person Henry should be sending to Australia is Aunt Matilda’s nurse. Really, Henry. This makes the third time this month.”

  Everyone turned to stare at Aunt Matilda, who had taken advantage of the pause to forage in the folds of her skirt for her snuffbox. Sophia went to her side and placed an arm around the old lady’s shoulders.

  “She doesn’t even have a cloak, the poor dear.”

  Aunt Matilda snorted and sighed her way through a pinch of snuff. “Lovely.”

  Jeremy shrugged off his coat and thrust it at Sophia. With a parting glare at Henry, he turned and stalked off in the direction of the stables. Lucy was glad to see the back of him. And not because his broad, muscled shoulders looked so irritatingly splendid rippling under the crisp linen of his shirt. She knew he was furious with her over the incident in the orchard. He’d scarcely glanced in her direction since the previous afternoon. If he had any sense, he ought to be furious with himself. Being seen together was his grand idea. But angry with her or angry with himself, he had no reason to pick nonsensical rows with Henry. Poachers, her foot.

  Ouch. She winced as she shifted her weight. Her foot.

  Sophia draped Jeremy’s coat over Aunt Matilda’s shoulders, and the frail spinster disappeared into its large proportions. She looked like a column of brown wool topped by an indigo turban.

  “We’d best get her back to the house,” Felix said. “The wind’s picking up. It looks like rain.” He led the way back toward the Manor. Henry and Sophia followed, shepherding Aunt Matilda between them.

  “Are you all right, Lucy?” Toby asked. “You’re not hurt at all?”

  “Of course not.” She took a firm step forward, and her twisted ankle exploded with pain. She faltered, but suddenly Toby was there, shoring her up with his arm.

  His arm, stretched across her back. His hand, curled around her waist. His everything, right there up against hers.

  If her ankle weren’t throbbing, Lucy would have jumped for joy. She was brilliant. Had she truly chided herself for tripping in that snare? Had she honestly felt shamed to have triggered a device designed to trap small-brained rodents? Well. She had never been more wrong. Stepping in that little noose was the cleverest thing she’d done in an age.

  “My ankle … It seems I’ve twisted it.” Lucy tried another step. The pain felt less intense this time, but she winced dramatically for effect.

  “Just lean on me.”

  In a perfect dream, she would have been swept off her feet and carried back to the Manor. But this wasn’t a dream, she reminded herself with every pain-hobbled step. This was live, waking, in-the-flesh reality, and what was more—it was her chance.

  She had so much to tell him. Where to begin? She dreamt up and discarded a series of bold declarations.

  Toby, I’ve loved you since I was a girl. Too much in the past, she told herself. Talk about the present.

  Toby, you can’t marry Sophia Hathaway. Probably best not to mention the enemy. Focus on the future.

  Toby, make me your wife and you’ll never be sorry. I’ll warm your bed, and I’ll give you beautiful babies, and we will never—well, hardly ever—disagree. Lucy chewed her lip. Perhaps a bit too forward?

  Figuring out what to say was only half the problem. The other half being, carving out a moment to say it. Toby was nattering on incessantly as they made their slow progress toward the house.

  “It’s a bit of luck we decided to cut our hunting short this morning,” he was saying. “We were over toward the eastern edge of the woods, and the sky kept growing darker. A proper storm brewing, Henry thinks. This wind has a boar’s teeth, I’ll say. Odd time of year for it. Not unheard of, mind you. Was it three years ago we had that snow just before fox season began? Maybe just two.”

  Lucy opened her mouth to tell him it had been four, but she never had the chance.

  “Yes, it’s fortunate we headed back when we did. Exceedingly so. Imagine,” he said, “you might have been here in the woods with a wayward aunt and a twisted ankle and rain about to fall …”

  Now the topic of weather was getting somewhere. Yes, she thought, nodding enthusiastically. Imagine the peril. She would have been perfectly fine, of course, but a few protective masculine instincts could never go astray.

  “Imagine,” he said, “poor Miss Hathaway wouldn’t have known what to do.”

  Poor Miss Hathaway! Lucy groaned.

  Toby’s steps and speech drew to a halt. “I’m so sorry. Am I walking too fast?”

  “No … Well, yes. It’s just—” She looked up at him. He gazed down at her. His eyes were clear, patient brown with just a hint of gold—and nothing at all of glass. She licked and pursed her lips, but his gaze never slipped from hers.

  “Do you find me pretty?”

  The words were out before she could stop them. Out and echoing through the woods, ricocheting off the trees, ringing through the silent space between them. She couldn’t take them back. Wouldn’t wish to, if she could. Toby’s brow wrinkled in surprise. Tension knotted in Lucy’s stomach.

  “Why … yes, of course.” He cleared his throat. “You’re a very pretty girl, Lucy.”

  There. He’d said it. She was pretty. Sir Toby Aldridge found her pretty. Lucy was perfectly satisfied. She’d never need to hear it again.

  “Really?” Once more wouldn’t hurt.

  “Really and truly.” The words flipped off his tongue so lightly, she despaired that he didn’t really mean them. But then he cupped her chin in his hand, and his gaze wandered slowly over her face. Lucy held her breath.

  “You’ve the most lovely eyes,” he said quietly. “And that hair—” He smiled and tucked a curl behind her ear. “A man could get lost in that tangle and never find his way out.”

  Their lips were just inches apart. So close. If she only craned her neck a bit … and then he would bend his head a fraction …

  Oh, but would he? She couldn’t tell. He
’d been chattering on like a bedlamite, but he hadn’t spoken one syllable of geometry.

  “Next Season,” he said, “you’ll go to London, and you’ll have a pack of suitors nipping at your heels. Henry will have to fend them off with a stick.”

  “And you?”

  “Me?”

  “Where will you be next Season?”

  “Right there with you.” He brushed a finger down her cheek and smiled. “I’ll bring my own stick.”

  Then he turned his gaze to the path and began walking again. Though her ankle felt nearly well, Lucy clung to him more tightly than ever.

  They walked along in silence. The sky was growing dark. A bitter wind bit through the fabric of Lucy’s spencer, but a smile warmed her face. Next Season, Sir Toby Aldridge would beat her admirers away with a stick. The very thought was ridiculous and barbaric and the most romantic thing she’d ever heard. Of course, the question remained … would he be bludgeoning half the ton for the sake of brotherly affection or out of jealous love?

  Right now, it didn’t matter. Next Season could go hang. Toby had called her pretty, and his arm was tight about her waist. Right now, this felt like all she had ever wanted.

  Oh, Toby, the truest words came to her now, you’re the only person in the world who makes me feel perfect just as I am. Who never scolds or reproaches or wants me to change. And if you marry Sophia Hathaway, I fear I’ll go my whole life without ever feeling this way again. She gripped his coat tightly. Toby, if I lose you, I’m afraid I’ll lose me, too.

  But these words, her pride would never let her speak.

  As they finally neared the house, Toby asked, “How does your ankle feel? Much improved?”

  She nodded. The throbbing in her ankle had subsided. All that remained was a faint tingling.

  Lucy frowned. She must be in pain. She must have broken a bone, and the shock had rendered the rest of her body numb. Because she’d just walked a quarter-mile tucked under Toby’s arm, and as surely as her ankle tingled like mad … she didn’t tingle anywhere else.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The storm broke that afternoon.

  Jeremy tried to outride it, but the rain caught up with him in the south fields. It was a long, wet, muddy ride back to the Manor. Cold rain drenched his shirt and waistcoat, plastering the linen and silk to his skin. Just as well he no longer had his coat. There was nothing more vile than the smell of damp wool.

  And the cold felt good. The rain felt good.

  He’d ridden off in a blind rage, furious with Henry beyond all reason. And he knew, from years of experience, that the only thing for anger like this was to ride. Ride hard and fast, until he shook off the demon breathing down his neck. Or a cold rain washed it away.

  He was getting damned tired of watching Lucy get hurt. In the space of a week alone, she’d almost drowned in the stream and nearly been thrown by a horse. It was completely irrational, that seeing her tripped up by a bit of cord should send him into a chest-seizing panic.

  But it had. Of course it had.

  Jeremy could walk the seven continents of the Earth and the nine circles of Hell and never hear a more sickening sound than the dull twang plucked from a tripwire. Because in his mind, that sound would always echo with the deafening crack of a gunshot. Followed by the most terrible, haunting sound of all—not a warning, not a scream. Just silence. Years of silence.

  He told himself it could have been anyone. Had it been Sophia, or Aunt Matilda, or even Toby who tripped the snare, he would have reacted the same.

  But that would be a lie. Lucy was different. As he returned to the stables, drenched with rain and drained of anger, Jeremy saw it clearly—exactly why he’d kept her at arm’s length ever since the day Toby nearly shot her head off. Lucy had “impending disaster” written all over her, and Jeremy had seen his share of disaster for a lifetime.

  But Lucy refused to stay at arm’s length. She’d kept nagging him, provoking him, pestering him about fishing lures and chess. And now she’d burst into his room and thrown herself straight into his arms. That safe distance narrowed to the thickness of two layers of linen. And beneath the linen were soft, maddening curves and smooth, golden skin. Lust had roared to life inside him, but something else, too. Something he didn’t care to examine too closely, didn’t wish to name.

  When he finally entered the Manor, dripping rainwater and tracking mud across the parquet floor, Jeremy couldn’t even bring himself to go straight to his chamber and attend to his appearance. No, he had to see her first. Assure himself that she wasn’t lying abed with a broken ankle or sitting there yet in the woods, chilled through with rain.

  He found her in the drawing room. He found everyone in the drawing room. And judging from their shocked stares when he entered, they all found him quite a sight.

  Felix broke the stunned silence. “Enjoy your ride, Jem?”

  “Quite.” The room fell silent again—except for the faint sound of dripping.

  Jeremy’s eyes went to Lucy where she sat in the window seat. She looked dry and well enough—and inconveniently fetching, wrapped in a lacy, pearl-gray shawl that slipped off one shoulder. She avoided his gaze.

  Everyone else, on the other hand, wouldn’t stop staring at him.

  “My coat?” Jeremy asked.

  “Gave it to your valet,” Henry said.

  “Right.” A rivulet of rainwater trickled down his brow. Jeremy dabbed it with his fist, resisting the urge to shake like a wet dog. “Well then, I’ll just go change.”

  “Don’t take overlong,” Marianne said, having collected her composure. “We’re about to play parlor games. The perfect way to spend a rainy afternoon. Don’t you agree?”

  Jeremy didn’t agree at all, but he gave a politic nod. He’d rather be drawn and quartered than spend the afternoon playing parlor games. They wouldn’t miss him. He’d simply slip up to his chambers and conveniently forget to return. Nothing so simple.

  He shifted his weight, and his foot squished softly in his boot.

  “Just because the weather’s turned,” said Sophia, “it doesn’t mean the men must give up their sport completely. We can still arrange for a bit of hunting.” She arched her eyebrow in Toby’s direction. Toby’s attention, however, was focused on the window seat. He was looking—staring, really—at Lucy. Jeremy decided there was no reason to beat such a hasty retreat. He’d already ruined the carpet.

  “What are you on about?” Kitty asked her sister.

  “This is a grand old house, and I’ve been desperate to explore it,” Sophia continued. “Why confine our games to the parlor?” Her eyes twinkled, and her mouth crooked in a mischievous smile. “Let’s play hide-and-seek.”

  At this, Lucy looked up. Her gaze met Toby’s, and then they both looked away in an instant. Damn. Just what had passed between them while he was out racing demons?

  He remembered Lucy’s last words to him in the orchard. The words that had erased his kiss from her lips and turned her soft, supple mouth to stone. I’m going to tell Toby the truth. Surely she hadn’t.

  Lucy’s gaze flickered back up to Toby. Then she turned back to the window, staring out unfocused at the rain. Slowly winding a lock of hair around her finger and raising it to her lips. Thinking. Scheming.

  Surely she hadn’t—yet.

  “A nursery game?” Kitty toyed with one of her bracelets. “Why don’t we just play cards instead?”

  “Oh, no,” said Henry, looking from Kitty to Sophia. “I can’t afford it. One more afternoon of cards with you ladies, and one of you will own Waltham Manor.”

  “I think it’s a capital idea, Sophia,” said Felix. “But I warn you all—I know just the place to hide. You shan’t find me for days.”

  “The larder?” Lucy asked, still staring out the window.

  “Wh—?” Felix colored. “No. I wasn’t thinking of the larder at all. How absurd.” He picked up the poker and stirred the fire, muttering an oath into the flames. “The larder, indeed.”

  �
�Then it’s settled.” Sophia drew straws from the tinderbox and began cutting them with her penknife. “We have only to choose a seeker.” She bunched them together in her fist and offered them around. She started in Jeremy’s direction, but he warned her off with a slight shake of his head.

  His refusal did not appear to offend Miss Hathaway. When she offered the straws to Toby, however, she shifted her hand slightly. A different sort of look passed between the two. Jeremy was not the least bit surprised when, once the last of the straws had been handed round, Toby held up the shortest one.

  “Ah, Toby,” said Henry. “I always suspected your straw was the shortest.”

  Marianne kicked him under the table. “Henry! We’re in polite society!” She cast an apologetic glance at Kitty and Sophia. The sisters schooled their expressions to innocence.

  “We’re about to play a nursery game,” Henry grumbled, rubbing his shin. “Just trying to get in the spirit of things.”

  Sophia clapped her hands together. “Let’s begin, shall we? Sir Toby, you must count to one hundred—very slowly, mind. We must have ample time to find our hiding places.”

  “Don’t concern yourself, Miss Hathaway,” said Henry, lurching out of his chair and pulling down his waistcoat. “Very slowly is the only way Toby can count. In fact, I doubt he’ll make it to one hundred without losing his place and beginning again at least twice.” Marianne dug an elbow in his ribs. “Ow!”

  Toby smirked. “I’d come over there and thrash you, Waltham, but I shan’t waste the effort. Your wife’s doing the job admirably.”

  “I shall be hidden before Toby counts ten,” Lucy said, rising from the window seat. She sidled up to Toby with a pointed look and a little smile. “With a sore ankle, I can’t stray far. I expect I shall be terribly easy to find.”

  Jeremy winced. Flirtation did not become Lucy in the slightest. She employed feminine wiles with all the subtlety of an elephant stamping a waltz. If Aunt Matilda herself failed to comprehend that invitation, he would have been surprised.