He need not say more.
“Where are they now?”
“Awaiting their journey here. There’s a stable in Witney that deals with matched pairs. Mr Whittle has the contacts to make sure they will be well cared for.”
Depraved rake or compassionate enchanter?
Sauntering the path, Hebe attempted to order her mind, to dump Lord Ernest back into his convenient ‘Rake’ pit – but confused emotions kept interfering.
Not least the sensation of his arm beneath her palm. For unlike most society males, muscle twisted beneath cloth and skin, wiry and lean.
A scent of fresh air surrounded him, reminding one of sun-lit meadows.
He sauntered with an easy gait, no mincing or posturing.
And…
“Do you realise that a cat is following us?”
“Fear not,” he said, patting her with a hand sheathed in leather, and she yearned to ask that he remove those gloves to inspect those hands. Perhaps it had all been a dream? “That’s Twinkle.”
She halted on the spot and he startled, elegant in claret jacket, ivory and black striped waistcoat and that damn crooked cravat.
“You named a cat Twinkle?”
“Hmm. I thought it suited him.”
She peered back at…it.
Patchy fur. No ear. Bent tail and a dodgy eye.
How could a polished libertine of London with a reputation to uphold name a cat Twinkle?
And in her, admittedly, limited experience, such men who lived for the seduction of beautiful ladies, yet ultimately cared little for their hearts, would have no concern for ugly misshaped cats.
Indisputably.
Lord Ernest released her arm, stooped on one knee and scratched the cat behind its one ear.
Twinkle rumbled as though a plate of raw fish had been placed before him.
“I found him half-starved in London, lads baiting a dog with him, so I brought Twinkle here. He needs a month or so more and he’ll be just fine.”
Depraved rake or compassionate enchanter?
She couldn’t help herself. “I’m not sure a notorious rake should have such rapport with animals.” Twinkle mewed. “And aren’t cats meant to be discerning?” Hebe held hand to mouth – ordinarily she hoped her disdain was deserved by the recipient, but that had just been…rude.
His lordship grinned. “Well, this one’s not discerning at all. Twinkle sleeps on my bed at night.”
“Ridiculous.” She tutted. “You should glare and shoo it away, like any self-respecting libertine with no care for such emotional entanglements.”
Lord Ernest duly glared and shooed the cat with his hands, lips flattened.
Twinkle purred and nuzzled into the libertine’s leg.
Oh, good grief.
“Did you have no pets as a child?” he enquired, glancing up.
