“It was my own fault,” she comforted. “I was unwise and never should have–”
Ernest reared, lips curled, and reached out to clasp her cheeks. “No, Hebe.” She’d never seen him so ferocious. “This was never your fault. Never.” His hands loosened to clutch her shoulders. “That man deceived not an unwise girl, but an innocent one. One that deserved all respect and love. He was not some charmer but a monster, can you see that?”
“I do see that now. But I only ever see monsters now.” She shyly tilted her head. “I thought you one.”
He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Perhaps monsters can lurk in all of us to some degree, created through pain or jealousy, ruthlessness or ambition. So we must all strive for…love.”
She nodded. “So much has changed within me. As a young girl, I believed in love but now all I see is betrayal and deceit.”
“If you had seen Grampy Tom with his Charlotte or Mrs Pettifer with her Luke, you could not doubt true love.”
Hebe smiled, recalled the old stable master’s vivid memories of his Charlotte.
“And my brother…” Lord Ernest winked. “Has improved no end.”
“My lips are sealed.” She gazed up. “But…for yourself, have you ever felt that kind of love? You’ve had many…affairs in London.” It was rather a personal question, she knew.
His gaze flickered. “Not in London, no, Hebe.”
And curiously, that made her content. “Well… I apologise for burdening you–”
A kiss caught her unawares, here in the middle of the wild forest.
“No, Hebe,” he whispered. “I am honoured to be your confidant.” Lord Ernest released her and stretched out his calloused hand. “I so wish I could do more.”
She clasped it, their fingers plaiting. “You have done more than you could know.”
He gathered the horse’s reins in his other hand and they continued walking, each quiet now, but Hebe with a lighter step, Stanley ambling behind them with soft pants and querulous snorts.
Ofttimes, she had felt as though Tobias had cut her within, to a woman of sharp rebukes and barbed retorts, her own tongue a knife and her emotions a jagged empty gash of nothingness.
Yet in her time here in the Cotswolds, she’d begun to feel more…herself.
Content.
Her true self.
This gentleman walking beside her was as different to her husband as heaven to hell, and he’d not sought to persuade or assure her that the fears would go with time but had just…listened.
To listen was precious.
The forest began to clear a little, a few creamy flowers dotting the terrain, and a dart of sunbeam touched the woodland floor. Leaves crunched beneath their feet and a few birds now chirped from low branches.
Their hands were still clasped.
And as he led her, a view appeared that stole her breath.
For ahead lay a meadow of wildflowers – pinks and whites streaking in scattered patterns, and behind it, a manor house of butter hue and stone slate roof. Two square towers framed it at either end, three thick chimney stacks cresting the skyline.
“Does it look haunted to you?” queried Lord Ernest.
She cocked her head. Listened and surveyed.
A rabbit darted through the meadow, ears bobbing in the long grass, and a massive oak spread its branches, leaves caressing the stone walls of a barn.
The windows were shuttered as though the manor were sleeping but swifts darted from their homes beneath the eaves and aged lichen smothered the steps and balustrades that led to the pedimented door.
She pictured the stone cleaned and the window frames painted, the roof fixed and a garden in front – not too landscaped, just a dash…tamed. A few horses would graze the meadow and the view would be of this forest behind them – not frightening, just ancient and knowing.
