Now she did…
Wayward images formed of Lord Ernest’s body covering hers, of his lips tasting her neck, hands skimming her breasts and waist. Would he find her lack of curves wanting?
She imagined that blue gaze searing as he unfastened her chemise – not just shoving it high as Tobias had done. She envisioned being allowed to touch Ernest, his bared skin and–
“Are you listening, dear?”
“Er…” Hebe sat up. “No.”
“I’m going to leave you to rest now, Hebe, but the book is here should you wish to finish it.” Aunt patted the leather cover and rose with a smile. “There is a fresh candle by your bed but rouse me should you need anything. Good night, dearest.” A gentle buss was deposited upon Hebe’s cheek before she wafted off in a sea of emerald silk, closing the door gently behind her.
For a while, Hebe merely lay, listening to the creak of timbers and hoot of owl. She smiled at Aunt’s theatrical reading of the Duke of Bigley. She thought of her unexpected desire for Lord Ernest. She remembered his utter compassion in the forest.
And then, for the first time in years, she leaned over to the bedside table and blew out the candle.
It wasn’t as dark as she’d feared, the moon touching her chamber with a soft hand, and as she closed her eyes, all she heard was the deep rumble of Twinkle, all she smelled was the fine-scented herb that she’d discovered tucked beneath her pillow.
Not alone in the dark but comforted.
From her turret window she’d seen Lord Ernest and the stable master ride out earlier and she wondered where to.
Perhaps the local inn of Wychmere where Lettie had divulged the men sometimes supped to a sedate game of dominoes, and Hebe could all too easily imagine them – the honeyed taste of ale, the fragrant aroma of hops and pipe smoke delicately scenting the air…
THE CAPRIC STENCHof The Three Goats ale-house, which as far as Ernest could gather wasn’t an ale-house at all but a backroom of a certain Mr Briggs who had a hemp-dressing and sack-weaving business, made his innards clench.
No chairs were available to take your ease, straw smothered the boards, the tankards were dented as though used as hammers and a single lantern hung from the beam, illuminating the curling smoke of the locals’ clay pipes and the fulsome strands of cobwebs shoring up the ceiling.
A return to the Quart Pot Inn would have been Ernest’s preference but the one ale per drinking establishment rule had been strictly enforced.
The lads had split into groups – the younger playing with cards, the elder playing with barmaids while Redmond had bumped into Will Skelton’s stable master at the bar counter, so Ernest loitered in the corner alone.
He pondered on what the scum could be that floated across the top of his ale and forlornly hoped it was soap.
“Lookin’ fer sommin’ more, ’andsome?” He swivelled to a young barmaid who’d sidled up to him. “Ale? Pie? Or…” She twiddled a matted curl. “Pleasure?”
“Er…” How to be polite? “What’s the pie?”
“Squirrel and carrot.”
Ernest suppressed a wince.
Surely as host of this evening’s spree, he had some say on the choice and order of public houses, so he downed his murky ale in one and cleared his throat to attract the lads’ attention.
“All done,” he called. “Where next?”
THEROTHWELL TROOPtrundled down the hill till they arrived at a three-gabled, timber-framed house with pretty oriel windows in which hung…
A pig carcass?
“Tha be the butchers next door, my lord,” Thos enlightened. “Ale’s at this end.” And all the lads grappled for the minuscule door beneath the third gable.
Feeling a touch light-headed, Ernest tarried awhile to breathe deep of the fresh air and survey the wide thoroughfare with its huddle of shops and houses either side – imagined the centuries of lives lived here before him – and in the far distance, due to Burford’s steep hill, he could view the endless beauty of the Windrush Valley in this sunset hour with its dotted trees and tended fields of gold.
It stirred his soul, a serene peace blanketing, and if one wish could be granted here and now, Ernest knew it would be to have Hebe at his side, to share this timeless view, to clasp hands and smell the summer scent of wheat floating on the bree–
“All done, my lord,” mumbled Daniel, falling out the door. “It be The Bull next.”
“But…” Ernest caught himself.
