Like all of Sir Henry’s estate, the lake was landscaped to perfection: the grass neatly clipped to the edge, a secluded bench tucked beneath a copse of willows that wept into the water, and three lanterns on metal poles swayed in a light breeze.
Letting her eyes absorb the beauty, she seated herself upon the bench and breathed deeply of the freshness. If truth be told, she preferred the Wychmere estate, where scruffy coppices and antique oaks tangled side by side. Here one could tell that man had interfered – nature tamed.
A twig snapped and she spun, palm to chest, smiled as a frog launched into the lake with a splash, ripples scattering.
But then a larger creature stepped forth from the darkness.
A silhouette of black parted the curtains of willow and she gasped, pulse thumping till a man filled the glow of the three lit lanterns.
Clad in verdant green and chestnut brown, he’d leaves attached to the shoulders of his jacket, ivy encircling his throat in lieu of a cravat. A golden mask concealed all above his lips, gilded oak leaves and acorns ascending until a coronet formed about his head. And above were fleeting rigid antlers of glittering gold that caught the lanternlight, magnificent and proud.
Awareness arced through her.
It simmered – unknown and real andfeeling.
Of course it was Lord Ernest, for who else could appear as a wild creature yet at the same time, regal and wise with woodland knowledge?
“An exquisite moonlit swan lured to the water,” this King of the Forest declared. “May I sit by you?”
Had he recognised it was her?
Lord Ernest wore no spectacles and she put glove to cheek, knew her ivory mask with plumed feathers concealed all to her lips, that Aunt had clapped her hands and declared Hebe a reborn and unburdened creation this night.
Was Lord Ernest showing his true colours in approaching an unknown woman in the gardens?
Yet…
Had she herself not yearned to be someone other for this masquerade?
Not Hebe Locke, shackled by her past, disliked for her glares of ice and aloof disdain of masculine advances.
But a swan, at liberty, admired for its elegance, poise and beauty.
Free.
“You may, Sir Stag,” she huskily whispered, a voice so unlike her own – sensual and soft.
He roamed over and with a flip of coat-tails, sat beside her. Close.
Water mint and fresh cool air.
“What brings you to the lake, my beguiling swan?” he enquired, crossing his booted feet, no dancing slippers for this resplendent King of the Forest.
Flapping her white feather fan, Hebe coquettishly laughed – so easy when you pretended to be someone else. “Too many wolves in the ballroom.”
“Perhaps I could trample them to the ground for you.”
“Are stags not more or less benign animals?”
He leaned near, face twisted from the lake, gaze intent, and she breathed deep of leaf and earth. His eyes without spectacles gleamed in the liquid night behind that mask of gold.
“Not,” he purred, “when on rut.”
Hebe gulped, her myriad of ripostes and scowls fleeing in the face of this seductive creature.
For despite his wicked words, she also knew this man could be tender and kind, virtuous and gentle.
At long last, she cleared her befogged thoughts and throat. “And are you enjoying the sights and wonders of the masquerade also, Sir Stag?”
