Goddess of the Hunt Read Online Free PDF

mother’s opal earring slipped from her ear, landing in Aunt Matilda’s cup with a splash.
    “Don’t laugh, Jemmy. Don’t you dare laugh.”
    Drat . Given the endless parade of governesses that had marched through Waltham Manor, Lucy was forced to admit that she ought to have paid the tiniest bit of attention to one or two of them.
    Jeremy stood over her shoulder, looking down at her easel. Her work of the past hour had resulted in a tolerably good likeness of a mud puddle.
    She had meant to capture the autumn glory of a distant oak tree, its orange-red foliage branching across a clear blue sky. She had begun by coating the entire paper with a lovely wash of brilliant blue. It was an excellent sky. Bold, cloudless, and indicative of untapped creative genius. No mundane tea tray, no matter how cunning, could possibly hope to touch her sky.
    But then she’d started in with the orange. Only, when she laid the brush to the still-wet sky, she did not get orange, but brown. Worse yet, the brown would not stay put in nice little leaf-like shapes.
    Watery brown rivulets streaked the paper like muddy tears. The more she attempted to fix it, the more hideous it became, until the entire painting was nothing but a soggy mess.
    “Don’t. You. Dare,” she ground out.
    He bent low over her shoulder, as if examining her work. There was something vaguely unsettling in the way he loomed over her, his broad shoulders blotting out the sun. She felt the sudden impulse to shrink away—or shrink closer.
    “I would not dream of daring.” The solemn bass of his voice resonated deep in her body, thrilling her in an intimate, unexpected fashion. An unwelcome fashion. “And neither should you. Daring fashion. An unwelcome fashion. “And neither should you. Daring only invites disaster. By all means, stick to watercolors.”
    She looked up sharply. Their faces were but a hand’s breadth apart. Too close to gauge his expression. She saw only a collection of features. Black hair sweeping over a heavy brow. Full lips. A strong, square jaw. Blue eyes.
    Bold, brilliant blue.
    Lucy shut her paint box with a defiant snap. Proper, staid, insufferable man. Stick to watercolors, indeed.
    “You’re going about this all wrong,” he said coolly. “A silk gown, watercolors … do you honestly believe they’ll catch Toby’s attention?”
    “They worked for her.” Sophia sat a few yards in front of them, near the edge of the stream. She bent over her own easel, where a study of cattails arching over the riverbank appeared delicate, detailed, and remarkably dry.
    “You’re not her.”
    “I can’t believe you would presume to advise me on courtship. I haven’t noticed you bringing a wife around.”
    “That’s because I don’t wish to marry.”
    She gave a sardonic laugh. “Oh, I see. Bachelorhood is your choice. It has nothing to do with your dearth of charm.”
    “This from the girl whose concept of a romantic overture is a bullet whistling overhead.”

    She leveled a paintbrush at him. “Don’t bring up marksmanship.
    You’re the worst of the four in that pursuit, too. But I suppose it’s by design,” she said. “You simply don’t wish to shoot the pheasants?”
    A strange expression crossed his face. One Lucy had never seen before. A flash of blue surprise, quickly crushed by his heavy brow.
    When he spoke, icicles hung from his words. “Believe what you will.”
    He straightened to his full height. “Do what you will. It’s none of my concern.” He stalked off to rejoin the gentlemen.
    Lucy was tempted to throw her paint box at his head. She would have hit her target, too. Unlike him, she knew how to aim.
    Sophia interrupted her vengeful thoughts. “Are you finished painting, Miss Waltham? May I see?”
    “Of course,” Lucy replied, still quietly seething. She jerked the paper out from under the easel clips and held it aloft between her thumb and forefinger. And then she let go. “Oh dear.” An obliging breeze dropped