Goddess of the Hunt (11 page)

She placed her gloved hand flat against his chest. Jeremy waited for her to push him away. She would have to push him away, because there was no part of him that wanted to be anywhere else.

Every inch of his body was acutely aware of hers—so near, so warm, so ripe. Her hair, tumbling over her shoulders in glossy chestnut waves. Her breasts, rising and falling against his chest with every breath. Her lips, deep red and slightly parted, inviting his kiss.

Her hand splayed over his heart, the touch electric even through layers of linen and leather and wool.

She would have to push him away.

Instead, she curled her fingers around his lapel. And pulled him in.

Lucy wanted him to plunder her.

Even though he was wrong, in every possible way. The wrong man, in the wrong place, and just wrong, all wrong. Even though it was wicked, and she knew she was acting the farthest thing from an angel or a dream.

She wanted to be a goddess—
someone’s
goddess. And here he was, worshipping her with his gaze if not his words. And when she touched him, she had the power in her fingertips to make him tremble. She wanted to be kissed. She wanted to be
wanted
. She wanted those strong, full lips to stop spouting wrongheaded nonsense and start kissing her instead.

She pulled him against her and watched his sky-blue eyes darken to the deepest indigo, then close in a sweep of ebony lashes. His warm male scent embraced her, the clean aromas of leather and pine blending with musk. He bent his head by slow degrees, until his brow rested against hers. They traded the same breath back and forth. And when his lips finally bridged the last bit of distance between them, it felt like the end of a kiss rather than the beginning.

Lucy closed her eyes. She let the world contract to the unbearable softness brushing against her lips and the feel of rough wool clutched in her hand. She wouldn’t remember anything before that moment, and she wouldn’t think about the future. She wouldn’t think about what he’d said. She wouldn’t think—she would only feel. She would shut everything out and let only him in. The taste of him and the warmth of his mouth.

His mouth, claiming hers in a tender kiss. His lips, ranging over hers in a series of slow, teasing tastes. His tongue, sweeping into her mouth again and again in a gentle, rhythmic dance. She pressed her body against his solid chest, burrowing closer, nestling into his strength and warmth. He groaned against her mouth and tore his lips from hers.

Lucy kept her eyes shut tight. She didn’t need to see him. She could
feel
him looking down at her, the heat of his gaze wandering over her closed eyes, her flushed ears, the hollow of her throat where her quickened pulse beat. She kept her eyes shut tight and her lips slightly parted, and she waited. Because she knew he would come back.

He did. And this time, there was no gentle dance, no teasing or tenderness. He pressed himself against her, pushing her against the trunk of the tree until the ridges of bark bit into the flesh of her back. His lips claimed hers in a scorching embrace. He thrust his tongue into her mouth again and again and again, stealing her tongue into her mouth again and again and again, stealing her breath, stealing her very presence of mind. He cupped her face in one hand and angled it back, taking more of her, and she clung to his lapel as if the scrap of fabric were her only tether to the earth.

This wasn’t Jeremy Trescott. This wasn’t any man she knew. He was some wild, dangerous, plundering stranger, and she was a wanton, pagan goddess being ravaged under a pear tree. He broke away from her mouth, kissing a trail of fire along her jaw. He groaned her name against her ear, and it sounded foreign, forgotten—two random syllables sliding over her skin like a pair of hot, seeking lips.

She didn’t know who she was. Who he was. Didn’t care. The world had contracted to the warmth of a kiss and a clutch of rough wool, and there was no one else.

But there was.

There was someone else.

Someone—or
someones
—treading over dry leaves, drawing nearer, talking to one another. Lucy exhaled in a sharp hiss. Jeremy froze, his face buried in her neck, his lips pressed against the soft place under her ear.

“They must have come this way,” a voice was saying. “That’s Jem’s horse.”

Toby
.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t follow them,” Sophia replied. “Perhaps they wish to be alone.” Her voice took on a coy inflection. “Lovers sometimes do.”

Toby chuckled. “Not these lovers.”

They must be only a few rows away. In a matter of paces, they would turn their heads and discover Lucy and Jeremy, clinging to one another, molded to the bark of the tree like lichens. Lucy released her grip on Jeremy’s coat and pushed against his chest.

He didn’t budge.

“Get off,”
she whispered.

He didn’t move, just covered her body with his own and pinned her to the tree. “No.”

“They’re coming.” Desperation tweaked her voice. “They’ll see.”

“Let them see,” he whispered roughly. “You wanted this game. You wanted besotted. You wanted him jealous. Let them see.”

Lucy squirmed against him, to no avail. His bulk trapped her. She heard footsteps approaching. She shut her eyes, held her breath, and buried her face in Jeremy’s coat.

The footsteps stopped. Lucy did not move. She did not breathe.

The silence stretched to an eternity. Then, finally, the footsteps resumed. They hastened, grew fainter.

She heard Sophia’s laugh fading into the tree-lined avenues. “Not
those
lovers, hmm?”

Lucy shoved against Jeremy’s chest again, and this time he fell back. His face was blank. The expression in his eyes was, as usual, unreadable.

“You were right.” She jerked the fabric of her riding habit back into place. He eyed her warily as she wound her hair into a simple knot.

“You were right about one thing.” She backed away from him.

“We’re through playing games. I’m going to tell Toby the truth.”

“We’re through playing games. I’m going to tell Toby the truth.”

“So—do I tell him the truth?”

Toby leaned over the billiard table and lined up his shot. A swoop of golden-brown hair fell over his brow, and he flicked it out of his way with a quick jerk of his head.

“Tell whom the truth?” Jeremy asked. “About what?”

“Henry.” Toby pistoned his arm. The cue ball hit its mark with a sharp crack, and the red ball caromed off the far bank and into a side pocket. “Do I tell him what I saw this afternoon in the orchard?”

He stood up and leaned on his cue, regarding Jeremy with a cool gaze. “For all he teases Lucy, he’d not want her trifled with. She is his sister, you know. Or had you forgotten?”

“I hadn’t forgotten.” Jeremy reached into the pocket and withdrew the red object ball. He placed it on the spot and stalked the perimeter of the table, deliberating his best shot. “Nothing happened.”

Toby laughed. “Come on, Jem. I know the difference between nothing and something, and that was definitely not nothing.”

Jeremy kept silent and leaned over the table to size up his shot.

“You didn’t speak to her once during dinner,” Toby continued, “and she never so much as glanced at you. We’re in the drawing room all of ten minutes before she retires early, and you develop a sudden passion for billiards. Two people never work so hard at saying nothing unless they are avoiding
something
. Come on, Jem. What were you thinking?”

Toby’s tone was glib, but each smooth word pricked Jeremy’s conscience. He primed the cue between his knuckles, sliding it back conscience. He primed the cue between his knuckles, sliding it back and forth. Hesitating.

Damn. What
had
he been thinking? The answer to that question was plain. He hadn’t been thinking at all. He’d kissed Lucy. Not once, but twice—and he’d goaded her into kissing him back. He had known she’d be too stubborn to back down, and he’d taken advantage of it. Taken advantage of
her
. He’d pressed her up against that tree and savaged her like a brute. Then, in a moment of either utter madness or just plain idiocy, he’d
allowed people to
see
. Not merely allowed it. Insisted on it. Made a public exhibit of his reprehensible behavior. Loomed over her like a buck guarding his doe in rutting season, staking a claim to his female.

An animal. He’d been reduced to an animal. For the better part of a week, Lucy had picked at the threads of his self-control with every saucy look and reckless act, and his gentlemanly restraint had frayed perilously thin. Now the fabric of politesse was ripping apart, exposing the lust-crazed beast that lurked beneath. The naked, sweating beast that hungered, thirsted, craved, demanded, would not be denied.

Good Lord. Even engaged in self-recrimination, he was tearing off his clothes.

He pulled back the cue, the muscles of his shoulder straining against the seams of his shirt. Ivory cracked against carmine. The balls spun out into futile trajectories, missing the pockets completely.

Lust. It had to be lust. That was the only possible explanation for this behavior—this complete lapse of conscience and control. It could be the only name for this need that quaked through him whenever she was near. The need to possess her. Claim her in some primitive, irreversible way and send every other man on earth some primitive, irreversible way and send every other man on earth straight to the devil, with Toby leading the procession.

But there was something else. There had to be, much as he hated to admit it. If simple lust transformed him into a panting, feral creature whenever he came within ten paces of the chit, then logic argued for a simple cure. Increase the distance between them.

Leave. It couldn’t be more straightforward. Saddle his horse and ride off for London with the dawn. Find some comely little courtesan with chestnut hair and gold-green eyes to paw and pummel until his lust was slaked.

It wouldn’t work, Jeremy knew. He couldn’t even muster the desire to try. He’d been saddling his horse at dawn every morning, and he couldn’t reach the border of Henry’s lands without feeling a visceral tug pulling him back to the Manor. And then there had been that terrifying moment in the orchard. Not the yawning black minute when he’d been convinced she was dead. The true panic had started when he found her alive, and this need had roared to life as well. The need to snare her, trap her, pin her to a tree, anchor her with his body, and above all keep her
still
. Keep her from bolting off breakneck and dragging him along by that blasted satin ribbon now cinched around his gut.

This wasn’t a blind, mindless craving for anything woman and willing. This was needing with a name. It was a force beyond lust. It was Lucy.

He wanted Lucy.

Lucy wanted Toby.

And Jeremy didn’t want to talk about it.

“Don’t mistake me,” Toby continued with grating nonchalance.

“You’ve done an admirable job keeping Lucy distracted, and I do

“You’ve done an admirable job keeping Lucy distracted, and I do appreciate your sacrifice. But there’s no call to get carried away. A little kiss—it’s nothing to one of our usual set of ladies in Town.

Harmless. But Lucy’s different. She’s not been out in society. You don’t want to risk her feelings.”

Jeremy couldn’t believe his ears. Surely Toby—the
ton’s
most ruthless flirt—did not mean to lecture him on the delicate sensibilities of young ladies. Surely Toby was not attempting to enlighten
him
on the distinctions between Lucy and every other lady in England.
Lucy is different
. If there was one truth in Creation on which Jeremy needed no further convincing, it was that one. “Since when,” he asked in measured tones, “do you care about Lucy’s feelings?”

“Of course I care about Lucy’s feelings. No one wants to see Lucy hurt. That’s what this was about, remember?”

Jeremy swore and let his cue clatter to the table. “This was about
you,”
he seethed, “and your vain, infantile, self-absorbed determination to finish your holiday before getting engaged.” He tugged on the front of his waistcoat and attempted to compose his expression.

Toby crossed to a side table and uncorked a decanter of brandy.

“Calm down, Jem,” he said, pouring two generous glasses. “I expect I’m just jealous.”

“Jealous.” Jeremy choked on the word. “You can’t possibly mean you—”

“Ridiculous, isn’t it? I haven’t even kissed her yet.
Me
. I’ve kissed a hundred girls if I’ve kissed one, and I’ve yet to share a tender moment with the lady I mean to marry.”

Sophia
. The blood rushed back to Jeremy’s knees.
He meant
Sophia
. “I thought you said a little kiss was nothing to a lady of the
ton
. Harmless.”

“A kiss
is
harmless. But if I start with one kiss, I’m not certain I’ll stop

—and I can’t vouch for her safety then.”

Jeremy cocked an eyebrow at his friend and accepted the drink offered him. “Running a bit low on self-control, are you?” Thank God he wasn’t the only one. He eyed his glass suspiciously.

Perhaps there was something in Henry’s brandy. He
had
gotten his wife with child three times in five years.

“I’m in torment,” Toby said, pulling a grimace. “Seeing her every day, living under the same roof … You couldn’t possibly understand.”

You’d be surprised
.

“She was uniformly enchanting in Town, of course. But there, she was one of a dozen beautiful ladies in any given salon or ballroom.

Here … here, she sparkles like a jewel among coals.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. If only Lucy could hear herself compared to a lump of coal.

“Thank heavens for geometry,” said Toby.

“Geometry? What has geometry to do with anything?”

“That’s what I think of when I feel myself losing control. When she’s right there, and so tempting … I turn my mind to geometry. You know—theorems, proofs, all that.”

“Yes, I understand geometry,” Jeremy said. “What I don’t comprehend is why
you
should claim to understand it. You’re worthless at mathematics. Always were, even at Eton.”