But to no avail, his arousal remaining steadfast, so with a groan, he made for the door.
In a short while he would have to return Hebe to her own bedchamber, in case come morning, she was discovered absent by Mrs Cassell or a maid, but for now…
A dip in the moat it was.
24
“A PRYTHEE GOOD MOON, REVEAL TO ME, THIS NIGHT WHO MY HUSBAND SHALL BE.”
Alow sonorous purr roused Hebe to a nigh-darkened chamber.
Not Ernest’s bedchamber in the Tower, where four nights ago she’d woken startled and alone, but in her own turret chamber, wrapped in her own rose-scented sheets.
Cherubs watched from the gloom overhead while opposite, the battle-weary king smiled from above the mantelpiece.
The purr appeared to be emanating from the foot of the bed, and peering over the coverlet, she noted the one-eared silhouette of a snoozing Twinkle.
Wiggling her toes, she scratched his ear and the rumble deepened.
She’d dreamed of being chased.
Yet not through endless shadowed corridors and emptied rooms but along a beach lit with summer sun. Which was absurd as she’d never even been to the coast, only seen paintings of cliffs and sea. Still, she’d been sprinting along golden sands, skirts held high, laughing with joy, saltwater between her bare toes.
Until a man had gripped her waist from behind…
Instead of screaming, she’d turned within his grip and kissed him.
Kissed Ernest.
Scowling, she thumped the pillow, disturbed Twinkle, apologised and flung herself onto her front.
Yet, her mind would not settle, thoughts pervading of that eve in the Tower…
Of how Ernest had made her feel. The sensation of being embraced. Of the pleasure. Of waking alone not one hour later and tiptoeing to his bay window.
Of seeing him below, swimming in the moonlight.
Lean muscled arms slicing through the water with ease.
She’d fled the Tower and crept back via the kitchens to her own chamber, confused as to why Ernest had so selflessly left her…
Of course, since then, she’d seen him aplenty, in the stables and at dinner, and with all her willpower, she’d prevented a scarlet blush, attempted to banish that eve from her mind.
Yet with a tilt of his sensual lips or tap of calloused finger, the awareness, the desire, the trust – it all came flooding back.
Aunt had noticed something amiss as she’d kept waggling her eyebrows, but Hebe had kept silent, not quite sure what to say.
For since that night, Ernest had been the perfect gentleman with no teasing touches or lingering caresses. Indeed, he’d acted the ideal beau, fetching her lemonade when sketching and amusing her with anecdotes.
Yesterday, they had all attended Wychmere village for Sunday service, the church a Constable-like portrayal of prettiness, the yard ancient with lichen-clad gravestones and attentive stone angels.
Within the church, Ernest had pointed out the face of a clandestinely hidden pagan Green Man that smiled benignly from the godly rafters, brought a blanket for her knees and introduced her to villagers.
Almost as if he were…courting her.
Which was ridiculous.
Spinning with a growl, she pitched herself onto her back. Then onto one side. Placed a hand beneath her cheek. Too hot, and she flung off the coverlet. Hurled herself over again and–
