His lips neared. “You utter beauty.”
“You scoundrel.”
“You treasure.”
“Reprobate.”
“Irresistible…”
Their lips met and–
“Beggin’ pardon, ya lordship, but ’tis time for ya warmup.” The Irish intonation did not appear in the least to be a beg for pardon. “The stallion, I mean.”
Ernest glared over his shoulder at a grinning Redmond who swiftly disappeared from whence he had come.
Sighing, Ernest drew his hand to Hebe’s shoulder and then onto the plait of hair which nestled snugly. There came a catch to her breath as he trailed a hand down its length, over her spencer jacket. Her chest ceased its motion as his fingers brushed over her breast, following the plait until just above her waist.
He loosened the burgundy velvet ribbon that secured the weave of hair and pulled it free.
“Do I have your favour, my fair lady, for the race?”
She nodded her ascent and he brought the ribbon to the seam of her lips.
“Your kiss for good luck?”
Her lips pursed to the velvet. “Good luck, Lord Ernest.” Those eyes gazed up – limpid and beguiling.
With great reluctance, he drew back and cleared his throat, tucking the ribbon in his pocket. “Come, we must rescue Mrs Cassell or Sir Henry will regale her with the tale of his famed race to Brighton. I’ll have Redmond escort you both to the barouche.”
Hebe grinned. “Aunt never needs rescuing. And besides, she raced across the Kalahari Desert on a camel, which rather beats Brighton into a cocked hat.”
AWAITINGthe start of the Burford Gentlemen’s Sweepstake, Hebe tapped her foot, rapped her fingers on the squabs, cast her spencer jacket aside as the morning warmed and then nibbled on a jam puff pilfered from the brimming picnic basket strapped to the back of their barouche.
Lord Ernest had appeared so handsome today. At such proximity, she’d been able to admire his gold-tipped lashes behind those spectacles, his twinkling eyes with that narrow band of navy-blue encircling the iris. Today he’d worn a simple buff coat and black waistcoat, muddied top-boots and buckskins, but his manner had been every inch the aristocrat.
And as for his wicked words, their lips brushing…
“So, dearest, did you have a pleasant time with Lord Ernest?” Aunt lounged beneath the hood opposite and sipped from her glass of champagne – perhaps a touch premature for celebration, but she’d remonstrated that it was to settle her nerves. “I trust he…behaved?” Aunt’s gaze was as innocent as a butcher’s dog with a string of sausages trailing from its mouth.
Hebe subdued a blush. “Lord Ernest’s conducted himself…most agreeably.” Which could be taken in any which way.
A silk fan wafted, Aunt’s lips curving as she leaned forward. “So not such a rake then.”
“I know what you are doing…”
“Rakes come in all forms, dear. Handsome ones, agreeable ones, transient ones–”
“Mrs Locke? How pleasant to see you again.”
“Hmm,” murmured Aunt. “Now he’s a handsome one.”
A stunning grey horse dipped its head over their barouche door, the dapper rider tipping his hat.
“Mr Skelton. A pleasure. Are you entering the gentlemen’s race?”
His chestnut eyes lit. “Not this year but Ernest has my support. I had a look at Lord Jack earlier though and uff…” He wiped his forehead.
Trepidation abruptly snatched at Hebe’s heart. She’d enjoyed the races thus far but accidents were common, and, indeed, her husband, an adroit horseman, had been hurled to the cobbles and an instant death.
