“Beggin’ thee pardon, my lord,” mumbled the lad, hand to backside and lip curled as he stumbled past. “Good day, madam.”
Lord Jack glared at them both in all his magnificence.
One of Ernest’s newer studs, he was a blood-bay stallion with sleek muscles, a lean body and lengthy legs. Rugs were draped upon his back and a halter hung skew-whiff from his nose.
Swishing his glossy mane in barely restrained fury, he stamped his hooves, so Ernest fiddled in his pocket and produced another raisin.
“I can understand,” Hebe whispered, “why Redmond forbade me to go near him.”
“He’s restless, to be sure.” Lord Jack snatched the raisin and Ernest righted the halter. “His sire won at Newmarket and his dam, in her day, was a fine competitor. My hopes are high for his offspring, but I’d like to enter him for a few races. Over winter, he’ll go to a trainer. I’ll miss him. Though the stable lads won’t.”
“That’s a nasty scar on his wither.”
“Last owner couldn’t control him, so used a stick. Repeatedly.”
Hebe folded her arms and huffed. “There ought to be a law against such cruelty.”
“I’m hopeful there will be soon. I’ll show you my correspondence with Colonel Martin over a parliamentary bill some of us are putting together.”
Silence.
And so Ernest glanced to his left.
Hebe had that look again. The one where he had five heads and was called Twinkle.
“Next,” she muttered, “you’ll be telling me you knit scarfs for the local orphanage.”
“Er, no. Can’t knit. Mrs Pettifer does though.”
Hebe tapped her foot.
“But,” he continued, “we do try and take on orphanage lads and lasses for the stables or household–”
“Enough!”
Ernest merely winked. “And how did you sleep last night? Did the bunch of agrimony flowers work beneath your pillow? Mrs Pettifer sneaked them in for me.”
“I should have known that was you.” She exhaled gustily. “And yes, it did. Does agrimony cure further ills?”
“Well, Mrs Pettifer uses it for sore throats, gout, colic, stings, warts, needless to say…” He hauled a breath. “Chilblains, fever and, er, womanly problems. Grampy Tom says it doesn’t cure gammy legs though.”
“Goodness. I’ll wake each morn a new woman.”
Ernest slipped a hand to her chin, eyes hooded. “I quite like Hebe Locke just as she is. Her silky curls and velvet skin. Bewitching, exquisite and exceedingly…desirable.”
“Lord Ernest…” She swallowed, eyes flitting anywhere but to him. “Lord Ernest, I feel… I ought to tell you… That I’ve never… I don’t just…” Ernest had never heard her lost for words and felt rather proud. “What I am trying to convey is that I’ve never been one of those London widows who would just…just…”
He drew close. “Tup?”
She gasped.
“Or swive?”
Her eyes widened to duck eggs.
“Or how about… Rut?”
She blinked. “You utter rake.”
