“’Tis no matter. Time is all that’s needed. He’s dead, dear. He no longer has you.”
The candlelight flickered as if to disagree, and though Hebe nodded, her heart was in accord with the sentient flame.
Wherever she was and whatever she did, in her uncontrollable slumber, her husband still held her within his clutches.
And he would never let her go.
1
A RAKE IS NOT BORN BUT SHAPED…BY MANY HANDS
LONDON.SUMMER, 1816.
Poppy-red lips parted in persuasion.
Ebony-tipped lashes drifted shut in invitation.
So Ernest slanted close to ki–
A distant shriek floated across Hyde Park and he paused – three inches afar.
“Ignore it, Lord Ernest,” the poppy-red lips snapped. “You’ve been rusticating in the Cotswolds for an age and I’ve missed…you.” A leather-gloved hand trailed his waistcoat buttons in a southerly direction. “Perhaps we should withdraw further into the shrubbery, hidden from prying eyes.”
A sound idea and he–
Panicked bellows carried through the trees and Ernest paused once more – now two inches afar.
Those poppy-red lips thinned, ebony-tipped lashes forming a slit. “I don’t care if London is falling. Kiss me!”
The disgruntled Lady Conway made for a delectable sight, embosked as she was by the laurel and low-hanging branches of an oak, but another shriek ensued and if London truly were falling, perhaps he should lend a hand in its defence.
Leather-clad fingers, however, captured his twisting cheek. “I’ll die if you don’t kiss me.”
Somewhat melodramatic but never having been one to cause a lady death by frustration, Ernest slanted to–
A crack of whip tore the air and he halted – one inch afar.
Horses screamed and he hauled himself away, ignoring the unladylike growl and stamp of delicate booted foot.
Swivelling, he pushed up his spectacles and peered across the parkland.
Between the trees lining the far path, he caught the flash of a yellow curricle hurtling from the direction of the north-east Cumberland Gate, its two matched bays stampeding with a distinct lack of control.
Hanging along the wooden fence that separated the avenue from the grassed walkway were a row of backsides, urchins whooping and jeering. Afternoon riders skittered to the edges, tots were dragged to their nurses’ skirts, gentlemen ushered their ladies to safety, and not one damn person was doing a thing to halt the horses’ trajectory towards the Serpentine Lake.
The curricle teetered and tipped upon taking a shallow corner before coming into direct view, the damn fool driver lashing his whip in panic once more, propelling the horses to yet greater fright, and even from this distance, Ernest could see the reins being yanked as though attempting to halt a four-score-gun warship from sliding down a slipway.
In five strides, Ernest had leaped the shrubbery fence, stabbed a Hessian boot into his stirrup and flung himself upon Stanley, his grey gelding, who gazed down the avenue in dismay.
“Lord Ernest! If youmustabandon me…” He twisted to view a lace pink handkerchief fluttering through the air. “For luck, my knight-errant.”
It settled forlornly to the fence post.
Stanley snickered.
With a kiss to his fingers, Ernest blew his adieu to Lady Conway and snapped the reins to set off for the impending disaster.
He leaned low upon Stanley’s neck, cherished the rush of air and sense of freedom as they garnered speed, the iron-hued mane flicking against his skin. “Now, lad,” he murmured, “you’re not going to like this one bit, but there are oats and a carrot in it for you.”
