She’d always considered her own eyes a wintry blue but his were the warmth of a deep summer sky.
“No. Father considered them a waste of money.” She likewise bent down and tentatively patted the cat’s head.
It contorted from her touch and stared. And stared. And stared.
Hebe’s eyes darted away, hand dropping.
“And your late husband? Did he not buy you a kitten or puppy?”
She blinked before a burst of laughter gushed forth.
And then frowned. For recollections of Tobias had never once caused laughter – even ironic laughter – but the idea was so nonsensical…
“No. He disliked animals.”And me.
“Well,” he said, rising, “I had hoped to chat more at dinner and meet Mrs Cassell but I will be in Wychmere village again.”
Really, she shouldn’t.
But she did.
“With the fair Lydia?” she interrogated, lashes batting.
Depraved rake or compassionate enchanter?
“Oh, you’ve heard about her. Good.” Lord Ernest rubbed his palms together, inhaling with pleasure. “She’s a handful and no mistake, but I’ll make sure I leave her gratified. And now her sister wants me too, but who am I to say no?”
Hebe’s lips parted.
The dissolute buck fitch.
And her mind easily plopped him back into his designated pit.
Depraved rake.
“I believe I’ll return to the stables,” she said icily, twisting away. “I find horses to be more salubrious company.”
MRSLOCKE STOMPED BACKup the garden path without so much as a backwards glance at either himself or Twinkle.
What on earth had caused her abrupt flight? Had his absence tonight offended her? After all, as host he should be the provider of musical entertainment and scintillating conversation.
She swished through the doors to the stable courtyard as he followed at a fair clip, her cinnamon skirts brushing by Scape the goat as though he wasn’t there.
“All well, my lord.”
“No, Grampy Tom, it is not,” he growled, coming to a halt on the cobbles. “It appears I can say nothing to Mrs Locke without giving offence. She’s as cross as two sticks with me.”
“Well, I tell thee again, ’tis all those florid layers thee put on nowadays.”
Ernest peered down at his natty superfine jacket and striped waistcoat. “This is all the rage in London.”
“Weren’t talking of thee togs.”
The old stable master breathed deep, perused the low-flying crows, peered at the one cloud, scrutinised the sleeping dogs.
Grampy Tom could be rather cryptic on occasion.
“Thee need to listen to I…”
