Goddess of the Hunt: A Novel

by Tessa Dare

  And she couldn’t escape it. Couldn’t crawl out from under it or break free of its spell, because she carried it within her. Out on long, rambling walks. Through dark, foggy dreams. Around the vast stone confines of the Abbey, which she took to haunting during the day, wandering through the ancient chambers in aimless fashion.

  One afternoon, while drifting through the music room, she wandered into Aunt Matilda.

  “Aunt Matilda!” Lucy wrapped an arm about her aunt’s indigo-draped shoulders. “Where is your nursemaid?” Familiar scents—spice and chocolate and snuff—opened a cache of fond memories. She felt a sharp pang of homesickness for Waltham Manor. “Never mind,” she said, hugging the old lady close. “I’m glad to see you.”

  Aunt Matilda wandered over to the pianoforte and opened the instrument. The housekeeper had insisted on having it tuned Lucy’s first week at the Abbey, no matter how much Lucy insisted she didn’t play. Aunt Matilda sat down, touched her fingers to the ivory keys, and launched into a lively reel. Her blue turban bobbed in time with the music, and a helpless giggle burst from Lucy’s throat.

  Music. Laughter. For the first time in weeks.

  The last strains of the reel stretched out into silence, and Aunt Matilda’s hands dropped to her lap. Lucy went to sit beside her on the bench.

  “Thank you, Aunt Matilda. That was lovely.” The old lady smiled up at her with the same benign expression she’d worn every day in Lucy’s memory. If only Lucy could borrow that unflagging optimism. Lucy grasped her aunt’s papery hand in hers. “What’s to become of me, Aunt Matilda? I’ve changed somehow. And I can’t go back home, I just can’t. I miss the Manor desperately, but I would miss him more.” She gently laid her head on her aunt’s shoulder. “I miss him now.”

  A turbaned head settled heavily against hers, and Lucy squeezed her aunt’s fingers. The bony hand lay limp and cold in Lucy’s grasp.

  “Aunt Matilda?” Lucy straightened, and her aunt’s frail body slumped against her own. Lucy lifted the old lady’s head, pressing a hand against her clammy cheek. “Aunt Matilda?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “She’ll be all right, won’t she?” Lucy paced the Persian carpet of Aunt Matilda’s suite, endlessly circling the blue-and-gold pattern. “She has to be all right.”

  Hetta squeezed each of Aunt Matilda’s hands in turn. “Lucy, your aunt is eighty if she’s a day,” she replied from the bedside. “She won’t live forever, you know.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Shhh.” Hetta laid her ear to Aunt Matilda’s chest. Lucy ceased her pacing and held her breath until Hetta straightened. “You must face facts, Lucy. Your aunt cannot be expected to live much longer.”

  Lucy shut her eyes and whimpered softly.

  “But,” Hetta continued, “she isn’t going to die today. So far as I can tell, at least.” She helped the old lady into a sitting position and plumped the pillows behind her. “In fact, she seems to have suffered no lasting effects from her little spell.” She began repacking her black valise. “Just make certain that she rests. Give her some beef tea; solid food, if she’ll eat it. She’ll be wandering around again in no time.”

  “All right.” Lucy sniffed and swiped at her nose with the heel of her hand. “Thank you for coming. Shall I see you out?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Hetta said briskly, standing and smoothing the wrinkles from her fawn-colored skirt. “I know my way. I know this house better than you do, I’d wager.”

  “How so?”

  “I practically grew up here.” Hetta draped her pelisse over her shoulders and tied it in front. “My father was the late Lady Kendall’s personal physician. Didn’t you know?”

  Lucy shook her head.

  “That was the whole reason he moved our family from London,” Hetta explained. “To treat Lady Kendall’s ‘nervous condition.’”

  “Nervous condition?” Lucy handed Hetta her bonnet.

  “Well, that would be what my father called it. He always was rather generous. ‘Incurable grief,’ the Lady herself would have said.” Hetta knotted the bonnet ribbons under her chin. “Personally, I was inclined to think of it as ‘insufferable moaning,’ but then—I never was the sympathetic type.”

  She picked up her gloves from the bedside table. “Anytime her ladyship went into one of her fits, my father would be summoned to the house. Twice, three times a week. Sometimes daily. I didn’t mind—he’d bring me along and I’d explore the Abbey while he bled her or dosed her with sedatives.” She lowered her voice. “Have you found the naughty tapestry yet? The one with all the depictions of sinners in Hell, being … sinful?”

  Lucy shook her head. She wasn’t interested in tapestries—not at the moment, anyway. “Lady Kendall had fits? What sort of fits?”

  “Oh, all sorts of fits. The more dramatic, the better. A word, a look, a sudden change in the weather—the slightest provocation sent her into hysterics. And then she would go on and on, crying for hours until my father could calm her. I don’t know how he had the patience to treat her for eight years. And she’d been that way for ages before we even came here.” She stepped away and began pulling on her gloves.

  A chill crawled down Lucy’s spine. She thought of her own helpless bout of tears, and Jeremy’s panicked reaction. Was it any wonder he had left for London? He must have thought she was becoming another hysterical female. Perhaps she was becoming another hysterical female.

  “My father said one must feel sorry for her,” Hetta continued. “She had a fragile constitution, he said. She married a very harsh man, and then she lost a child.” She looked up at Lucy with a wry smile. “But as I said, sympathy isn’t my strong point. So if you’ve a mind to develop a nervous condition of your own, you’d better send for my father. The best you’d get from me is a smart slap across the cheek and a slug of brandy.”

  “I think I need both.” Lucy sank down on the side of Aunt Matilda’s bed. “I don’t know what’s to become of me, truly.”

  Hetta looked at her sharply. “Oh, no. Don’t ask me for counsel, Lucy. I’m brilliant with poultices, but I’m not at all accustomed to giving advice.”

  “Believe me, I’m not accustomed to needing it,” Lucy replied. She looked up at the whimsically painted ceiling, where gilt-haired cherubs peeked down at her from billowing white clouds. “What am I doing here? I don’t belong here.”

  With an air of resignation, Hetta sat down next to her. “Your husband seems to think you do. If you want to know what you’re doing here, I suggest you ask him. Unless you came with pots of money,”—she eyed Lucy dubiously—“he must have had some reason for marrying you.”

  “I didn’t come with any money.” Lucy picked at the lace trim of her sleeve. “He had to marry me. I bullied him into it.”

  Hetta burst into laughter.

  “No, really,” said Lucy. “I was perfectly shameless.”

  Hetta only laughed harder.

  Lucy began to feel a bit indignant. “I’m telling you the truth! I threw myself at him like … like a wanton dairymaid!”

  At length, Hetta caught her breath and wiped her eyes with a gloved hand. “Lucy, please. First, your husband is an earl, ridiculously wealthy, and—if you won’t mind my noticing—not unpleasant to look at. He couldn’t have remained unmarried this long without learning to deflect unwelcome advances. Even from wanton dairymaids.

  “Second,” Hetta continued, cutting off Lucy’s objection, “Lord Kendall does not strike me as a gentleman who would be bullied into anything. Quite the reverse. Surely you’ve noticed that he need only flash that glare of his to send people scurrying. He’s considered more than a bit intimidating.”

  “Well, I’m not one to be bullied, either,” Lucy said. “And he can’t intimidate me with that Look. Believe me, he’s tried for years, but I just know him too well to believe there’s anything behind it. And if you think he’s pleasing to look at when he’s glowering …” She sighed. “You ought to see him when he smiles.”


  Hetta looked at her for a moment, eyebrows raised. Then she rose to her feet and gathered up her valise. “Well, that’s a relief,” she said, already heading toward the door. “You didn’t need my advice, after all.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Toby said, sipping his Madeira. “You can give me a bit of advice.”

  “Advice?” Jeremy snorted. “Why would you want my advice?”

  “Well, you’re a married man now, aren’t you? Don’t you want to give me a speech about the duties of matrimony?”

  Jeremy sighed. He should have known better than to come to the club. Of course, Toby would be in Town making wedding arrangements. Jeremy had perfectly good whiskey at the town house. Why had he not simply stayed at home?

  “Toby, if you still don’t know how to perform your marital duties, you need more than my advice. I can recommend you to a few capable tutors, if need be.”

  “You know I don’t mean that.” Toby chuckled. “I mean, don’t you have some profound wisdom to impart on the care and feeding of a wife? Everyone else has. Felix won’t give up on the subject. He’s become quite insufferable.”

  Perhaps Jeremy ought to be talking to Felix. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I shall maintain my sufferable silence.”

  “Suit yourself.” Toby drained his Madeira. “I’m surprised to even see you here. Cutting the honeymoon a bit short, aren’t you?”

  “I had business,” Jeremy grumbled into his whiskey. He was not interested in discussing his business, estate or personal, with Toby. “I return home tomorrow,” he added, lest Toby extend any unwelcome invitations.

  Toby winked at him. “Eager to get back, I’ll expect.”

  Jeremy didn’t know what to say. The truth of it was, he had no business being in London. He ought to be at home, as Toby kept insinuating, honeymooning with his new bride. But life with Lucy was killing him, one dinner at a time. He’d gotten exactly what he’d demanded—a sedate, proper wife—and he couldn’t have been more miserable. She scarcely seemed to eat anymore, and certainly not with any enjoyment. She dressed in new gowns and wore lace gloves; her hair was always perfectly coiffed. Jeremy couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her hair tumbling down to her waist in that clamor of chestnut waves. Neither could he recall a cross word from her since … Since.

  Jeremy sipped his whiskey and swallowed the bitter taste of tears.

  And then had come the eventuality he’d been dreading since their wedding day. She wanted to leave him.

  So he’d left her first.

  London offered no end of diversions to keep his mind off Lucy. But his thoughts were with her more than ever. Or rather, she was with him, in his thoughts. Everywhere Jeremy went, he saw sights he wished he could show her, experiences he felt certain she would enjoy. Balls, opera, the theater, Vauxhall. Oh, and why stop with the traditional amusements for ladies? Knowing Lucy, she would not be satisfied until she’d attended her share of boxing matches, too.

  “Shouldn’t you be with your intended?” Jeremy asked, wishing to change the subject. “You know, taking her to the theater or having dinner with her family?”

  “Oh, Sophia hardly has time for me these days. I scarcely see her, unless she’s dragging me off to shop for lace or select blooms for her wedding posy. I’m telling you, Jem, you did things right. License, vicar, man-and-wife. It all happened so fast, I could scarcely believe it. Not that I was surprised, mind.”

  Jeremy looked askance at him. “You weren’t surprised?”

  “Of course not. I knew that was not ‘nothing’ between you and Lucy in the orchard, no matter what you said. Then there were Sophia’s little hints. And that letter sealed things nicely. But I knew even before the letter—else I wouldn’t have proposed to Sophia the way I did.”

  Jeremy shifted in his chair. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Jem. Do you honestly think I would have done that in front of Lucy if I thought she were still in love with me? What kind of boor do you make me out to be?”

  Jeremy wasn’t certain what to make of anything at the moment. He drained his whiskey, hoping for answers at the bottom of the glass.

  “No, I knew,” Toby continued. “I’ve charmed many a young lady, Jem. Thousands, I’d guess. It’s not the sort of achievement that lends meaning to a man’s life, but it’s the one talent I’ve got. I know exactly the moment I have them hooked. That pretty blush spreads across their cheeks, and they look up at me through their eyelashes, lips pursed just so. It’s a thrill, every time. But just as I know the instant they fall for me, I can tell—with most distressing certainty—the precise moment they pick themselves up.”

  He motioned to the waiter for another drink. “After you had your little row with Henry that day in the woods, I walked Lucy home. Somewhere between the woods and Waltham Manor, she grew out of loving me. And I don’t mind telling you, I didn’t take it well. Eight years, she’d been mad for me—suddenly over.” He cast a guilty look at Jeremy. “I was a bit jealous, I expect.”

  Jeremy stared at him.

  “But it all came right in the end,” Toby finished, accepting a fresh glass of wine from the waiter. “You and Lucy, me and Sophia. You should come to Kent for a visit next Easter. See the bluebells and all.”

  Jeremy leaned forward in his chair. “Toby, even you must have noticed, Lucy wasn’t precisely thrilled to marry me. I … Henry … er, the circumstances forced her into it. She had no choice.”

  “No choice?” Toby laughed. “I was there at the wedding, Jem. I don’t recall seeing Lucy bound or gagged or dragged to the altar. And that’s the only way anyone could persuade that girl to recite vows against her will.” He chuckled into his glass. “Lucy, ‘forced’ to marry. A good laugh, that.”

  Jeremy had only downed one glass of whiskey, but his head was swimming. He couldn’t comprehend what Toby was saying. He was a bit afraid to even try. Even if—and he mentally emphasized if—Lucy had indeed grown out of Toby and somehow grown into him, it meant only one thing. That Jeremy had managed to cock things up even worse than he’d thought previously.

  “Say, Toby,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “What do you plan to do when the charm wears off on Sophia? What if she grows out of you?”

  Toby’s face grew solemn. “I don’t like to think about it, Jem.” He shrugged, and a shadow of that rakish grin crept back to his face. “I expect that’s what jewels are for.”

  It was a damned fool thing, carrying jewels on horseback at night. Aside from the obvious hazards of riding in the dark—the risks of becoming unseated, laming the horse, or losing one’s way entirely—highwaymen were always a threat. To be sure, thieves would little expect a lone rider to be carrying a small fortune in gems, but desperate men would not hesitate to kill him for his horse alone.

  But then, Jeremy was a rather desperate man himself. And anyone who tried to touch the necklace coiled neatly in his breast pocket would meet first with the cold steel of a pistol. Caution would tell him to stop at an inn, complete his journey tomorrow. But caution be damned. It didn’t matter that it was dark, or late, or dangerous. It was Thursday, and he had a promise to keep.

  He had several promises to keep, in fact, and he intended to start making good on them.

  He’d told Henry he would give Lucy the opportunities she’d never had. He’d promised Lucy he would do his best to see her happy. And he’d vowed before God that he would honor and cherish his wife all the days of his life. Yet he’d fled to London, running away from those promises like an eight-year-old boy.

  Yes, she had turned from him and wept, and it had hurt. It had damn near killed him. But tears didn’t dissolve duty. Perhaps he could never give her what she truly deserved, but that fact didn’t excuse him from trying.

  He would do what he should have done from the first. He would bring Lucy to London. She would be within a half-day’s journey of Waltham Manor—she might visit her brother and Marianne as often as she wished. He would present her at court and
introduce her to society. They would attend as many balls and operas and exhibitions as she desired. She might even find a reasonable use for her pin money. And Jeremy could finally take up his seat in Lords. His obligations to his wife weren’t the only duties he’d been dodging. Perhaps he could even do some good there, work toward outlawing the use of mantraps. That would be a more fitting tribute to Thomas than any fabricated portrait.

  He tried not to dwell on Toby’s words the night before. It was too much to hope that Lucy might love him. He told himself it didn’t matter whether she did or not; his duty to her remained the same. Despite all this, Jeremy was feeling giddily optimistic. Which, for him, was an entirely foreign sensation. But not an unpleasant one. Not in the least.

  It was a full day’s ride on horseback from London to Corbinsdale Abbey, if one started with the dawn and changed horses halfway. If, however, one waited for the jeweler’s shop to open, then spent the better part of an hour waving away trays of tawdry baubles before the officious clerk brought out the best wares, then wasted yet another quarter-hour while one’s purchase was wrapped—the journey home stretched into evening, and the dark made for slower progress still.

  But it was Thursday, and he’d told Lucy he’d be home on Thursday. And somehow, keeping that casually uttered promise became as important to him as honoring his wedding vows. It might not make a difference to her whether he returned tonight or never, but it did to Jeremy. Just as the necklace weighing down his breast pocket was less a gift to her than it was a symbol to him.

  She was his jewel. Rare, precious, beautiful, and possessed of an inner fire that it was a crime against nature to dull or hide. He would expect nothing of her, make no demands. That base, brutish lust would not escape his control again. But he would protect her, and cherish her, and place her in the setting that allowed her to sparkle brightest. He hoped that setting would be London; he intended to use whatever powers of persuasion he could muster to plead that case. If Lucy still wished to return to Waltham Manor, he would buy up the surrounding land and build her a manor house of her own, with a stable full of docile mares and the finest French chef his English coin could hire.