One Forbidden Evening (Zebra Historical Romance) Read online

  Ferrin placed both letters in her outstretched hand. “Who wrote these?”

  “That is more difficult to answer than you might credit.” She moved the fabric to one end of the window bench and regarded the letters again after she held one in each hand. “As you’ve noted, they are both addressed by the same person,” she told Ferrin. “But this one”—she raised her right hand—“most likely contains correspondence from my husband.”

  “I’m not certain I follow. Your husband writes to you?”

  “That is easily the most absurd utterance I have ever heard you make.”

  “The same also occurred to me.” He used his fingers to rake his hair. “You will explain yourself, I hope, else I will be forced to repeat it.”

  Cybelline returned the envelope to him. “Go on. You may open it. All will be made clear.”

  Ferrin hesitated only a moment. He accepted the letter, opened it, and began to read. “It is dated 12 March three years ago.” He heard Cybelline’s sharp intake of breath and glanced at her. “You know this letter?”

  “I can guess at the content. That is the day my pregnancy was confirmed, and I shared the happy news with Nicholas.”

  “He was pleased?”

  “I thought so. The letter will tell you more, I think. Does it begin, ‘My dearest’?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “Then it is indeed from Nicholas.”

  Ferrin glanced at the letter again but did not try to read it. Words stood out: my heart, most joyful news, my agreeable and accommodating wife, a wish fulfilled.

  “You are discomfited,” Cybelline said, watching him. “And you were so certain you wished to know the content.”

  “It is a love letter.”

  “Yes.”

  “You will want to read it yourself,” he said. “It was meant for you.” Ferrin thought Cybelline’s rueful smile communicated a greater depth of sadness than was her practice to reveal. It made him look more closely at the letter, then read it to himself in its entirety.

  My dearest,

  My heart is full. The most joyful news has been made known to me, and there is no one with whom I would share it before you. I hope you will find it cause to celebrate rather than grieve. I have never made a secret of my desire for a child. I have longed for this outcome in my marriage, and it has finally come to pass. My agreeable and accommodating wife is enceinte. I am to be a father at last, my love. You know it is a wish fulfilled, and eventually one I hope we will share. I cannot say that it matters at all if she will bear a son or daughter, but that I look forward to the day with great excitement.

  You will comprehend the consequences for us. We will have more opportunity to be together, not less, as my wife is almost certain to engage herself in raising our child. It is because she was abandoned by her own parents, I think, that she will want to give her undivided attention to the babe, no matter that it is not the popular thing to do. I am satisfied, however, that she will be a most excellent mother and that our child will want for nothing nor be spoilt by excess. You must see that she is most suited to this purpose and acknowledge at last that I have chosen well. She will be able to do what we cannot, my dearest, and for that she will have my gratitude.

  Pray, do not forget that it is you who owns my heart.

  Always

  Cybelline nearly recoiled from the icy hardness of Ferrin’s expression as he looked up. She saw his fingers begin to curl around the letter, and she stood quickly to stay his hand. “It is mine,” she said. “Not meant for me when it was written, but mine now. I beg you not to destroy it.”

  Ferrin allowed her to take the letter before his fingers closed in a tight fist. “Bloody hell,” he said softly. “Why would you want to keep it?”

  Tears came to her eyes. “I don’t know.” Her gaze was drawn to the letter and the words swam in front of her: longed for this outcome, abandoned, most suited, always. A tear splashed the paper, and she swiped at it, then knuckled her eyes. “I have never known,” she whispered brokenly. “But I have them all.”

  Ferrin took her gently by the shoulders. “How many?”

  She shrugged as if it were of no import. “A dozen, I think. Perhaps this makes a dozen. I am not certain.”

  “Who knows about them?”

  “You.” Cybelline gathered the frayed edges of her composure as if it were a tangible thing and could be wrapped about her. “Do not pity me, my lord. I would find that to be most objectionable.”

  “I’m sure you would.” He let his arms slide from her shoulders to her elbows, then fall away. “What of the other letter?”

  Cybelline had forgotten she still held it. “I think you will like this even less. I know I do.”

  He took it but did not immediately open it. “Is it from her?”

  “I have always supposed so.”

  My dear Mrs. Caldwell,

  Will Anna love you still when she learns the truth? Murder is not easily forgiven nor forgotten. I know it well.

  Always

  Ferrin used his fingertip to break the wax seal. He unfolded the letter and read aloud:

  Ferrin caught Cybelline before her knees buckled and encouraged her to sit. “I take it they are not all like this.”

  She shook her head and tried to draw breath. Panic welled up inside her, and she thought she would be sick. She realized she must have looked ill as well, for Ferrin brought a basin from the dressing room and positioned it just above her lap. Several minutes passed before she knew she could safely push it out of the way.

  “Are you certain?” he asked, eying the empty basin and then her pale face. “It’s no trouble to hold it.”

  “Take it.”

  Ferrin was impressed enough with the firmness of her response that he put it aside. “You have not examined Mr. Caldwell’s letter yet. Do you wish me to read it to you?”

  “No.” She smoothed it open on her lap before she raised it. Her hand shook slightly as her eyes moved across and down the paper. When she was finished, she thrust it at Ferrin. “It makes her letter all the more vile. I do not think I am mistaken that she means to threaten me.”

  “It is my sense of the thing also.” Ferrin folded both letters and dropped them in the basin. “Is there anyone you suspect of having been your husband’s mistress?”

  “You must understand that I did not suspect he had a mistress. I learned of it only after he died and one of his letters was delivered to me. It was followed shortly by one from her. Until this afternoon, that has always been the pattern. A letter that he penned, followed several days later by one from her. I have never received them together. I can only suppose it is because we are so far from London and the post is not always certain here. One letter caught up to the other.”

  “May I see the others?” When she hesitated, Ferrin did not press. His silence seemed to decide her.

  “Very well, but I cannot sit here while you examine them. I believe I will take a walk. It will help to clear my head.”

  Ferrin nodded and stood when she indicated that he should do so. He watched her open the bench lid and dig deep into the bottom. She removed a Chinese puzzle box and placed it in his hands.

  “Do you know how to open it?”

  “At another time I would be intrigued. Just now, I would sooner smash the thing than discover its secret.”

  Cybelline took the box back long enough to open it, then she quit the room without a last glance in Ferrin’s direction.

  He came upon her later standing at the site where he meant to build a footbridge some day. She appeared to be impervious to the cold. The chinchilla collar of her pelisse was turned up so the fur brushed her cheeks, and she stood at an angle against the gusting wind.

  “When Mrs. Henley told me you had not returned to the house, I became concerned. If it is peace that you want, I will leave you to it.”

  She shook her head. “No, don’t go. I have had enough of my own company. I am also humbled to discover that I prefer yours.” She tilted her h
ead back to look up at him. “That surprises you.”

  “Yes, but that you would admit as much surprises me more.”

  “It is the same for me.” She turned away again, facing the frozen brook. She strained to hear the rush of water under the ice but she could not make out the sound. Except for the occasional rising wind, the stillness of winter had settled everywhere. “You read all of it?”

  “Yes.”

  Her breath was made visible by the cold air. “It was lowering to learn my husband kept a mistress, but worse still to discover how much feeling he had for her and how tepid were his feelings for me. I know there is a certain acceptance by society for a husband and his mistress, but I do not think I would have been able to feign indifference or ignore it. It’s true that women are often asked to do such things, and many comply, yet I believe I might have been moved to divorce him.” She glanced at Ferrin to gauge his reaction. “A scandalous solution, is it not?”

  “Some would say so, yes.”

  “Would you?”

  “It is a solution. Whether it is scandalous is better left for the wags to decide. They attend to the gossip, especially if they are self-righteous and in want of keeping their own transgressions secret.”

  She smiled faintly at this observation. “There is an irony there, my lord, for you make your vices public and keep your virtues secret.”

  “It has never caused me to lose a night’s sleep,” he said.

  “You are very different from Nicholas in that way.”

  “I hope in other ways as well.”

  Cybelline ignored that. “My husband’s sleep was often disturbed. He worried that his restlessness would keep me awake. Sometimes it did, though I do not recall complaining. From time to time he put forth the idea of separate bedrooms, but I did not want that. He indulged me until I told him I was with child, then he insisted on another bedroom for himself. He said he was afraid he would hurt me with his fitful sleep, but after Anna was born he never moved back.”

  She blushed a little and self-consciously fiddled with the raised collar of her pelisse. She did not look at Ferrin. “Sometimes I went to him. He did not turn me away, though I wished on occasion that he would. It was never comfortable between us when he did not come to me first. Eventually I stopped seeking him out and learned that I could wait.”

  Cybelline hugged herself. “I loved him, you know. You must never think that I did not love him. He was kind and generous, charming and clever. He was a good companion everywhere save in our bed, and I was prepared to take the responsibility for that. To discover he had a mistress hurt deeply, but it was the discovery that he loved her so well that I thought would kill me.”

  She raised her face to Ferrin and regarded him frankly. “My husband died by his own hand, my lord, but were he in front of me as you are now, he would die by mine.”

  Ferrin nodded slowly, taking this in. “You are telling me this for a reason, I collect.”

  Her anxious eyes searched his face. “I must have fidelity.”

  “It is the same for me.” He waited, wondering if she would say more. When she did not, he asked, “And love, Cybelline? What of that?”

  “I do not trust my own heart. You cannot expect that I will trust yours.”

  “I see.” He opened his arms to her and was encouraged that she came into his embrace without hesitation. “A proposal is still inevitable, you know.”

  Turned as she was, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, Cybelline was glad he could not see her bittersweet smile.

  Chapter Twelve

  The scoundrels were reciting Byron, of all things, when Sherry entered the schoolroom. The trio rolled their eyes in unison but were unaffected by the interruption and made no mistake in their phrasing or meter.

  Sherry crossed the room to his wife’s side. She was sitting at her desk, reading from the book of poetry as the boys recited. She absently offered her cheek for his kiss and he obliged, grinning. Apparently Lord Byron’s work did not excite the blood when recounted by three young ruffians who wished themselves elsewhere.

  When they finished, Sherry nodded approvingly. “Well done, sirs. It was a noble effort. Someday you will say those words with a passion that will impress the ladies.”

  “Oh, I ’ope not,” Pinch said, frowning deeply, his dark eyes keen with worry. “Don’t want a lady that goes swoony for poetry.”

  Sherry glanced at Lily. “Swoony?”

  She shrugged helplessly.

  Chuckling, Sherry said, “And you, Dash? Will you like to make the ladies go swoony?”

  Always a bit restless, Dash’s knee bounced under his desk. He pushed back an errant lock of flaxen hair. “Would they be pretty ladies?”

  Sherry regarded his young ward thoughtfully. At twelve, the boy was showing very clear signs of the strikingly handsome man he would become. “I suspect so, Dash. You might not even be required to know Byron.”

  “That’s all right, then,” Dash said. “I’d rather know pirates.”

  “Sherry!” Lily admonished him as he gave a shout of laughter. She threw up her hands when he sobered and winked at the boys.

  “Midge?” Sherry caught one of Lily’s hands and set it against his thigh as he hitched his hip on her desk. “Swoony ladies?”

  Still the smallest of the scoundrels, Midge had to move forward in his chair for his feet to touch the floor. “I don’t know,” he said. His deep blue eyes were thoughtful. “I’m learning that the ladies make me a bit swoony. Can’t be a good thing if we’re all dropping to floor like sash flies.”

  “No, indeed,” Sherry said carefully. He felt Lily’s fingernails pressing deeply into his leg as she bought composure with his pound of flesh. “Perhaps the romantic poets are not for you, Midge.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, sir.”

  “Good man.” He tilted his head in the direction of the door. “Go on. I would have a word with my wife now.” He was not astonished in the least, or even offended, when they looked to Lily for approval. This room was her domain.

  “Do not go far,” she told them.

  The boys’ effort to exit with a modicum of reserve had Sherry and Lily rolling their eyes this time. As soon as they were out of sight in the hallway, they abandoned restraint in favor of a foot race.

  “Perhaps they did not understand what you meant by not going far,” Sherry said. The scoundrels’ footsteps were already a mere echo.

  “I am confident that you will collect them for me.” At Sherry’s frown, she added. “Think of it as hide-and-seek. You enjoy a good game of it now and again.”

  “I like it better when you are hiding and I am seeking.”

  She gave him a butter-would-not-melt smile, released his thigh, and reminded him, “You have interrupted my lessons.”

  “I know. Really, Lily. Byron?”

  “It will not damage them permanently, Sherry, and mayhap they will even come to appreciate it.”

  He regarded her curiously. “Do you go a bit swoony when I read Byron to you?”

  “I drop like a sash fly.”

  Sherry laughed. “That is a picture, is it not?” He reached inside his frock coat and withdrew a letter. “Here is the reason I have come. Once again I’ve had the most curious correspondence from Cybelline. Will you read it?”

  “If you like.” She accepted the letter after he unfolded it. Cybelline’s missive was not long, and Lily read it quickly once, then more slowly. She comprehended perfectly why Sherry had not waited to bring it to her attention. “Do you know this Mr. Wellsley?” she asked, lowering the letter and raising her eyes to her husband. “I do not, but you will agree that it is always to be desired.”

  Sherry nodded. Lily’s past made her cautious of meeting people, especially London gentlemen. The prospect of an introduction always filled her with dread, and Sherry was conscious of this. It also did not follow that simply because she was unfamiliar with Wellsley’s name, that she was therefore unfamiliar with Mr. Wellsley. “I met him o
nce, I believe, if it is the same fellow of whom Cybelline writes. Ferrin made the introduction. It’s been an age, though. I cannot well recall the look of him. I imagine he is completely unexceptional. No hump or missing parts, I am sure of that.”

  This last comment teased a small smile from Lily, but it faded quickly. “And Ferrin? Who is he?”

  Sherry understood that Lily must have all the information. “The Earl of Ferrin. An acquaintance of some years, though we rarely shared the same company. He is rumored to be something of a rake.” He saw that gave Lily immediate pause. “That reputation necessarily separated us. You know well that I have never craved the attention of the ton.”

  “What is this Mr. Wellsley’s reputation?”

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever heard, but he is more than an acquaintance to Ferrin. Fast friends, I should think. You will have to put your own construction on what that might mean, but I caution you against painting Ferrin and Wellsley with the same brush.”

  “Do you suppose your sister knows Wellsley is fast friend to a rake?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “But you’ll tell her, won’t you?” Lily asked anxiously. “Then she can decide if it is important.”

  “If you think it’s best.”

  “I do. Knowing is always better than ignorance.” Lily glanced at the letter again. “She writes that they will arrive at the end of the month. Do you think he means to seek your approval for a match?”

  “I am only certain that Cybelline will not.” A crease appeared between his eyebrows as he considered the whole of his sister’s correspondence. “I wish she were not so damnably vague, but you are interpreting her missive in the same manner I am. Can you tell if she is in love?”

  Lily shook her head. “Perhaps we are making too much of the fact that she has invited Mr. Wellsley to travel with her, or the fact that she is coming to Granville at all. We should not forget how much she loved Nicholas. That he killed himself was a betrayal. She might not want to risk loving so deeply again.”