Goddess of the Hunt (44 page)

Somehow her hands found their way to his cheeks, and she pulled him away slightly, bracing her forehead against his. “I love you, too.”

She sniffed. “Oh, but I’ve been such a fool.” Smiling, she wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. “The drapes, the dinner, that tarty negligee. I didn’t know how to be the wife you wanted. You said men want an angel, or a dream. But Jeremy—I’m just not an angel.”

He chuckled, sweeping a curl behind her ear. “No, you’re not. And thank heaven for that. I shouldn’t like you to be a dream, either. I’d live in fear of waking up.” He cupped her chin in his hand, and his expression grew serious. “Lucy, you
are
the wife I want, just as you are. I’m sorry I ever gave you reason to doubt it. I was just so afraid of seeing you hurt … of hurting you myself …”

“I understand now.” She bit her lip. “But you needn’t have worried.

I—”

“You won’t break, I know. And do I love you for it.” He dropped a gentle kiss on her lips. “But let me love your softness, too. Your strength and your tenderness. Lucy, you’re so much more than an angel or a dream. What you are is a goddess.
My
goddess. And

angel or a dream. What you are is a goddess.
My
goddess. And you have me completely at your mercy.”

Smiling, Lucy wound her arms around his neck and pulled him onto the bed. “I believe I like the sound of that.”

Christmas came a bit early to Waltham Manor.

Lucy sat on the drawing-room carpet with her nieces and nephew, presiding over the merriment as they unwrapped a prodigious number of gifts. She looked up to catch Jeremy watching her from his armchair with a very familiar expression. She felt herself flush.

That Look of his never failed to stir her blood.

She rose to her feet casually, shaking the wrinkles from her skirts, and paused to look out the window before crossing to her husband.

Leaning over his chair, she brushed her lips against his ear and whispered, “Meet me in the wardrobe later?”

Jeremy choked on his whiskey. “What, again?” He put an arm about her waist and pulled her into his lap. “What’s wrong with the bed?”

he whispered into her neck. “I have a rather sentimental attachment to that bed.”

She took the drink from his hand. “Yes,” she murmured from behind the glass, “but we have a bed at home. We don’t have the wardrobe. And we’ll be leaving tomorrow morning for Toby and Sophia’s wedding. After that, we’ll be in Town—you’ve got the whole session of Parliament ahead.” She wriggled her bottom against his lap, eliciting a soft growl. “Who knows when we’ll have another lap, eliciting a soft growl. “Who knows when we’ll have another chance?”

He ran his hand down her back and hooked a finger under her laces. “There’s always next autumn.”

A smile tickled the corner of her lips. “I don’t think we’ll be visiting next autumn.”

“Why not?”

“Papa!” Tildy and young Henry ran to their father where he stood in the entryway, leaving poor little Beth to crawl alone on the carpet.

The children swarmed over their father, climbing his legs like tree trunks and foraging in his pockets for sweets. He sank to his hands and knees on the carpet, dutifully admiring the shiny playthings and stooping to kiss Beth’s pudgy cheek.

“That will be you someday,” Lucy whispered to her husband.

Jeremy’s arm tightened around her waist. “I hope so.”

“Hope all you wish. I, however, have no talent for hoping. I know, I believe, I expect.” She set the glass down on the side table and twined both arms around his neck. “As I believe I once told you—to your great amusement—I
know
how mating is accomplished. I
believe
it’s been”—she looked up at the ceiling, calculating—“three-and-forty days since I last had my courses. And therefore I am—or rather, we are—
expecting.”

His eyes widened. “Lucy.” He swallowed hard. “That’s too soon to be certain. Isn’t it?”

She smiled. “I’m certain.” She leaned forward to kiss the adorably bewildered expression from his face.

“Good Lord, not in front of the children.” Disentangling himself from his progeny, Henry rose to his feet. He gave Jeremy a stiff nod.

“Jem.”

“Henry.”

Lucy felt Jeremy tense. Only a few weeks had passed since her husband and her brother had been at one another’s throats, but she’d hoped they would greet one another more charitably than this. Would they never be friends again?

“How are you, Lucy?” Henry asked, true concern in his eyes. “Well, I hope?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

“Really? You look a trifle pale.” Henry turned his gaze on Jeremy.

“Has he scolded you for changing the upholstery this time? Or perhaps you discovered his dungeon full of bones and ghouls.”

“Not yet,” Lucy said. “Henry, you know I’m happy with Jeremy. Must you persist in tormenting him?”

Henry shrugged. “Of course I must. He’s family now.”

Lucy gave him a cool look, but her heart warmed. No, the two men would never be friends again. Now they were brothers, and they would remain so forever, whether they liked it or not.

“Besides,” Henry continued, “what would you have me say?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lucy replied. “Perhaps, ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘I forgive you,’ or ‘I’m so thrilled for you both’?”

Both Henry and Jeremy laughed.

“What’s so amusing?” she asked, mildly annoyed.

“For God’s sake, we’re men,” Henry said. “We don’t say things like that. At best, we keep them tucked in the pockets of our best waistcoats, to pull out at weddings and funerals.”

A commotion in the corridor headed off Lucy’s response.

Toby and Felix burst into the room, wearing riding clothes and grim expressions.

“And speaking of weddings,” Henry said without missing a beat,

“what are you doing here? Aren’t you getting married in a few days?

”

“She’s gone,” said Toby. He struggled to catch his breath. “Sophia’s gone.”

“Gone?” Lucy untangled her arms from about Jeremy’s neck.

“Wherever did she go?”

Felix leaned on a nearby chair, red-faced with exertion. “My …

parents-in-law,” he huffed, “telling everyone … Sophia … is ill …

sent to seaside … for her … constitution.”

“Perhaps you ought to go with her, man.” Henry crossed to the bar.

“You’re not looking so hale yourself.”

“She hasn’t gone to the seaside,” Toby moaned, slinging himself onto the divan. “She’s eloped. We’re on our way to Gretna Green. If we hurry, we might catch them before they reach Scotland.”

“Eloped?” Jeremy asked. “With whom?”

“Some painter.” Toby threw his head back and covered his eyes with his hand. “A Frenchman, no less.”

“What was his name?” Felix wheezed. “Germaine … Jarvis?”

“Gervais?” Lucy asked. A nauseous feeling curled in her belly. Not an infrequent occurrence of late, but dread compounded the queasy sensation.

“That’s the one,” Toby groaned against his forearm. “I’ve been jilted for Gervais.” He straightened and looked at Lucy. “How did you know? I mean, I hoped you might know something. She left you a letter, too.” He fished a folded paper out of his breast pocket and leaned forward, hand outstretched. Lucy took it from his hand, sliding her thumb under the broken seal. “You’ll forgive me for opening it already,” Toby said.

“Of course.” Lucy unfolded the tear-stained missive.

Ma chère Lucy
,

Remember how it seemed, once upon a time? That if
we imagined something and wanted it deeply and
believed it with all our hearts, we knew it could come
true?

Well, I’ve decided to give it one last try. This time, I’ve
eaten all my porridge. I’m closing my eyes tight … and
when I open them, I shall be far, far away
.

I’m quite fond of Toby, but I could never make him
happy. Still, he’ll take this rather hard, I fear. Please
console him as best you can
.

Ton amie
,

Sophia

“What the devil does that mean, she ate all her porridge?” Toby asked, throwing his hands in the air. “She must know I’d buy her all the porridge she liked.”

“Oh, Toby.” Lucy shook her head as Jeremy took the letter from her hand. “I wish I could tell you where she’s gone, but I can’t. But I’m certain she hasn’t gone to Scotland with anyone named Gervais.”

“But … if not … Scotland,” Felix managed, “where?”

Lucy shrugged. There wasn’t anything she would put past Sophia.

“She could be anywhere.”

Toby groaned and sank back onto the sofa, covering his eyes with one hand. “I’ve been jilted.
Me!
I can’t comprehend it. Every girl in England wants to marry me.”

Lucy turned to face her husband. “Poor Toby,” she murmured.

“‘Poor Toby’ nothing,” Jeremy said curtly.
“Console him as best you
can?”
he read aloud with eyebrows raised. His arm tightened around her waist. “Don’t even think it.”

Lucy gasped in indignation. “I would never!” She snatched the letter from his hand and folded it neatly. “And don’t tease. Sophia’s wild imagination may be Toby’s misfortune, but we owe a great debt of happiness to her absurd letters.”

“I suppose we do.” His hand slid to cover her belly. “And a very tiny debt, as well.”

Lucy laid her head against his shoulder and tapped the letter against her smile. “I wish Sophia nothing but happiness,” she said thoughtfully. “But cling as she might to those girlhood dreams”—she

thoughtfully. “But cling as she might to those girlhood dreams”—she craned her neck to brush a light kiss against her husband’s jaw—“I am exceedingly grateful that mine did
not
come true.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Becoming a published author is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, and it never would have been possible without my family. I’m so grateful to my husband, for his love and support, and to my two children, for their patience with a highly distracted mother. My parents gave me the best gift imaginable by encouraging my early love of books, and my grandparents always believed I’d someday publish one of my own.

In writing this book, I was blessed to have two brilliant critique partners who helped me every step of the way: Courtney Milan and Amy Baldwin. Several other writers, readers, and friends read early drafts of the book and provided invaluable feedback. Lindsey, Sara, Lenore, Maggie, Michelle, Susan, Pamela, Kalen, seton, Darcy, Elyssa, and Lacey—I am indebted to each of you.

Many thanks to my amazing agent, Helen Breitwieser, and to the entire team at Ballantine, especially my editor, Kate Collins, and her assistant, Kelli Fillingim.

Thank you to Kelly and Brian, for all the Starbucks, sympathy, and Internet savvy.

I wouldn’t be writing historical romance if not for the works of Jane Austen, and the inspiring creative environment fostered by her many online fans in the Lounge, the Gardens, and the Tearoom.

Finally, I want to acknowledge the wonderful network of friendship and support that grew out of the 2006 Avon FanLit competition and to thank Mary, for all her encouragement and advice.

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