Goddess of the Hunt: A Novel

by Tessa Dare

It wasn’t just that she tasted warm and sweet and beautiful and pink. It was more than the way she bent her head over his, so that her curling hair tumbled around him, brushing against his neck and cheek. It wasn’t how she gasped and panted against his ear and his loins throbbed with every hot little cry.

  It was the way she melted into his body and clutched his shoulders with both hands, clinging to him as though he were her anchor to the earth. As though without him she might float away or fall apart or die. And as he worshipped her breast, suckling and tonguing her lush, sweet flesh, a question—sly and sinister—whispered through his mind.

  Who was he to her, here in the dark? Was he himself, or a stranger, or—most terrible to contemplate and altogether probable—someone else known to them both?

  If he called her by name … would she know his?

  “Lucy,” he breathed.

  Even her name was a kiss. An erotic, depraved collection of sounds. He murmured her name again and again, slowly kissing it over her breast. Licking the L over her nipple, pursing his lips around the sensual, rounded vowel, and releasing the name in a hiss of hot breath.

  She was soft, sighing heaven in his arms, but he was wicked and damned and it wasn’t enough. He wanted more, needed more. More of her.

  He kissed his way back up her neck and brought his hands to the neckline of her dress, gathering the fabric of both sleeves. He hesitated, his grip tightening over the muslin until it threatened to tear. Then her tongue flicked a silent plea against his ear, so lightly he might have imagined it, once.

  Twice, he could not mistake.

  With a strangled groan, he wrenched her bodice and chemise down over her shoulders. She pulled her arms free, letting the sleeves dangle at her hips. Then her hands flew to the edge of his shirt, and with one swift tug she yanked it free of his breeches and thrust her hands underneath to splay across his chest.

  Pleasure pierced him in ten sharp darts as her fingers pressed against his flesh. Ten little fires ignited on his skin, burning straight through to his core. And then—oh, God, and then. Those ten tormenting fingers began to move. Roaming over his skin, spreading trails of flame over every inch of his torso. Pressing against his nipples, curling through the hair that covered his chest and tracing its trail down the center of his abdomen.

  Then her hands slid around to his back, and she leaned against his chest. She brushed her lips over the base of his throat. Again. Again. Her kisses fell like raindrops in a desert, sizzling on his scorched flesh. He bent his head, and his mouth found hers. And then the storm broke.

  She was draped over his thigh and writhing in his arms, her fingernails biting into the flesh of his back as he plundered her mouth. Her breasts rubbed against his chest through the single layer of linen. His hands wandered over the smooth skin of her back, pulling her closer, crushing her deliciously soft body against his hard chest and aching groin. He reached down to cup the firm swell of her backside with both hands and pulled her hips against his.

  She gasped, startled. Then she arched against him again, and the gasp became a moan. Jeremy was on fire, and her breathy moan threw brandy on the blaze. He held her to him, kissing her neck and the delectable curve of her bare shoulder. She rocked her hips against him over and over, until her breath came in little pants.

  She sought his lips and covered them with her own, and he tasted the desperate question in her kiss. She was racing toward an unknown destination, and she needed him to show her the way. And God, did he want to show her. He would show her just what it was she craved. He would bring her to that peak of pleasure, where no other man had taken her. She would be his and no other’s, and she would know which man had taken her there.

  She would say his name.

  “Lucy,” he groaned against her mouth. He let one hand slide down her leg.

  Mine, he thought, gripping her thigh as she arched against him again. He fisted his hand in the fabric of her skirt, rucking it up to her knee. His hand snaked under the folds of skirt and chemise, curving around her stockinged leg. Mine, he vowed, sliding his fingers up her thigh, to where the rough stocking ended and smooth, supple paradise began. Her flesh quivered under his fingers. She broke away from their kiss and let her head fall against his chest.

  “Lucy.” His voice was low and hoarse. “Lucy, look at me.”

  She lifted her head, but shadow obscured her face. He couldn’t see her. She couldn’t see him. They were two strangers huddled together in the dark.

  He wrapped his hand under her bare thigh and lifted her against him, rolling out from the wardrobe’s dark corner. In one swift move, he reversed their positions, pinning her against the back panel of ebony. Shards of light decorated her face and danced over the tops of her breasts. She stared into his face, her pupils wide, the green of her eyes nearly eclipsed by black. Her lips were swollen and dusky red. Mine, he thought, taking her mouth in a greedy kiss. She welcomed his tongue with her own, but he pulled away. He wanted to see her face, to watch those beautiful lips as they shaped the syllables of his name.

  He slowly lowered her, letting her sink back onto his thigh. She arched against him with a little moan. Then she melted back against the ebony panel, and her eyes fluttered shut. Jeremy moved his hand under her skirt, skimming his fingers over the smooth crest of her thigh. She bit her lip as his fingers traveled slowly up, into moist heat and tight curls. Then his fingers brushed over her mound, and her eyes flew open.

  “Yes,” he said, rubbing lightly again. She shuddered, and her breath caught in her throat, but she held his gaze. Yes.

  Dear God, it would be so easy. A few buttons, one quick thrust, and she would be his. All his. But as badly as he wanted her—as much as his loins ached and his heart pounded and his whole body shook with desire—he didn’t want her that way. She had to come to him.

  She had to come for him.

  He worked his fingers against her slowly. “Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, God.”

  Mine, he willed silently, sliding a finger into her molten core. Her mouth fell open. Her gaze was pleading. Call my name. Not God’s, or the devil’s, or any man’s in between. Mine.

  Through the thick, musky fog of desire, Jeremy was vaguely aware of noises. Muffled noises from without the wardrobe. Footfalls. Voices. But he slid his finger further into her hot, slick sheath, and her little strangled cry was the only noise in the world. She clutched his shoulders tight.

  Call my name, he thought.

  “Toby,” she squeaked.

  He froze. Her fingers dug into his flesh. His finger slid out of hers.

  “He’s coming,” she whispered, wriggling out of his embrace. She flattened herself against the back of the wardrobe and hugged her arms over her naked breasts.

  The footsteps came to a halt directly outside the wardrobe.

  “And Lucy must be here.” Toby’s voice was muffled by thick panels of ebony, but unmistakable. As was Sophia’s voice asking,

  “How do you know?”

  “She always hides here,” came the reply. “Come out, Lucy,” Toby called.

  Lucy looked to Jeremy, her expression panicked. “Do something!”

  Do something. How Jeremy longed to do something. Many things. The first thing was to send his fist crashing through the ebony door, grab Toby by the throat, and strangle him. The second thing was to gather Lucy into his arms and find the hot, slick place where he’d left off. And then the third thing … oh dear Lord, the third thing.

  The ebony doors began to swing apart, and a thin crease of light shone through. Jeremy grabbed the bolts that held the door handles in place and yanked the doors shut. He held the bolts in white-knuckled grasps while unseen hands tried again, rattling the doors in their frame.

  “That’s odd,” Toby said. “It must be locked.”

  The doors stilled, and Jeremy’s grip on the bolts relaxed. Then the crease of light rent the darkness again, and he clutched at the bolts once more. This time, he didn’t dare let go. Not until the footfalls resumed and the
voices faded. Not for several moments after that.

  When he finally looked back toward Lucy, she had her back to him. She was shrugging back into her chemise and dress, drawing the sleeves up over her shoulders. Jeremy longed to rip them back down. But instead he pulled her laces tight and tied them in silence. He placed his hands on her waist and kissed the back of her neck. “Lucy,” he whispered.

  She pulled away.

  “He remembered,” she said softly. “He remembered after all.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lucy lay flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She lay atop the brocade counterpane, her hair spreading across the pillows like a fan. If she turned her neck slightly, she could see the untouched dinner tray sitting on her writing table. Surely the food had long gone cold.

  She was still wearing the same green dress she’d put on that morning. Her bath had been drawn, her hair unbound—but when Mary had reached to untie her laces, Lucy had practically slapped her hand away. Ridiculous, she now chided herself. Utterly absurd—the idea that without those thin layers of muslin and lawn, her maid would somehow know.

  Oh, but how could she not? How could anyone not know just by looking at her? That was why she had fled—hurried straight from the wardrobe up to her bedchamber and never returned to the drawing room. She hadn’t gone down to dinner, sending Mary instead to relay some excuse about her injured ankle. She might never show her face in public again—because everyone would know. Surely it was stamped across her forehead in big, red letters that spelled out …

  What, exactly? She’d sat at her dressing table for a long hour, studying her reflection by candlelight, trying to discern that word.

  Wanton? Kissing a man was one thing. A very pleasant thing. Tempting a man to kiss you was another thing, and equally grand. But this … this went beyond anything. She’d hauled a man into an enclosed space, made short work of her clothing, and thrown herself at him so hard she would stick. Lucy had never claimed to be an authority on the definition of ladylike behavior, but she knew the difference between good breeding and … well, just plain breeding.

  Fool? Perhaps that was the word. Because the letters to spell out “great bloody imbecile” probably wouldn’t fit. If Toby married Sophia Hathaway, Lucy would have no one to blame but herself. She could have spoken with him as they walked back from the woods, but she hadn’t. She should have sent Jeremy away when he burst into her wardrobe, but she didn’t. She hadn’t and she didn’t, and she couldn’t understand for the life of her why.

  Ruined? Lucy knew most people would think so. But she wasn’t concerned about what most people thought. At the moment, she cared only for the opinion of two particular people. Well, perhaps three. She herself was foremost among them. And Lucy didn’t feel “ruined” in the slightest. She felt distinctly, deliciously improved.

  The other word picked at the frayed edge of her mind. She tried to push it away. But it always came back, that word. The simplest label of all, and the most unthinkable yet.

  His.

  Just thinking the word set her to thrumming like a plucked bowstring. Her whole body vibrated with the awful, unbearable truth of it.

  She’d been branded. She was his. Wasn’t that what she truly feared the world would read on her face? Hadn’t his lips written it over her body and his touch burned it into her skin? Even now, she felt his mark, raw and itching under the fabric of her dress. Scored over and over across her flesh.

  His.

  His wanton. His fool. His alone, and ruined for anyone else.

  Lucy blinked at the ceiling. Then she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and blotted out the world.

  Damn.

  Damn him. Damn her. Damn, damn, damn.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She wasn’t a thing to be claimed. A quarry to be bagged. She’d never wanted the indignity of a Season in London. The miserable ordeal of being preened and plumed and paraded about the ton. The humiliation of waiting for some strutting peacock to cross the ballroom, shove a ring on her finger, paste his name over her own, and stamp “His” on her forehead for the world to read. The abject shame of it if no man even tried.

  She was Diana. She was the goddess of the hunt. She wanted to choose. She had chosen, Lucy reminded herself. She had chosen Toby. Familiar features floated up into the darkness behind her eyelids. Golden-brown hair. Chiseled cheekbones and a dimpled chin. Laughing eyes and a generous, smiling mouth. Hers, she willed. All of it, hers. She wanted him with every ounce of her will and every inch of her body.

  Every inch … except the little tingling patch of flesh beneath her left earlobe. That bit of her wanted someone else. Someone else’s lips. Not that generous, smiling mouth, but stern, stony-set lips that melted to fire against her skin. Against that tiny, traitorous inch of her flesh that declared itself his. She put her fingers to the soft hollow of her neck, and her pulse quickened under her touch.

  Another piece of her rebelled. A random ridge of collarbone seceded from her will. She ran her fingers along that razor-thin republic that now lived for the weight of a heavy brow and the bracing chill of damp hair, cool and dark as ebony. Not hers any longer, but his.

  And then her breasts were rising up against the oppression of her bodice. Yearning to be liberated into his hands. She flattened her own palms over them, and her nipples peaked in protest. His, his, they insisted in tandem. Lucy was outnumbered. Her resolve was falling apart, and her body dissolving with it. Her mind was swirling with shadows and shards of latticed light, and she felt the dark secret of his caress burning on her skin. Rekindling that hot ache between her legs. The place where his tender assault had laid waste to her will. The place that so easily, so readily might have been his, yearned to be his even now.

  If Toby hadn’t come … Her whole body flushed with the question, burned to know the answer. Her hands strayed lower, smoothing over her belly.

  A light knock at the door yanked her out of the memory and out of the wardrobe … again. She sat up in bed.

  “Lucy, it’s me.”

  Lucy slid back the bolt and cracked open the door. Sophia stood in the corridor, wrapped in a blue silk peignoir. Her golden hair was loose, flowing over her shoulders in soft waves.

  “May I come in?”

  Lucy opened the door in a silent invitation, and Sophia entered.

  “I came to see if you were feeling better,” she said, flouncing onto the edge of the bed. She eyed Lucy’s stockinged ankle dubiously. Then her gaze wandered up to Lucy’s flushed cheeks. “But I daresay you are,” she said, arching an eyebrow. She smiled. “In fact, you look very well indeed.”

  Lucy sat down at her writing table and plucked a roll from the dinner tray. She bit off the end and chewed furiously. Lord, but she was hungry.

  “You disappeared this afternoon,” Sophia accused.

  “And so did Lord Kendall. You cannot expect me to credit coincidence.”

  Lucy took another bite of bread and shrugged.

  Sophia bounced on the edge of the bed. “Lucy! You know you must tell me what happened.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  Sophia pouted. “I know the difference between something and nothing,” she said, reclining back on her elbows. “And the look on your face does not come of doing nothing.”

  “Doesn’t it?” It was just as Lucy had suspected. One look at her face, and Sophia knew. She would never be able to leave her chamber again. Then she recalled Sophia’s aborted “shocking” tale that morning. “So tell me about something,” she said, “and I will tell you whether this afternoon fits the definition.”

  Sophia toyed with the lace neckline of her peignoir. “Shall I tell you about Gervais?”

  “Gervais?” So something had a name.

  “He was my painting master. And my tutor in the art of passion.” She sighed and laid flat on the bed. “Divinely handsome. Lean and strong, with jet-black hair and silver eyes and long, sculpted fingers. I was madly in love with him. Perhaps I still a
m.”

  Lucy choked on her bite of roll. She poured herself a glass of claret and threw back a healthy swallow. Then another. When she had drained the glass, she drew her knees up to her chest and coiled into her chair. Sophia was still lying flat on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her bare feet dangled over the edge, and she flexed her ankles idly.

  “Well?” Lucy prompted. “Surely you don’t mean to stop there.”

  “It all started with sketching,” Sophia said to the ceiling. “I was doing a study of Michelangelo’s David. Just a little charcoal sketch from a plate in a book. I couldn’t quite capture the muscles of the forearm, and I became so vexed. Gervais tried to explain it to me, but he couldn’t put the words into English, and I failed to comprehend his French. Then suddenly he stood up, stripped off his coat, and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. He took my hand and placed it over his wrist. He dragged my fingers over every inch of his forearm, tracing every tight cord of muscle and sinew. He was so solid, so strong …”

  Sophia rolled over onto her side, propping herself on one elbow. “You will think me wicked, and I don’t care. You will be right. I am wicked. I wanted to rip off his shirt and touch him all over.”

  Lucy did not think Sophia wicked at all. Given her own similar reaction in the wardrobe, she thought Sophia wholly sympathetic. In fact, the pattern of behavior was vastly reassuring. Sophia wasn’t to blame, and neither was she. Clearly the sight of a well-muscled forearm incited a woman to utter depravity. How else to explain the invention of cuffs?

  “And did you?”

  Sophia’s mouth crooked in a half smile. “Not then. Only much later.” She traced the counterpane’s brocade pattern with her fingertips. “I sketched him, you know. All of him.”

  “All of him? Even—”

  “Yes, even. And I let him sketch all of me.”

  Lucy clapped a hand over her mouth and laughed into her palm. And Toby thought Sophia’s tea tray was cunning? This took the term “accomplishment” to a whole new level of meaning. “You didn’t.”