Silence descended yet Ernest felt no need to fill it with chatter. For once, a stillness held his blithesome tongue and he was content just to hold a woman. This woman.
Eventually she sighed. “I am almost glad you didn’t show this to me before tonight, as it puts my sketches to shame.”
“None of that, Mrs Locke. I have seen your sketches and they are glorio–”
“The technical aspect,” she interrupted, “needs work. Especially legs.”
“But surely that can be studied. What cannot be studied is the manner in which you encompass their nature so perfectly. The serenity when they munch grass and the speed and freedom when they gallop. That is your talent.” He drew away. Had to draw away. “Come, there’s a fine painting of a forefather with his steed in the Long Gallery. I’ll show you.”
He grabbed the two lanterns and led her from the music room.
“Now,” he grumbled. “I know it’s on this wall somewhere.”
“You do have an awful lot of ancestors.”
“There are forty-eight portraits altogether with another fifty in storage. These are the handsome lot.” And he winked.
She peered at a lady of the Stuart era, all yellow silk and elegant decadence. “I wish we dressed like that nowadays. I love the sumptuousness and all those swishing petticoats.”
“I’m glad us men don’t have to. All that lace.” He shuddered. “That’s Lady Lucy. Rumoured to have been mistress to Charles II. But then every female was, it seems.” They passed a frowning man in plain black. “That’s Sir Rupert. The uncle that supported Cromwell. Miserable fellow. His wife, Lady Barbara Brook, has a naughty twinkle though.”
“Lord Ernest?”
“Hmm? Ah, here’s the blighter. Sir Oswald on his Moroccan Barb. Not as good as Stubbs but–”
“Lord Ernest!”
He halted at her strident tone. Had she thought him irritating? Those luscious lips were twisted as though she’d licked a lemon.
“Your stable of studs and mares. It appears that they are…named after your ancestors here.” She stuttered to a halt. Breathed deep. “And…no one else?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” Gads, this woman scattered his wits. “I name all my horses after forebears. Stanley is titled after my grandfather, the sixth Duke of Rothwell. A stalwart, handsome fellow.”
“I thought… I was told… Oh, heavens.”
With feathers drifting, she flopped to the winged-back chair still positioned across from her bedchamber and then glared at the spine of the book he’d left upon the table.
Her lips thinned; she folded her arms; she scowled at him.
“Have I offended you, Hebe?”
“Would I be wrong in presuming that the night of my fright in the maze you sat here readingCamillawith a cat called Twinkle?”
“Well…”
She placed hand to her cheeks, as though in despair.
Hell, what should he do?
“Lord Ernest,” she bewailed. “Say something rakish so I can hold you in disdain once more. You are becoming far too kind and agreeable in my eyes.”
Ernest grinned.
Now that was easy, and he pushed up his spectacles.
“My exquisite Hebe,” he drawled, not needing to add huskiness for it already clogged his throat. “I wish to drag you from that chair and haul you close till your hips fit tight to mine. I yearn to tangle my hands in your glorious hair and kiss you senseless – rough and tender, wild and deliberate. I desire to carry you to my bedchamber in the Tower – your bed is not big enough – and with my teeth, pluck every feather from that sensuous dress before whispering my lips over every luscious inch of your bared skin till you are breathless with carnal fervour. I want to make savage, gentle and passionate love to you, over and over, deeper and harder, till dawn…next week.” He folded his arms. “How was that?”
Her eyes had widened to trenches of concern and, he liked to hope, arousal.
