Goddess of the Hunt (34 page)

“It’s late. You must be wanting to retire.”

She stared down at her hands, running her thumb along the callused ridge of her palm. “I said I’d sit with Aunt Matilda. I think she’s a bit homesick.”

“Is she?” His voice was quiet. “I see. Then I’ll order some chocolate sent up for you both.”

They remained in awkward silence for several moments. Lucy could not bear to look at him. It seemed so wretchedly unfair, how her mood, her existence, her life’s happiness were now linked inextricably with his. And she—of all the intractable chits in England,
she—
now craved his approval and desperately wished to please him but seemed doomed to fail at even this smallest attempt. He gave her jewels and pin money and even knew to send up chocolate, and what did she offer him? Boiled mutton, when he wanted suet pudding.

There was only one method of pleasing Jeremy in which she had shown the slightest competence—the act she yearned to repeat, lay awake in bed remembering, dreamt of every night. She’d so hoped that their conversation today, the intimate history and thoughts he’d shared, might lead to intimacies of a different nature.

But no.

It was this place, Lucy decided as she lay in bed alone that night.

This cold, silent, tomb-like Abbey filled with his family’s ghosts and his own demons. Before coming to Corbinsdale, she had never appreciated how joy permeated Waltham Manor—the way each room echoed with pleasant memories, and the cheerful din of dogs and children and servants who were permitted to hum. In this house, there was no noise, no warmth, no joy. It was an antidote to ardor if ever one existed.

And outside the confines of the Abbey, the misery only increased.

Every man, woman, and child within a ten-mile radius reviled anyone by the name of Kendall. That could scarcely make a man eager to procreate. Perhaps that was why Henry kept getting

Marianne with child, Lucy surmised. Good harvest or bad, his tenants adored him for his convivial manner and generosity.

She thought of insolent Albert, and the satisfaction of turning his expectations inside-out. And Jeremy—the pain of losing his brother compounded by the loss of his parents’ affection. The whole of Corbinsdale was an orphaned estate. Lucy recognized that familiar combination of outward defiance and silent craving for affection everywhere she went—in the tenants, the staff, her own husband.

Maybe she couldn’t change the drapes or plan the menus like a proper lady, but she knew something about relating to surly orphans. She was one herself, after all.

Perhaps, Lucy thought to herself, she did have some hidden, buried potential to become a true lady. Maybe Jeremy didn’t see it, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t unearth it herself. She might not be the sort of countess he wanted. She certainly wasn’t the sort of countess Corbinsdale expected. But maybe, just maybe, she was exactly the sort of countess they
needed
.

And then it came to her—just drifted down from the embroidered canopy over her bed, as if dropped by a passing angel or revealed in a dream—the Idea. The way to solve both problems at once, to bring this house to life and make the tenants adore her husband.

The brilliant Idea that would work her into Jeremy’s good opinion, his bed, and his heart.

An Idea this perfect could not possibly go wrong.

And it would not have gone wrong, had Jeremy not been late for dinner.

Lucy sat in the Abbey’s great hall, drumming her fingers on the empty plate that ought to be her husband’s. Her mood alternated between anxiety for his safety and fury with him for returning home so late. He had not missed dinner one night since their marriage.

Now this night, of all nights, he was late. The night she’d been planning so carefully for days.

It had been remarkably easy. She’d simply mentioned to Jeremy at breakfast one morning that she’d like to invite a few guests for dinner. Perhaps on Friday next? He’d been so pleasantly surprised, he’d called in the housekeeper immediately and instructed her to obey Lucy’s every command.

Of course, this probably wasn’t quite the dinner party he’d imagined.

Where could he be? She tried to think, but between the musicians and the small army of servants and the clatter of cutlery, forming a coherent thought proved difficult. Lucy smiled. The deafening roar from this evening would echo through the Abbey for days. Perhaps weeks. Farewell to cold, sinister silence.

A chicken bone sailed through the air, causing her to dodge left.

Her guests seemed to be enjoying themselves. She’d given up waiting for Jeremy a half-hour ago and ordered dinner to be served.

One didn’t keep upward of a hundred guests waiting about hungry.

You could only let them sit around drinking ale for so long before an acceptable delay became simple rudeness. This might have been Lucy’s first time hosting a party, but she knew that much.

She nibbled a bit of roast beef from her own plate. She’d ordered simple fare for the meal, and plenty of it. The long tables lining the simple fare for the meal, and plenty of it. The long tables lining the center of the room were laden with platters of roast meat, boiled potatoes, game pies, puddings and sausages, and bread with fresh-churned butter. The men, women, and children lining the long tables seemed to have no complaints. Food was disappearing at a prodigious rate, and serving girls bearing flagons of ale kept up a steady procession from the kitchen to the hall.

Hetta Osborne pushed her way through the merriment. Lucy’s smile widened. “I’m so glad you could come!” she shouted above the cacophony.

“My father!” Hetta yelled back, tilting her head toward a silver-haired man wearing spectacles and a black tailcoat. He bowed, and Lucy curtsied in return, holding up the skirts of her new gown. The
modiste
had finished it just yesterday—all silk, in a poppy-red shade that her maid called
coquelicot
, with gold braiding at the waist and a low, square neckline that enhanced the curve of her bosom.

“Albert and Mary?” Lucy mouthed.

Hetta shook her head. “They wouldn’t come. Albert had a message for you if you care to hear it. He said, ‘Tell her highness she can take her … ’” Her voice trailed off in the din.

“I can’t hear you!”

“Just as well.” Hetta crossed to Lucy’s side and shouted in her ear,

“You
should
be glad we came—I doubt this evening will end without at least a few injuries!”

Lucy laughed. So the men were a bit drunk. And a few of the women, too. Hungry tenants were unhappy tenants. People well-fed and in their cups tended to look more favorably on their hosts. It was all part of the plan.

As were the servants who began clearing the tables away from the center of the room.

“What now?” Hetta asked.

“Games, then dancing.”

“Games?”

“Contests of strength and skill. Arm-wrestling … lifting …”

The servants began piling straw bales at the far end of the hall, under the ever-watchful eyes of the late earl’s mounted trophies.

Two footmen entered bearing targets, and a third followed with bows and arrows.

“Archery?” Hetta shouted. “Indoors?”

“Well, we can’t very well have them shooting rifles, now can we?”

Hetta stared at her. “Next year,” Lucy explained to mollify her new friend, “we’ll have the harvest home at the proper time of year.

Outdoors—with canopies and booths and hoops for the children.”

The guests moved to the sides of the hall, buzzing with excitement.

Lucy once more searched the crowd for Jeremy, in vain. She reluctantly swept to the center of the room. This was supposed to be his moment, drat him.

The crowd fell silent. A hundred pairs of eyes fixed on her. Lucy cleared her throat, suddenly feeling a bit anxious. She ought to have had some of that ale herself.

“Thank you for coming,” she began. “It is my honor to welcome you as guests to Corbinsdale Abbey. I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

Enthusiastic applause and cheers echoed off the hall’s vaulted ceiling. Lucy smiled.

“I apologize for the delay in His Lordship’s arrival, but I’m certain he will be joining us soon. In the meantime, we have prepared a few contests to entertain you before the dancing begins. We will begin with archery, and the champion will be rewarded handsomely.” She pulled out a small purse and shook it, rattling the coin within. The crowd whooped.

“Who will step forward to test his skill?” she asked.

“I will.” A tall, burly fellow with a bushy ginger beard stepped forward, and the crowd erupted. He raised his arms, spurring the cheers to an even louder pitch. A good portion of the guests began chanting his name. Lucy couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded like

“Hanson.”

A wiry youth was thrust forward into the center of the room by his laughing friends. A third pushed his way through the crowd, a dark, stocky man with huge mitts for hands and a grave mien.

“Excellent,” Lucy shouted, raising her hands for silence. She motioned to the servant, who distributed bows and arrows to the three men. “Your mark will be here,” she said, sweeping to the end of the hall near the entryway, opposite the straw targets. “Each man will have three arrows, and the best accuracy overall will earn the purse.”

The men took their places and began fitting their arrows to their bows.

“But my lady,” the man called Hanson called out, “I don’t know that the purse is sufficient reward. Don’t you think,”—he looked to the crowd for support—“you should sweeten the pot?” The assembly crowd for support—“you should sweeten the pot?” The assembly broke into wild applause.

Lucy frowned, bewildered. “What do you suggest?”

“To the winner goes a forfeit, my lady.” He fixed her with a lascivious grin. “A kiss.” The crowd whooped and resumed chanting his name.

The ginger-haired ruffian pumped his fist in the air, egging them on.

Lucy sized up the competitors. None of them looked particularly kissable, but she didn’t know how to refuse without seeming rude. A little peck on the cheek couldn’t do any harm, she supposed. She met Hanson’s eyes. It was a challenge he’d laid down, she realized.

A dare. And Lucy never backed down from a dare. She lifted her chin. “Very well.”

The guests roared their approval so loudly, she worried the Abbey roof might collapse.

“On my signal, then,” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. The crowd hushed as the men drew back their bows. “Fire!”

Two arrows sailed into their targets, both landing wildly off-center.

The third target remained unmarked. Lucy looked back to the dark, stocky man and saw he had not yet fired. Instead, he leaned back, releasing the arrow up and to the right.

The shaft soared up toward the rafters. The guests gasped and scrambled for cover, elbowing one another out of the way. Then the arrow reached the zenith of its arc and began its descent.

Somewhere in the throng, a woman screamed.

Thwack
.

The missile collided with the mounted head of a stag, piercing it straight through one glassy eye.

The crowd erupted into its loudest cheers yet. Several men stepped forward to clap the rogue archer on the back.

Hanson, not to be outdone, fitted another arrow to his bow and shot. The shaft buried itself in the leathery hide of the bull elephant trophy. The tenants went wild, stamping and howling with glee.

Now all of the men were refitting their bows, and Lucy began to grow more than a bit alarmed. Not because she cared one whit for the late earl’s prized collection, but because the longer this went on, the greater the likelihood that someone would get hurt.

“Gentlemen!” she cried. “Stop!”

But then the dark, stocky man sent another arrow sailing into the mouth of a boar, and Lucy’s cries were drowned out by the thunderous wave of applause. She marched across the hall to stand directly in front of Hanson. If he could incite the masses to this fervor, she reasoned, he could quell them.

She was right. He lowered his bow. With a wave of his arm, he silenced the crowd.

“You must stop this,” she said firmly. “Someone could get hurt.”

He smirked, eyeing her from head to toe with a leer that made her skin crawl. “Well, my lady. Does that mean you’re ready for your kiss?”

The tenants exploded into the loudest roar yet. Whoops and whistles resounded from the rafters. Lucy’s cheeks burned with rage. Hanson stepped toward her, and the din grew louder still. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of shrinking away. He was only a bully, and she knew how to handle bullies. Bullies, as a rule, feed on fear. Refuse to flinch, and they quickly grow bored.

She would not flinch.

As Hanson approached her, however, and she was forced to crane her neck to maintain eye contact, she admitted with some trepidation another trait bullies typically shared.

They were big.

He pursed his revolting, bearded mouth and made a disgusting smacking noise. She grimaced. If that was what passed for kissing with him, she pitied Mrs. Hanson.

The crowd, however, did not share her revulsion. They whooped and hollered louder than ever, until the Abbey walls seemed to shake with the effort of containing their tumult.