Hebe gaped. “That’s my finest blue kid leather.”
“Hmm. And I suppose,” he drawled, sliding a palm up her ankle, “that these are your finest stockings?”
“Yes. French silk and with clocks of silver. Ten shillings for six pairs.”
“So you have five more then.” And they both watched as his rough hand nudged her skirts upwards, displaying the pure-white stockings with silver-threaded motif. Further his fingers crept to her knee. A shiver shook her. And then higher, to where blue ribbons secured them. Busily, he started unravelling.
She bit her lip. “What if I tread on a stinging nettle?”
“Ah,” he said, rolling the stocking off with protracted deliberation. In truth, he was torturing no one but himself as her silken limb was revealed. “But you might not. And therein lies the excitement.”
“I saw one of our Rothwell grooms after the Nettle Thrashing contest,” she rasped, thrusting out her other leg for the same attention. “He was rash red as those maidens besieged him with dock leaves.”
“The maidens’ touch probably soothed more than the docks,” he replied hoarsely, chucking her other shoe aside, sliding his hands up and untying the knot of her garter ribbon, fingers lingering, all gentlemanly conduct abandoned to the daylight hours. He drew her skirts back down and stiffly stood. “Come walk along the river with me.”
“It’s all well for you with those leather boots.” She picked her way gingerly, peering to the carpet of moss and grass.
“I’ve done this naked,” he drawled.
Hebe swallowed and moistened her lips. “Naked?”
“I like to swim in the river as I do in the moat, but only here can I strip off all my trappings, away from prying eyes.” He twisted to her as they wandered the bank. “Though you saw me in the moat the night of the races, did you not?” He reached out to affix a pendulous flower to her crown. “Did you like what you saw, Hebe? For I needed the cold to quell my ardour.”
Wryly, she hoisted a brow. “You know very well you are finely built, Lord Ernest Brook, and need no praise from me.”
He smirked and dallied with her blond curl. “So how does it feel? The grass in your toes?”
“Rather…nice.” She shifted foot to foot. “Cool and soft.”
A tangled copse of willow and birch prevented further progress along the bank, brambles binding, and then he could bear it no longer, nature issuing its demand, so he thrust a hand to her nape and kissed his queen of the woodland.
Hebe did not protest.
Her lips parted, accepted him.
His hands roamed to her breast, caressing the sensitive peak beneath her dress, heard and felt her moan against his mouth.
“If you knew the need you rouse in me, Hebe…” And he tugged her yet closer, his hands straying over buttock and waist, desire trampling him beneath its dancing feet.
Hebe responded, passionate and yet…
Tentative.
Her lashes fluttered like a frightened butterfly and her palms lay flat against his chest, not wandering but quiescent, and Ernest knew, he damn well knew, he had to cease.
She was still afraid of stepping on those cursed nettles, of hurt and anguish.
Perchance he could beguile and drug her with his fierce kiss and ardent touch.
Seduce her.
But in the aftermath, that would be how she felt. Seduced. Enticed.
And he wanted Hebe to so yearn for him… The way he so yearned for her. To embrace this passion for herself, helpless to do otherwise. With no blame or regret.
Like all wounded and wary creatures, she would approach when ready, when she trusted him. Not through acceptance but through desire and sheer need.
The need of him.
