Goddess of the Hunt: A Novel

by Tessa Dare

  When the time had come to depart from Waltham Manor, she’d panicked by trying to take as much of it with her as possible. Clothing she never wore, books she never read, and all of these creatures, both furred and turbaned.

  Then she’d balked at her husband’s company on their wedding night. She thought of his expression last evening as they parted—that intent gaze that made demands, even as his words released her. She’d seen the wanting in his eyes, heard the deep undertone of desire in his voice. The memory made her shiver even now.

  Shiver, and frown. She apparently passed Jeremy’s exacting standards whenever they approached a bed—or a desk, or a wardrobe, or a tree. Why did he want to alter her behavior in every other regard? He wanted the real Lucy in the bedchamber, it would seem, but everywhere else, he wanted her to change.

  She ought to have listened to him from the first. A man doesn’t want to stoop to love, he’d said. He wants to reach higher, stand taller. He desires something more than a woman—an angel; a dream.

  Lucy sank into the barouche cushions with an ironic laugh. If he thought she would blithely assume the role of a demure countess, he would have to think again. It would never work. She’d learned that much from chasing Toby, at least. If Jeremy had wanted an elegant lady, he ought to have married one. It was too late now, indeed.

  She stroked the plump tabby sprawled across her lap. If only she could stop loving him. Take back her heart, by sheer force of will. But her will had no say in the matter, it seemed. Love pulsed in her blood, filled her every breath. Inescapable, irreversible. Something had changed inside her, and she would never be the same.

  Nothing would ever be the same. Not her life, not her home, not her relationship with Henry. And that circle of friendship that had formed each autumn, surrounding Lucy with security and affection—it was broken forever. What did she have left?

  Nothing, save the smallest, most irrational glimmer of possibility. She shut her eyes, recalling that instant during the wedding ceremony when Jeremy’s hand had closed warm and strong over hers, and she’d felt a strange flutter inside her chest. A winged bit of optimism, rising up through despair.

  She thought it might be hope.

  Lucy opened her eyes and sighed. She’d never had any talent for hoping. But this seemed the time to learn.

  The roads were dry, and they made good time on the second day of their journey. Still, the days being short in late autumn, it was full dark by the time they reached Corbinsdale Abbey.

  The assembled house servants greeted them with polite applause. The housekeeper, Mrs. Greene, stepped forward.

  “My lord,” she said, curtsying. “My lady. Welcome to Corbinsdale.” Jeremy watched the matronly housekeeper eye Lucy with curiosity. He cleared his throat. Her gaze jumped back to him, a bit guiltily. “The chambers are all prepared, my lord.”

  “My lady’s aunt has come to stay with us.” Jeremy indicated Aunt Matilda. “You may put her in the Blue Suite. She will require two nursemaids.”

  Mrs. Greene’s eyes widened, but she composed herself quickly. “Very well, my lord. Dinner is ready to be served whenever you wish.”

  “In one hour, then.” He dismissed the housekeeper with a nod.

  Jeremy ushered Lucy and her aunt up the stairs. As they gained the landing, a score of footmen leapt into action below, hurrying to carry their trunks and belongings up the service stairs. By the time they climbed the last of the steps and turned into the corridor, a maid awaited them at the entrance of the Blue Suite. Aunt Matilda’s trunks were already lined up by the door. A footman snapped the last dustcover from a settee as they entered the room.

  “My goodness,” said Lucy. “How efficient.”

  With hands clasped and turban level, Aunt Matilda inspected her new surroundings. The windows were hung with dark blue velvet draperies, and the furniture was upholstered in blue-and-white toile de Jouy. Screens painted with pastoral scenes of nubile shepherdesses flanked the large hearth. “Lovely.”

  Jeremy offered Lucy his arm and steered her across the corridor. “These are our chambers,” he said, ushering her into the sitting room. A fire crackled in the fireplace, throwing a muted amber glow over the French mahogany furniture and medieval tapestries. “This sitting room is shared. My apartment is to the right, and your chambers are through there.” He indicated the door on his left. Lucy nodded, wide-eyed. “I’ve had a lady’s maid hired for you. The best available in London.”

  “I see,” she said quietly. Jeremy scarcely recognized the expression on his wife’s face. If he didn’t know it to be impossible, he would say Lucy looked overwhelmed.

  He ushered her toward her chambers. “Why don’t you take some time to refresh yourself and change for dinner? You must be hungry.”

  She smiled, looking a bit herself again. “Hungry isn’t the word. I’m famished.”

  He laughed. “Well, then. Be quick about it.”

  Forty minutes later, Jeremy emerged into the sitting room, bathed and dressed in a black evening suit. He stood in the doorway, gazing at his wife. Lucy sat in an upholstered armchair, staring absently toward the fire, her chin propped in her hand. She wore a gown of pale yellow silk, and her hair had been brushed and twisted into a simple knot. In this attitude, unaware of her observer, she looked lovely and unguarded and utterly forlorn.

  A wave of anguish surged in his chest. This was their first night in their new home as husband and wife, and the medallion-shaped carpet between them might as well have been an ocean. For the first time in his life, Jeremy wished he possessed some facility for charm. He couldn’t help but imagine that a few well-phrased words, spoken in a smooth, conciliatory tone, would put everything to rights. But Jeremy hadn’t a clue which words those might be.

  He sighed. Toby would have known.

  Lucy noticed him then and stood, a forced smile tightening her face. With a mute nod, Jeremy offered her his arm. He was glad he could offer her that much, at any rate. The security of marriage, a well-appointed home, a fine meal. Not everything a wife might wish, but things any woman needed.

  He escorted the two ladies downstairs to the dining hall. As they entered, Lucy swallowed audibly. The long, rectangular table was laden with silver, china, and gilt-edged crystal. A half-dozen liveried footmen lined either side of the room. Jeremy steered Lucy toward the end of the table. A footman drew back her chair. As she began to sit down, the servant pushed the chair toward the table. Lucy collapsed into the seat with a startled yelp. She flushed bright pink. The footman faded back into the wainscoting.

  Jeremy decided to help Aunt Matilda into her chair himself, situating her at Lucy’s left elbow. He then traversed the length of the table to take his seat at the opposite end. He nodded to a servant, and the soup was served.

  “What sort of soup is this?” She dipped a spoon into her bowl warily. “I didn’t know soup came in this shade of red.”

  Jeremy tasted it. “Lobster bisque,” he confirmed.

  He watched as Lucy took a cautious sip from her spoon. She swallowed slowly, running her tongue over her bottom lip. Then she looked up at him, true delight shining in her eyes for the first time that day. “Oh,” she sighed in a breathy voice. “Oh, Jeremy.”

  Jeremy very nearly dropped his spoon.

  She took another bite. “Mmmm,” she purred, closing her eyes in ecstasy. “This is divine.”

  The napkin in his lap stirred.

  By the time Lucy moaned her way through her second bowl of soup, Jeremy was in a state of hard, aching arousal. He was certain his face must be lobster red. But it didn’t end there. Lucy expressed her delight over each successive course with unrestrained enthusiasm. And there were seven courses. Jeremy wasn’t certain whether he wished to throttle his French chef, or double his wages. He barely managed to choke down his own meal, his appetite for food eclipsed by an entirely different sort of hunger.

  Then came dessert.

  Jeremy never ate dessert. He therefore had nothing to do but watch his
wife eat dessert—some confection of cherries and cake and chocolate from the Devil’s own recipe book.

  “Oh my God,” she exclaimed, upon taking her first bite. “Oh, this is heaven.” She licked a bit of cream from the corner of her mouth. “Jeremy, you must taste this.” She leaned forward, giving him a full view of her bosom.

  He motioned to the servant for wine.

  Good Lord. If it weren’t for the footmen lining the walls and her Aunt Matilda sitting beside her, Jeremy would have crawled down the table, yanked his wife from her chair, and had her right there, next to the saucer of clotted cream. He downed his drink quickly, hoping the liquid in his glass could douse the fire in his loins.

  That was an imbecilic notion, he chided himself a moment later. One didn’t throw spirits on a blaze. When Lucy squealed around another mouthful of chocolate, twelve servants and one senile aunt began to look like surmountable obstacles. The raw, animal lust in him was roaring to life, feeding on wine and breathy moans of delight, growing stronger by the minute.

  He had to conquer the Beast. She was fatigued and heartsick and away from home for the first time in her life. She’d refused him last night, and he would not—he told himself sternly—he would not make demands on her. Henry would be only too happy to take her back to Waltham Manor the instant she asked. If Jeremy pushed her now, he just might push her away forever. No, Lucy was anything but missish or tentative, and she was no longer innocent, either. When she wanted him—if she wanted him—she would come to him. Just as she had before.

  By what supreme force of will he pieced together enough gentlemanly reserve to calmly escort his wife back to her chambers, Jeremy could not say. And she could never know what effort it cost him, to school his voice to diffident calm and casually bid her good night. But it left him weak. Weak in his bones, in his mind, in his heart.

  “You must be tired.” He unwrapped her hand from his arm. “Rest as long as you like in the morning. I’ll see that you aren’t disturbed.”

  “Thank you,” she answered, a wry note in her voice. “I suppose I’ll sleep easier that way. Knowing I shan’t be disturbed.”

  And there it was, his dismissal. Quick and curt and razor-sharp. He brushed a quick kiss across her cheek. A tiny taste, sweeter than any French chef’s concoction could ever aspire to be. “Sleep well, then,” he said.

  At least one of them would.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Nothing ruined a perfectly fine autumn morning like waking up as a countess.

  Lucy sat up in the enormous, canopied bed and stretched her arms languidly. She had not made much investigation of her suite the night before. The room had been rather shadowy, and her mood likewise dark. Even this morning, light struggled through the window glass. Heavy pewter-toned drapes absorbed all the warmth and energy from the sunlight, permitting only feeble illumination of the chamber. The room seemed cloaked in an indoor fog.

  Rising from bed, she strode to the window and pulled back the drapes. Brilliant sunlight dazzled her eyes, and—once she had ceased blinking—a breathtaking landscape beckoned. At Waltham Manor, the fields and hedgerows covered the low hills like a rumpled quilt—comfortable, domestic. This place was wild. Craggy bluffs blocked the horizon; a narrow gorge carved a path through the woods. Boulders dotted the countryside, pressing up through soil like giant teeth.

  The landscape called out—nay, demanded to be explored. And who was she to refuse? After hastily donning her riding habit, Lucy spied a velvet purse and a folded paper on the desk. She picked up the purse and shook it gently, eliciting the rattle of coin. The note was from a Mr. Andrews, the steward, and it declared this to be Lucy’s pin money for the coming month. Lucy unknotted the pursestring and emptied the contents onto the table.

  Damnation.

  It was three times the amount Henry gave her in a year. Lucy stared at the pile of notes and coin, resentment welling in her breast. Absurd, she knew. Most ladies would have been delighted to receive such a generous allowance. But to Lucy, the money felt like a test she had already failed. What the devil was she to do with it all? How many bonnets and ribbons could one lady purchase? She backed away from the table, suddenly desperate to get out of doors.

  “Good morning, my lady.” The housekeeper curtsied in the doorway. “I hope you were able to rest.” A maid swept in, bearing a silver breakfast tray, which she deposited on a nearby table. The housekeeper continued, “You’ll be wanting to go over the household accounts, His Lordship said. Shall I come back in an hour with the ledgers?”

  Oh, and now Lucy really had to escape.

  She nodded mutely, but once the lace-capped matron had disappeared, Lucy snatched a pair of buttered rolls from the breakfast tray and embarked on an epic adventure.

  Finding her way out of the Abbey.

  Pride, and the need for stealth, kept her from asking the servants for directions; surely Jeremy must have already left the house, or she would have stumbled across him by her third pass down the corridor. Eventually, however, she managed to exit the grand house via a back way—and from across the kitchen gardens and down a dirt lane, temptation winked.

  The stables.

  Thistle would still be somewhat fatigued from the journey, but a leisurely ride was exactly what Lucy desired. Surely Jeremy could not object—she would even ride sidesaddle. But when she reached the stables and began searching the stalls for her sweet, plain-featured mare, Lucy looked in vain. Thistle was nowhere to be seen. When she asked the groom to locate her mount, he directed her instead to a gleaming white gelding with haunches of carved marble and ribbons braided into his mane.

  Ribbons!

  “He’s been groomed jes’ for you, my lady. His Lordship said Paris here was to be set aside for your particular use.”

  “Did he now?” Lucy gritted her teeth. It was one thing for Jeremy to foist pin money and household ledgers upon her—but to replace her beloved Thistle with this equine dandy? Insupportable.

  “Shall I saddle ’im for you, my lady?”

  “No. That won’t be necessary.” Fuming, Lucy kicked a loose board at the bottom of the stall.

  Something on the other side kicked back.

  Intrigued, Lucy walked slowly over to the next stall. There stood a magnificent black colt, stamping and snorting and whinnying with restless energy. The animal’s nostrils flared as Lucy held out her hand, and he nosed it roughly before giving her fingers an impatient nip.

  Fiend, Lucy read from the small plaque above the colt’s stall. Perfect. She smiled to herself and turned to the groom. “I’ll take this one out instead.”

  Jeremy slowed his mount to a walk when he reached the pebbled bank. The river wound through a narrow valley here, tumbling over small rapids under a mantle of fallen leaves. On the other bank, steep bluffs rose from the river’s edge. Rocky outcroppings and lopsided trees covered their face. It all looked much the same as he remembered.

  But it felt different, somehow.

  He’d experienced the same curious sensation, surveying the western fields with Andrews that morning. A field harvested of its barley looked much the same as one harvested of wheat in years previous. A new irrigation ditch here or there scored the soil, but there was nothing so remarkably altered it could account for this feeling he had, of looking on Corbinsdale with new eyes.

  It wasn’t a sense of optimism, precisely. The landscape looked no more smooth or accommodating, now that he’d brought home a countess. So far, marriage itself was a rather rocky affair. But although Jeremy’s mind was still full of problems, they were new problems. And therefore the world, and these woods in particular, appeared—not better, exactly—but different. He couldn’t dwell on past tragedy when he had a marital crisis to solve in the present, it would seem. Perhaps now he, and Corbinsdale, were ready to move into the future.

  Then a sharp crack jerked Jeremy’s attention to the craggy bluffs. And he found himself right back in a twenty-year-old nightmare.

  “Lucy?” Jeremy did not wa
nt to believe that it was his wife, the figure scaling the precipitous outcropping on the other side of the stream. But he would know that russet velvet habit and tangle of chestnut curls anywhere. And really, he admitted with a tortured groan, who else could it possibly be?

  “Lucy!” he shouted again, nudging his horse into the stream. If she heard him, she did not acknowledge the call, but continued picking her way up the rocky slope. Dear God. If she fell from there, with those boulders below …

  She disappeared around the far side of a pointed outcropping. Jeremy’s heart raced as he spurred his mount to give chase. He rounded the corresponding bend in the river …

  And then his heart stopped beating.

  She was climbing up to the hermitage.

  A centuries-old cottage perched on a rocky ledge, the hermitage had been built by the Abbey’s monks as a place for solitary prayer and reflection. Fashioned from stones and built to hug the sloping terrain, the tiny dwelling looked like a natural part of the bluff itself. A thin chimney leaned mostly heavenward. Two glazed windows were dark with grime. To anyone else, it must present a harmless, even a romantic picture. No doubt Lucy would think it an irresistible invitation to explore. There had been a time Jeremy had thought so, too.

  But not anymore.

  He slid down from his horse, landing in knee-deep icy water, and began scaling the bluff in pursuit. “Lucy!” he called up at her, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Lucy, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  She heard him this time and looked up sharply. Jeremy cursed his idiocy. He should never have drawn her attention away from her feet. She stepped on a loose rock and lost her footing, swaying perilously above him. Dread hollowed out his chest. Arms flailing, Lucy caught herself on a jutting lip of rock.