“And a man cannot change?” He peered over his spectacles at her, hand clasped to knee.
She stifled a twitch of lip with little success. “Can you actually see anything when you do that?”
“I’ll have you know, Mrs Locke, that this look once caused a debutante to swoon in her trifle.”
“Perhaps the custard was off?”
“Hebe, dear,” Mrs Cassell interrupted. “Why don’t you show Lord Ernest your sketches?”
“Hebe.” He repeated the name in a long whisper. Study of the Classics had passed him by at school, but his brother had a painting of that goddess of youth in his drawing room, one which had always affected Ernest – a woman natural and wild but at peace. She fed an eagle from a golden cup, blossoms strewn in her hair.
“An apt given name, if I may say so, Mrs Locke.” Perhaps this was the moment to inveigle her full name but for some reason, wagers with his brother seemed a world away from this place, this meadow.
She sniffed. “I have never thought it so.”
But he did. Could see it hidden within her. She might sit so prim with spine erect and feet tucked in, but an urge for the untamed revealed itself in her discarded bonnet, long curls now drifting in the light breeze, and in the plucked daisies that dotted her skirts.
One day, Ernest silently vowed, he’d place blossoms in her hair, smother her naked body with his own amongst these meadow flowers and take her with the sunshine beating upon his back.
But for now…
“May I see?”
With a sniff, she relinquished her sketchbook and he leisurely flipped through the leaves…
The foal on precarious legs, eyes alarmed at the new world – tender and exquisite.
The dam, exhausted but at peace – serene and emotive.
A stallion galloping through the meadow, his noble bearing reflected in every line of charcoal – fluid and passionate.
On occasion, he’d been invited to view some nobleman’s painting of a horse – staid and unnatural portraits to commemorate a win.
But these sketches…
They breathed life and love.
They encapsulated why he adored horses so much.
He gazed up and watched as she perused a mare’s swishing tail. Saw Hebe Locke with entirely new eyes, for no one could sketch in such a way if that icy exterior sank to the core.
“They are truly beautiful,” he said softly, handing back the book. “You have a unique talent.”
She startled. “Thank you.”
“And I believe you are visiting Squire Skelton’s and Sir Henry Winkworth’s stables over the next few days. I have asked that a carriage be left at your disposal. Any hour you require.”
“Our utmost thanks, Lord Ernest,” the aunt gushed. “I’m sure Hebe is most grateful, aren’t you, dearest?”
“Beyond doubt.”
“Do be careful of Sir Henry though,” he added. “I could escort you, if you wish, as he has an eye for the ladies.”
She arched a blond brow.
“And fingers for them…” He waggled his own leather-gloved paw.
A smirk betrayed her act of indifference as she commenced sketching once more while Mrs Cassell, with a roll of eyes, wandered off to investigate the picnic basket attached to her mare’s saddle in the shade of the trees.
