“But you mustn’t. I… I don’t know if…” She wrenched her hand away. “I…”
“It began in Hyde Park, you realise,” he mused. “For I went home alone after the theatre. Thinking of you. Your sharp rebukes for that rake and your pretty eyes. I was enchanted.”
Her breath was rapid, hands now twisting her damson skirts to crushed fruits. “But perhaps away from this magical castle and the sway of summer, you’ll come to realise that it’s just–”
“Don’t say it, Hebe. For I will not.” He spoke firmly for he could see the latent fear in her eyes, the scattering of wits that his confession had created, and he hoped her dead husband was burning in hell. “I love you,” he said softly. “And it’s not something that vanishes like a morning mist.”
But he could tell she didn’t hear, listening to some internal soliloquy, and he’d known it would be thus. Tobias Locke may be dead, his grip upon her diminishing, but his memory still caged her heart.
Ernest may have earned Hebe’s trust and passion, but her love was still locked away. Waiting. The key rusted and so very fragile. Encased, perhaps, in broken self-esteem and the terror of loving with all its risks.
And he knew he must tread with the utmost caution.
Be gentle with the key.
“Why mustn’t I love you, Hebe?” And he waited.
Watched.
“I…” she at last whispered. “I do not know what I feel any more. I feel tormented and calm, heated and chill. Restless and still. And I do not know if I can love you as you deserve.”
“What do I deserve?”
“A woman who can give youeverything. All her heart. A woman whole and devoted.”
“I can get devotion from a dog, Hebe. I wish for you as my wife, with all your talent and courage, and furthermore, I do not wish you to give me anything. Love is not a trade. You keep your heart. But we share…ourselves.”
He wasn’t good with words, had trouble comprehending Shakespeare, but he knew what Tobias Locke had taken.
Taken and destroyed.
A crease crinkled her brow – no longer a sculpted stone angel but a confused Hebe.
“S-share?”
“Indeed.” And then he spoke the words that every sinew, every nerve was clamouring against. Ones which he’d decided upon and must now enact. “And you are right. You should leave.”
“Wh-what?”
Smiling, he rose and placed a hand beneath her chin. He would let her go. To think in peace. Free to decide on her love.
No pleading. No words of pressure. No doubts.
He would let her go…
“Your heart is your own, Hebe. I will not tell it where to rest. Ever.” He bent to kiss her. “So you should leave. As soon as possible. I’ll have the carriage readied for the overmorrow as you said.”
Her lashes fluttered like a snared moth. “I… Oh, but…” They caught and closed. “Very well then. W-we shall say goodbye.”
A lump caught in his throat, a sudden vision of loneliness engulfing him, exhaustion scolding he was a fool.
For only forest creatures ever came back to him… His parents had never returned here, Casper had been forever elsewhere, London friends came and went.
She might leave and never come back.
Emotion churned.
He cleared his throat. “No, Hebe, I’m not saying goodbye. For I shall be with you in spirit wherever you go.” He leaned close. Her lashes were wet. “Because I love you deeply, Hebe Locke, and love does not fade away because we are not together.” He caressed her ear. “When you hear a thrush welcome the day, recall our companionship during the feast. When you laugh, remember our joy at winning the races. When you smell wildflowers, remember the house I wish to share with you.” He kissed those wet lashes. “And when you look to the night scattered with stars, remember our bodies deeply entwined, worshipping and loving.” He straightened. “And if you no longer wish those to be just memories, but to share in that love, you’ll know what to do, my beloved Hebe.”
