“A sumptuous affair, yet I saw you and had no choice but to follow, for tonight I prefer to be here with a swan in the peace of the wild.” He removed his gloves, revealing those capable yet caring hands.
Hebe shivered, feathers wafting as the breeze lifted and a lament of violins carried from the ballroom. “But a stag stalks alone, does he not? Arrogant and proud.”
“Likewise a swan until she finds a mate,” he murmured, calloused fingers reaching out to caress a white feather that splayed from her mask. “Gliding unaccompanied on her lake – solitary and alone.”
Hebe’s lips parted. He spoke her deepest fears, that she isolated herself not just from male company but from…everyone.
“Yet are you not also solitary and alone?” she reflected softly. “Prowling in your forlorn splendour? For it seems to me, the stag indulges in the adulation of his females when it suits, but in the end, will always leave them for the liberty of the woods.”
Fingertips brushed her mask and then…at last, that capable hand cupped her chin as she had wanted it to.
“Perhaps I seek the one who would join me in such liberty.”
Lord Ernest would kiss her – she witnessed the flare of his eyes, the tilt of head, but she was now convinced he knew her not, was merely flirting with an unknown woman as he must do each and every night whilst in London.
Yet he waited, watched, offering her the chance to draw away, and she ought to, should stab him with her fan but…
The breeze dipped.
The music faded.
And her eyes drifted shut as those sculpted lips met hers, purely brushing at first, hand motionless upon her chin. Then his mouth firmed, pressing and delving.
“Kiss me,” he whispered. And she realised she’d been acquiescent, merely feeling the touch of him.
So Hebe responded, tentative and measured, but he groaned nevertheless, and she arched close as a new fever seared, unfamiliar and thrilling, his rough hand reaching to grasp her nape, to draw her closer still.
Submerged… She felt submerged in sensation – the rapid beating of her heart, the warmth of this man, his expert lips and gentle touch.
A gasp escaped her as their bodies met, his mouth now kissing along the pulse in her neck, voice husky as he whispered words of admiration…
“Exquisite. Divine… My Hebe.”
She jerked back, hand to his chest.
The King of the Forest startled, head lifting, and she squawked as a gilded antler caught on a stray curl.
“Hell, I’m sorry, Hebe,” he growled, fingers tender as he reached for the tangle.
She stared mutely… “You…you knew it was I?”
His lips quirked as he unravelled the strands of hair, so close she could see the burgeoning blond stubble on his chin and the ivy engravings on his mask.
“Of course. I recognised at once your pretty lips and silken hair.” He halted in his task, eyes meeting hers, resolute and searing in the lanternlight. “And I hope you knew it was I? At least, I presumed so.”
“Of course. I recognised your…” She could hardly wax eloquent about his chiselled jaw or the fanciful notion that his nature shone through any disguise. “I recognised your…teeth.”
“There we are then,” he said, displaying them in a grin before he continued disentangling. “And I hope you also realise that I don’t go around kissing beguiling swans willy-nilly.”
“Well…” She frowned. No, she didn’t. And a strange war waged within – disappointment that her disguise had been so easily seen through, yet elation that he’d wanted to kiss Hebe Locke. Not some unknown woman.
Her hair unravelled from the splayed golden antler and she was almost upset to be thusly parted.
“Would you care to return for a dance, Hebe?” He held an open palm out, a scar upon the middle finger shining silver in the moonlight. “I shall keep any wolves at bay and you can trust me to behave myself.”
“I know tha–” Hebe brought a hand to her mouth.
Because in that moment, she realised that shedidtrust him. To protect her. Not to hurt her in any way.
