Free Goddess of the Hunt by Tessa Dare

it. They’d only seen him driving the barouche back from the village, buried under tittering ladies and pink hatboxes. Thank God they hadn’t seen him hunched over a tiny tea table laden with dainty cream-filled cakes, or holding up three lengths of satin ribbon—one in either hand, the third caught in his teeth—just so Lucy could stand back three paces and compare them from afar.
    And it didn’t end there. The events of the past three days formed a chain of small degradations. New links were added hourly, as Lucy spun ridiculous fantasies of how a besotted man ought to behave.
    A besotted man, according to Lucy, would gather hundreds of hawthorn berries from a thorny hedgerow, happily sacrificing several hours and a nearly-new coat for the distant promise of tart, seedy jam.
    A besotted man, evidently, would sit by his lady’s side at the pianoforte and turn pages for her—even if the only tune his lady knew was a vulgar drinking song, which she played from memory at a dirge-like tempo for nearly an hour straight.

    A besotted man would share his brandy.
    A besotted man would pet the cat.
    A besotted man would smile .
    And a besotted man would give up a perfectly fine afternoon of sport to take the ladies shopping.
    How had he let the ruse get so out of hand? He was the Earl of Kendall, for God’s sake. He employed six-and-twenty footmen—in London alone—to heed his every command. Now he catered to the whims of a despot in dotted muslin. Being in league with Lucy was a fate far worse than truly being besotted. Bedraggled, bedeviled, beleaguered—he felt each in turn, and often all three at once.
    A dozen times a day, Jeremy resolved to break off this farce of a flirtation. He could never quite bring himself to do it. His friends’
    ribbing and his own bruised pride notwithstanding, the plan was working admirably. Aside from purchasing an obscenely ugly bonnet, Lucy had not, to his knowledge, committed any further reckless acts. She had not invaded Toby’s bedchamber.
    But Jeremy couldn’t keep her out of his.
    As if Lucy’s capricious demands weren’t punishment enough by day, the true torment began at night. At night, she drove him utterly mad
    —in dreams. Indecent, immoral, exceedingly vivid dreams. Dreams of creamy flesh and berry-stained lips. Dreams of satin ribbons and silky skin, sliding under both hands and caught in his teeth. Dreams of brandy-scented breath coming hot on his neck and bawdy lyrics urging him on. Dreams that aroused him so powerfully, they roused him from sleep, slick with sweat and aching for release.
    Damn it all, a man of nine-and-twenty should have long outgrown this sort of adolescent panting. Jeremy thought he had outgrown it.
    As a youth, he’d enjoyed his share of frantic fumbles with chambermaids and village girls. Then it was off to Cambridge, where they’d all studied gambling and wenching with greater diligence than philosophy or physics. Add in a year spent sampling the delights of the Mediterranean. Then it was back to Town, back to the ton .
    Time, his father had charged him, to settle down and select a bride.
    He needed to produce an heir, secure the line—and the promise of an earldom and one of England’s most sizeable fortunes meant Jeremy might look as high as he pleased. A suitable bride, in his father’s opinion, would have been a lady of fair face and delicate breeding, from established lines and old money. A handsome catch.
    A trophy.
    As usual, his father had been disappointed.
    Jeremy attended the requisite balls, the musicales, the dinner and card parties. And he pursued ladies, yes. Eminently unsuitable ones. Willing widows, mostly, with no wish to remarry. The occasional talented actress, an elite courtesan or two. Every conquest held a double thrill—satisfying his own desires while thwarting his father’s.
    Then, two years ago, he’d returned to London as the Earl of Kendall. It took only a few more meaningless trysts to realize the thrill was