“Someone with cruelty in their hearts stalks this place,” he finished for her. “And through bad fortune, you stumbled upon it and they removed the veils of enchantment for you.” He stretched out to lift her hand from the coverlet – a gesture of comfort and empathy.
“Yes. Yes, exactly so. I know only too well there is malice in this world, Lord Ernest, but here…” Now her smile crumpled. “It seemed perfection.”
He shifted so near that she noted a darker rim of blue encircled his pupil as he spoke.“‘It’s a delightful thing to think of perfection; but it’s vastly more amusing to talk of errors and absurdities.’”
“Shakespeare?”
“Erm…” Hebe watched in astonishment as a flush sprouted upon his tanned throat and bloomed into his cheeks. “Fanny Burnley actually. I’m reading her novelCamillaat the moment.”
“You enjoy such novels?”
He sheepishly glanced over his spectacles, and she had a notion that, for once, it was no act to enthral. “I do. Always have.”
“I’ll swap you myWicked Rakehell Deceives the Innocent Debutantewhen you’ve finished it.”
“Agreed. I might learn a technique or two.”
She could not contain a giggle but disguised it with a cough.
Silence descended, the pressure of his hand, which had been cool and reassuring, now scorched a fiery brand, abrading her skin and senses.
“Well…” Hebe fidgeted with the coverlet. “I believe I should like to sleep now.” His eyes flicked up, a grin appearing on those sculpted lips. “Alone,” she confirmed with a stern frown.
“Are you sure you do not wish a maid to stay with you?”
“No. And I have…” She waved a hand at the portrait opposite. “Him for company. Who is he?”
“King Charles I, if memory serves. In his later years, but before the chop, obviously. The Rothwells were Royalists although luckily we had a barmy old uncle who supported Cromwell, and aided by his good word and buckets of Rothwell blunt, we managed to keep the castle from being requisitioned.”
The history and age of this place humbled her, to have such a sense of belonging. “I can just imagine you in a cavalier’s magnificence – plumed hat and doublet jacket, lace jabot and a lovelock of hair.”
“One day, I’ll show you the painting of our famed Royalist cavalier Percival, the third Duke of Rothwell. He’s the spit of me.”
“And I suppose he too was a famed Lothario of his day?” she found herself saying, desperate to remind herself of who this man was, of his inherited rakishness perhaps.
Lord Ernest drew yet closer, and she held motionless as his lips nigh brushed her ear. The tips of her hair singed, skin tingling at his water mint breath and scent of forest. He evoked picnics and laughter, trees and sunshine.
“Percival married Lady Heloise at seventeen,” he chided. “And they were prodigiously content – no wonder, what with the siring of ten children.”
Breath clogged as his fingertips tenderly caressed her cheek and their lips met in such a brief caress that she almost…almost leaned in for more.
Her second kiss.
“Good night, Hebe Locke.” His voice was a gruff rasp.
And he abruptly rose from the bed, booted feet silent on the claret-hued rugs.
“Lord…Lord Ernest?”
He twisted, eyebrow raised.
“On occasion, I… I suffer nightmares with the onset of dark, so do not fret if you or your household hear shouts. I am fine. Really.”
His eyes filled with concern, but after a nod, he departed, shutting the door softly behind him, and Hebe flung herself back into the mattress once more, aware that her body shimmered as though lit with stars – aching and searching.
Ernest Brook had brought…desire into her life.
But what the deuce was she supposed to do with it?
