No doubt bloody Twinkle was now curled up to that bosom, basking in warm woman and rubbing himself against soft rosemary-scented hair.
And here he was, the supposed consummate rake, who’d remainedoutsidethe delectable damsel’s chamber for a further hour in order to ensure she slumbered peacefully, that her nightmares would subside with Twinkle nuzzled close.
Ernest ran a hand over his stubbled chin, knew sleep for him would be elusive. Perhaps he’d just finish one more chapter…
13
EQUAL HEARTS BEAT BENEATH A CROW OR A SWAN
Devils, angels, highwaymen and milkmaids.
While Aunt opened the door to the Duchess of Rothwell’s maid, Hebe flung more costumes from the attic trunk onto her sumptuous bed.
Sultans, sailors, flower girls and shepherdesses.
Huffing at the scantiness of the ladies’ costumes, she folded her arms. None of them would do and the masquerade ball was five days hence.
Perhaps she should decline Sir Henry’s invitation, yet Aunt was enamoured with the notion of dancing in disguise, and perhaps a whirling waltz, oyster patties and crisp champagne would fade the memory of that bloodied bird hung on the white marble statue.
They’d briefly crossed paths with Lord Ernest as he’d snatched some toast at breakfast this morning and he’d reassured her that the marble had been cleaned, but it would be a while before Hebe lost herself in such a place again. Over and over, she’d told herself it had been some stable lad’s mischief, a prank to scare a younger boy, yet that poor bird had refused to leave her thoughts…
So she’d dug out her watercolours.
Losing herself in ethereal shades.
When preparing for an oil painting, she first made sketches, to understand the technical detail and study the animal’s poses. Then she brought out her watercolours, would daub fat lines across the pages and scribble notes on the hue of their coats and the shades of their manes when viewed in shadow or sun.
The duke’s hunter was a unique golden dun with black points, limber-legged with a deep girth, and when back in her London home and ready to commence the oil canvas, she could re-examine her swatches and envisage the creature in all its glorious colour once again.
Sighing, Hebe sifted through further masquerade scarfs, marvelling at the rainbow of–
“Another, madam. Bigger than the last.”
Hebe twisted to Cripps who loitered in the doorway, a vast leather trunk elongating his arms.
The third.
These trunks had begun arriving after lunch, all from the attic and all emblazoned with the initials V.B. – an Uncle Virgil Brook apparently, who’d a penchant for masquerades.
Each costume bag had a sketch of its contents sewn to it, but even so, the array was…daunting.
“Er, thank you, Cripps.”
He staggered over and placed it before her, his grey eyes bashful. “They be beautiful, madam,” he murmured, head nodding to the silk within her hands. Yet his brow scrunched. “Perhaps my girl might smile more if I gifted her a scarf like tha.”
Hebe’s own lips curved at the young swain. “I’m sure she would, Cripps.”
Spots of colour marked his cheeks before he bowed, popped an aniseed comfit and loped off.
Girding her loins, Hebe flung open the leather top and delved through the many costumes.
Tavern maids, fairies and Turkish dancers.
She huffed once more.
“Aunt? Do I remember rightly that you attended the notorious Miltons’ masquerade ball last year?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied to the ceiling, reclined as she was on the chaise, head back and eyes closed whilst the Duchess of Rothwell’s maid combed her short hair with expert hand. “I had a fabulous time and no one guessed my identity.”
