This close, he noted a slight scar by her right eyebrow, her lashes bronze-tipped and her skin pinking in the sunshine.
Past affairs had been with sophisticated society women who thought to pass the night in pleasure, who preferred his flippant, carnal side, indeed sought it out, but Hebe Locke, he thought, would favour honesty, kindliness and compassion – traits ignored in London.
And never before had he felt the need to enquire of a society widow’s dearly departed, but a yearning to know all about Hebe Locke was rudely interrupting his baser desires.
Her favourite flower, colour and book.
Her deepest wants and dreams.
To know if she’d loved her husband. Or whether it was he who haunted her eyes, the reason for the shadows beneath…
“Hebe dear,” called Mrs Cassell as she arrived back at the blanket and flopped down, cake in hand. “Take care in the sun. Too long and you will burn.”
Her eyes flicked, hands snatching away. “Too true, Aunt. Have you the hour, Lord Ernest?”
“I don’t carry a pocket watch. My apologies.”
“Par-pardon?”
“Never have done. I’m always late. Always lose them and the castle has a damn great sundial attached to its wall. What need have I?” She stared, shoulders tense as though he had five heads and was called Twinkle, so he babbled on, which was most unlike his usual urbane self. “I should mention that Sir Henry has also tendered you both an invite to his masquerade ball in a sennight. Should you wish to attend, there are some costumes in the attic – togas and tails and suchlike.”
Nevertheless, she was still peering at him strangely.
So Ernest licked his lips and cleared his throat. “And if you are still here, there’s the Wychmere Feast in late August. Not that you can fail to attend that one as it’s in the estate grounds. As a Rothwell and in my brother’s absence, I have to elect the fairest maiden of Wychmere to crown as Queen of the Feast.” He winked. “Not an onerous job for an experienced London rake such as I.”
At last, her shoulders loosened.
Phew.
Mrs Locke rose and brushed down her skirts. “Thank goodness for that,” she muttered. “I was beginning to think you too good to be true.”
10
“A RAKE IS A COMPOSITION OF ALL THE LOWEST, MOST IGNOBLE, DEGRADING, AND SHAMEFUL VICES.”
(LORD CHESTERFIELD IN A LETTER TO HIS SON)
“It’s been all my pleasure, Mrs Locke.”
Smooth sensual fingers clutched hers, raising them to curled lips before a tongue swiped out to–
Hebe wrenched her hand from the knave’s grip. There was only so much she would tolerate in order to sketch a five-year-old sorrel thoroughbred gelding.
“Indeed, it has.” She smiled and Sir Henry Winkworth looked askew, doubtless unsure how to construe her words, but being a knave, she was quite certain he would hedge his bets.
He bowed. “I hope you will be attending my little masquerade? Where I will look forward to more…pleasure.”
So predictable.
And…Eugh.
In London she attended balls to keep Aunt company but as a rule, she found society overwhelming, oppressive, and within a ballroom of joyous people, she often felt so alone.
Hebe parted her lips. “I’m not sure–”
“Yes, of course,” interjected Aunt with alacrity, grabbing Hebe’s arm. “We are so looking forward to it, aren’t we, Niece? Please thank your sister for lunch and the tea.” Beatrice hauled her down the manor house steps and to the awaiting coach. “Think of the thoroughbred gelding, dearest,” she whispered as they clambered in. “Lord Ernest was telling me Sir Henry has the finest racing stables in England.”
“Something of his brushed my backside, Aunt, as I leaned over that stable gate.” Hebe scrunched her nose. “And to my distress, I know not what. I can only hope it was his riding crop.”
