Goddess of the Hunt: A Novel Read online

  If the sight of his legs wasn’t distracting enough, then he’d hitched up her own robe and touched her ankle in that exciting, possessive manner. Oh, and the marvelous displays of brute strength—tossing aside the chair, picking her up as though she weighed nothing, looming over her on the bed. Bright light and fresh air were instantly forgotten. He was what she’d been craving.

  “Did that hurt?” Miss Osborne asked suddenly.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “You moaned.”

  Lucy felt a blush rising on her cheeks. “Did I?”

  Curse the man, even as he’d berated her she couldn’t focus on his words. She’d been too busy fantasizing. She’d wanted to slide her hands inside that gaping robe, reach around his broad shoulders, and pull him down on top of her. Until the end of his diatribe, when he’d brought up that “my lord” nonsense. So infuriating. And infuriatingly arousing. Lucy squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled her frustration.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you.” Miss Osborne let her ankle drop to the bed. She threw Lucy a sideways glance as she picked up her gloves. “Not with your ankle, at least.”

  Lucy sat up and regarded the young woman at her bedside. Miss Osborne wore a patterned frock and curry-colored spencer. A few pins held her dark-blond hair in a simple knot, and she wore no jewelry or ribbons. She couldn’t have been much older than Lucy, but she projected an enviable air of capability. She tugged on her gloves with precise, efficient movements.

  “Why don’t you stay for tea?” Lucy asked. “You’ve come all this way.”

  “Thank you, no.” Miss Osborne stood, picking up a small black valise. “I’m already behind schedule, and it’s a long walk back. I’ve a confined woman to visit and a seeping wound to dress. There are some people in the county with real injuries, you realize.”

  Lucy smiled. At last, someone in Corbinsdale who did not regard her with veiled disdain. Miss Osborne held her in open contempt. What was better, she hadn’t even curtsied or called her “Lady Kendall” once. And she’d just offered Lucy the one remedy she needed most—an escape.

  “If you can wait for me to dress,” Lucy said, “I’ll drive you.”

  If Miss Osborne held Lucy in contempt, she regarded the lacquered phaeton and team of perfectly matched black ponies with complete derision. Not to mention the pair of liveried outriders trailing a polite distance behind. Still, she did not seem to begrudge the offer of a ride. And when Lucy gave the team full rein to thunder down the road, she could tell Miss Osborne’s respect for her increased tenfold. From “next-to-nothing” to “perhaps-a-mite.”

  It felt wonderful to be outdoors at last, inhaling the crisp autumn air. Lucy drew the phaeton to a halt before a small crofter’s cottage. Four children came running out, followed by their rotund, waddling mother. Lucy rummaged behind the phaeton seat for one of the baskets she’d asked Cook to prepare. A smile warmed her wind-chilled face. Even Jeremy could not find fault with this outing. This was what Marianne had done, visiting the tenants with baskets of food and sweets for the children. Lucy felt more like a countess already.

  She turned back to the children, anticipating the squeals of joy her treats would no doubt elicit. They were nowhere to be seen. Miss Osborne had alighted from the phaeton, and everyone had gone inside the cottage without her.

  Well.

  Lucy clambered down from the carriage, basket threaded over her arm, and made her way to the cottage door. She swept into the room, smiling beneficently. From their seats at the cottage’s small table, Miss Osborne and the confined woman regarded her warily.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced,” Lucy said, shooting Miss Osborne a look of her own, “but I’m Lady Kendall.”

  The pregnant woman gaped at her.

  “And I brought you a basket,” she added brightly. She swung around, holding the basket out to the children. “There are sweets inside,” she tempted, dangling the basket in front of her.

  The children shrank away, huddling into the corner with expressions of abject fear. The smallest one, a tow-headed boy who couldn’t have been above two years old, clutched his sister’s leg and began to cry.

  “All right,” said Lucy, slowly backing away. “No need to get upset. I’ll just leave it on the table, see?” She deposited the basket on the table.

  “Thank you, my lady.” The pregnant woman’s reply was barely audible, and her eyes remained downcast.

  “You’re welcome.” Lucy clasped her hands in front of her. “Miss Osborne, I suppose I’ll wait in the carriage.”

  The young lady’s gaze did not turn from her patient. “Yes, that would probably be best.”

  A quarter-hour later, Miss Osborne returned to the phaeton with her little valise. Well, Lucy thought. That had not gone entirely as planned. She refused to show her disappointment in front of Miss Osborne, however. Of course the children would be terrified of an elegant lady who was a stranger to them. Given the fact that the previous Lady Kendall had died several years ago and been in declining health even longer than that, the children could not know how a proper countess behaved. On her next visit, they would all be tugging at her skirts.

  They drove on to the next cottage. This time, Lucy did not allow Miss Osborne to leave her behind. She grabbed up the basket and followed the young woman up to the tiny, thatched-roof dwelling. She knocked on a door, and they were admitted to a small, dank room. The light that struggled through the single window revealed the room’s two occupants. A boy, no more than twelve or thirteen years of age, held the door open with a bandaged hand. On the narrow straw-tick bed, a young girl sat quietly, her legs crossed beneath a threadbare brown wool skirt.

  “Albert, Mary. This is Lady Kendall.”

  The door slammed shut behind them. Lucy wheeled about to regard the boy.

  “What?” he asked, registering Miss Osborne’s disapproval. “Surely her royal highness here don’t expect me to bow?”

  “How is your hand?” Miss Osborne asked, changing the subject.

  The boy shrugged, still staring up at Lucy. “Better, I suppose. It still hurts like the devil, but it don’t seem to be festering.”

  Miss Osborne set her valise on the small table and opened it. “Let’s have a look at it, then. Come sit.” She beckoned him with a tilt of the head. Albert obeyed, eyeing Lucy with all the suspicion and scorn a twelve-year-old boy could muster.

  Lucy decided to focus her charitable efforts on Mary. She crossed the room—a matter of only two paces, it being a small room—and sat on the bed beside her. The child’s mousy hair hung around her face in wild, tangling curls. Big brown eyes stared out at Lucy from a thin, pale face.

  Lucy smiled. Mary mirrored the expression with a gap-toothed grin.

  “How old are you, Mary?”

  The girl kept smiling.

  “She don’t talk,” Albert called from the table. He winced as Miss Osborne prodded his wound.

  “But she understands me. Don’t you, Mary?”

  Mary nodded. She held up one open hand, her bony fingers fanned wide.

  “You’re five?”

  The girl nodded, and her smile spread wider still.

  Lucy uncovered the basket on her lap. “What luck! I have a special biscuit here baked just for a five-year-old girl.” She held out a circle of shortbread. “Do you like biscuits, Mary?”

  The girl snatched the treat from Lucy’s hand and lifted it to her mouth.

  “Don’t eat it, Mary.” Albert’s voice was tight with pain. “It’s a Kendall biscuit. It’s probably poison.”

  “Poison! Wherever would you get such an idea? Of course it isn’t poisoned.” She couldn’t understand where these ridiculous notions had originated, but they began to grate on her nerves. It was one thing for Lucy to think disparaging thoughts about her own husband, but quite another to hear him maligned by complete strangers.

  Lucy turned back to the girl. “You go ahead, Mary. Eat it right up.” The girl clutched the biscuit in her hand, uncerta
in. “Or,” Lucy said gently, “you may wait to ask your mama and papa first, if it will make you feel better.”

  “They haven’t any parents.” Miss Osborne dabbed at Albert’s wound with a rag soaked in pungent liquid.

  Albert gritted his teeth. “My father ain’t dead.”

  “Perhaps he isn’t. But he isn’t here to settle the matter, now is he?” Miss Osborne wound a strip of clean linen over Albert’s palm. “You may eat the biscuit, Mary.” She silenced Albert’s objection with a look. “It isn’t poisoned.”

  Mary devoured the biscuit in a flash, then held out both hands for more. By the time Miss Osborne finished dressing Albert’s hand, Mary had downed three biscuits, a hunk of hard cheese, and most of a cold chicken leg. Lucy wished she’d brought a bigger basket. The child was clearly underfed. She glanced at Albert. He looked rather scrawny, too.

  As they rose to leave, Lucy fished in her reticule for a shilling and held it out to Albert. “Here,” she said. “Buy yourself some biscuits. Mary ate them all already.”

  Albert snorted. “No thank you, your highness.” He walked to the door and held it open, pulling himself up to what approached a manly height. “I don’t take Kendall charity.”

  Lucy raised her eyebrows. “Oh, you don’t take Kendall charity?” She approached the boy, staring him straight in the face. The flinty defiance in his eyes never wavered. Lucy checked the smile tickling the corners of her lips. Eight years ago, she might well have viewed an identical expression in a mirror. “Well then,” she asked cagily, “will you take a Kendall wager?”

  She plucked an apple from the basket on the table and walked outside. She beckoned to Mary, and the girl scampered happily after her. “Mary,” she whispered, placing the apple in the girl’s palm, “would you kindly run and place this on the fence there?” She tilted her head toward the stone border edging a nearby oatfield. “Quickly now, and there’s a shilling in it for you.”

  The girl did as she was bid, and Lucy rewarded her as promised. “There’s a shilling well-earned,” she said loudly, shooting the older boy a look. She straightened and faced him, holding out her hand. “Now, about that wager. Albert, may I borrow your sling?” She nodded toward the leather strap protruding from his pocket.

  He squinted at the distant target, then eyed her dubiously. “You can’t hit that.”

  “If I miss, I’ll owe you a shilling. And if I hit the mark—”

  Albert snorted.

  “If I hit the mark,” she repeated coolly, “you must accept a half-crown.” She took the scrap of leather from the boy’s hand and bent to select a suitable stone from the path. “It’s a wager, then?” she asked, fitting the stone to the sling.

  He nodded. Lucy glanced briefly at Miss Osborne, who appeared to be watching the exchange with great amusement. Lucy felt a brief pang of conscience. Striking wagers with obstinate boys probably didn’t befit the Countess of Kendall. But hang it all, the “fine lady” routine didn’t seem to be fooling anyone. It certainly wouldn’t buy Mary more bread.

  Miss Osborne’s gaze met hers. Lucy shrugged and smiled. She took aim at the apple, set the sling in motion with a flick of her wrist, and released.

  The apple exploded in a cloud of white pith. Albert’s mouth fell open.

  Lucy dug a half-crown from her reticule. She handed it and the sling back to the slack-jawed boy. “If it’s pride you’re concerned about, Albert—next time, take the charity. It will cost you less.”

  Albert blinked. He looked down at the coin and the sling, then the fence, then back at Lucy. Flashing an amused glance in Lucy’s direction, Miss Osborne reached out and tweaked his ear.

  “Albert, I believe the words you’re searching for are, ‘Yes, my lady.’”

  “You have a problem.”

  Jeremy looked up from his letter, surprised. Why he should be surprised, he didn’t know. After their argument that morning, he’d spent the day expecting—hell, even anticipating—the imminent descent of Lucy’s wrath. At least, he noted from her determined stride, her ankle appeared to have mended.

  “I have a problem?” he repeated.

  “A serious problem. Your tenants hate you.”

  He sat back in his chair. She wanted to talk about his tenants? “Yes, I know.”

  “No, I mean they truly hate you! When the name Kendall is spoken, old people spit on the ground. Mothers threaten their children with your name. ‘Do as I say, or I’ll have Lord Kendall come and take you to the poor-house.’ People despise you.”

  “And you see this as a problem.”

  “Of course! Don’t you?”

  He sighed, laying his quill on the desk. “A problem is something I can attempt to remedy. This—this is more of a reality. If it makes you feel any better, it’s my father they truly hated. Me, they intensely dislike. So far.”

  “I went visiting tenants today, and the children shrank from me in fear!”

  “You went visiting tenants? With whom?”

  “Miss Osborne, the doctor’s daughter. And an escort of outriders.” Her green eyes flashed. “My lord.”

  Jeremy rubbed his temples. He’d known that would come back to haunt him. “Listen, Lucy, about this morning …”

  She cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand. “I met two children today who are orphaned, most likely. Their mother is most certainly dead, and their father has been transported to Australia. Can you guess his crime?”

  Yes, he thought. He had a reasonably certain idea.

  “Trapping one miserable partridge to feed his ailing wife and their children. One bird, worth a sentence of transportation.” Indignation burned red on her cheeks. She bit the fingertip of one glove and pulled it off.

  He rose from his chair and rounded the desk to stand beside her. “Lucy, my father was a very harsh lord. He was especially unforgiving toward poachers. It’s regrettable, but there’s nothing that can change it now.”

  “But your father is dead,” she said, peeling off her other glove. “You’re the lord now. Certainly you’d never go making orphans of poor children, just for the sake of a partridge.” She untied her bonnet and flung it onto a nearby chair. “Yet the tenants still fear you, despise you. Why don’t they understand that you’re nothing like your father? That you’re a kind and generous and not at all hateful man?”

  Jeremy leaned against the desk, his head spinning. He felt drunk, giddy. Maybe it was the fact that his wife kept shedding articles of clothing like an opera dancer. He stared, utterly rapt, as she untied her pelisse with nimble fingers and tossed it carelessly on the mounting heap of garments. It was too much to hope that she might continue with her boots, her stockings, her gown, and her shift. But a man could dream.

  Then again, perhaps it was her words that had set the room whirling. Kind, had she called him? Generous? During the course of one day, he’d gone from “addle-brained brute” to “not at all hateful”? If this trend continued, by tomorrow she’d be spouting poetry. And somehow, most strange and dizzying of all those descriptors were those so casually uttered words, “nothing like your father.” As if she could know.

  “It bothers you that much, what the tenants think of me?”

  “Of course it does!” She sagged against the desk next to him. “Because if they hate you, they hate me!”

  He chuckled. Ah, yes. He ought to have known there was a sensible reason behind this veritable outpouring of affection.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy, but their opinion of me is not likely to improve anytime soon.” He stood and crossed to the window, looking out over the uneven landscape. “You have to understand, this isn’t Waltham Manor. There, a man can toss a handful of seed at the ground and reap a bountiful harvest five months later. This is hard land. Rocky soil, unevenly watered. The wheat harvest failed this year. Last year, the barley. I’m attempting to do now what my father ought to have done years ago—improve the land, rotate the crops. Irrigate the dry areas, drain the wet. But in order to make the reforms, we’ve had to coerce
the tenants to cooperate. They resist change. It means more work for them, at increased risk. So they’ve been told they must farm by the practices the steward proscribes, or I will revoke their lease.”

  He turned back to Lucy. “You can well imagine, that makes me rather unpopular. In the end, they’ll reap the benefit, but for now … for now, they hate me.”

  Lucy sighed, folding her arms across her chest. “They hate us.”

  Her brow furrowed with frustration, and her lips pursed in a sulky pout. Jeremy thought to remedy both conditions by crossing the room and taking her mouth in a long, deep kiss. Instead, he leaned against the windowpane. Because there she’d gone again, setting the room awhirl with the tiniest word.

  Us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “So this is our breakfast room.”

  Jeremy looked up from his newspaper, eyebrows raised. He was obviously surprised to see her, but—Lucy fancied—pleasantly so. “Our breakfast room,” he said with a bemused expression. “Yes. I’m glad you finally decided to search it out. Perhaps later you’d care to tour the rest of the house?”

  She smiled. “I think I would.” After all, it wasn’t as though she could keep to her suite forever. Yesterday’s outing hadn’t quite matched her expectations, but Lucy’s first taste of a countess’s responsibilities had not been entirely bitter. In fact, she felt rather hungry for more.

  She plucked a pastry from the buffet and circled the room slowly, pausing to study a portrait hanging above the mantel. It appeared to be a vague likeness of her husband. His general figure seemed about right—broad shoulders, erect posture. Those heart-stopping blue eyes were captured rather well. But Jeremy’s hair was black as jet, not that auburn color. And his jaw—the artist had his jaw all wrong. Far too rounded.