One Forbidden Evening (Zebra Historical Romance) Read online

  “No, they won’t travel so far, not when they know we’ll return eventually and they can chide me at their leisure. You will be guilty only by association.”

  “That is hardly comforting.”

  Ferrin caught Cybelline’s chin. “You are the innocent, remember. I am the rake. This is one Gordian knot that will unravel of its own accord.”

  “Not if we do not reach my brother before Aunt Georgia does. There are things I must say to Sherry. I do not like to think he will receive correspondence from Aunt Georgia before we arrive. There can be no supposing what construction she will place on such things as she learns, except that she will take full credit if what she hears is to her liking. Remember, she is the one person who knows I was Boudicca at the masquerade.”

  “So she does. Perhaps I am too hopeful about the Gordian knot unraveling.”

  “I think it’s fair to say it will become tighter first.” Cybelline began walking again. “Do you think there will be a scandal?”

  “I imagine that depends on the Gardner-Rivendale-Bellingham triumvirate. They have considerable influence, but a proposal will calm their nerves.”

  “That is my opinion also.”

  “Then we are of like minds.”

  She nodded but was not encouraged when Ferrin offered nothing more substantial to prove it. “Wellsley has stolen a march on us,” she said, casting about for an explanation for his reticence. “I suppose it is only right that he should enjoy the admiration of his set for making so excellent a match.” Her brow furrowed. “You are quite certain your stepfather will allow the marriage?”

  “Quite certain. Wellsley would know it as well if he was not so besotted with Wynetta.”

  “I thought you said his thinking is compromised only when he is deep in his cups.”

  “Doesn’t being in love have all the same qualities as intoxication? The poets write as if that were so. It is certainly my observation.”

  “But not your experience,” Cybelline said quietly after a moment had passed.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You are always remarkably clearheaded.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, or at least you have always been so with me.” Her cheeks reddened as she realized the meaning he might attach to her words. “That sounded presumptuous, did it not? I did not mean that you should think or behave differently because you are in love with me.” Her flush deepened. “No, that is not quite what I intended to say, either. I meant that I do not expect you to be in love with me, or even that you should show it in some particular way. I believe that’s what I meant, though I might be mistaken on the whole of it.” Frustrated, Cybelline pivoted and looked up at him. He was regarding her with such gravity that she knew he was but a heartbeat away from roaring with laughter. “Do you have any idea what I’m trying to say?”

  “No. It was a muddle from one end to the other.”

  Cybelline made a dismissive sound deep in her throat, then gave Ferrin her back and walked on. She preferred to pretend it was the brook she heard chortling behind her.

  Ferrin did not attempt to catch up to her until he had composed himself. “Will you be taking both of your carriages to Granville?”

  “No. Webb will remain behind, as I believe Mr. Foster might be encouraged by my absence to make an offer.”

  “You have some inkling of it, then?”

  “She accompanied me to Mr. Foster’s shop several days ago. I saw how things were. He, at sixes and sevens. She, perpetually pink in the cheeks.”

  “Intoxication.”

  Cybelline nodded. “I will take Becky Potter with me. She can assist me with Anna on the journey and act as my personal maid once we’ve arrived.”

  “Nanny Baker?”

  “She will also remain behind, though she protested my decision. She simply does not travel well, and I know that Anna will be in the equally good hands of Rosie’s nurse. The scoundrels will also attend to her, and they are extraordinarily patient. You will be jealous of the attention she heaps on them.”

  He smiled. “I expect I will.”

  Cybelline ducked under one of the low, skeletal branches blocking her path while Ferrin lifted another out of the way. “We’ve spoken very little of Anna,” she said. “Sherry will want to know that you mean to be a proper father to her.”

  “I understand. Do you have any questions in that regard?”

  She did not have to think about it. “No. None. I know you hold her in deep affection and will do right by her.”

  “Cybelline.” He said her name in a gently chiding fashion. “I love her, and I hope I will do much more than right by her.”

  When the path cleared again, Cybelline let her gloved hand be taken in Ferrin’s. “It doesn’t matter that she’s another man’s daughter?”

  “I think you have forgotten my family. Most of the ton doesn’t know that Restell is my stepbrother. Imogene and I have more interests in common than she and her twin. Wynetta is a changeling, so there is no accounting for her, and young Hannah and Portia are dervishes who show regrettable signs they will tread at least lightly in her footsteps.”

  Cybelline glanced sideways at him. She could not deny what she heard in his voice. “You love them all.”

  “Sometimes to the point of intoxication.” He squeezed her hand. “It is like that with Anna.”

  Cybelline said nothing. Tears threatened, and she blinked them back, offering up a watery smile instead. She experienced the same ache in her chest as she had last night, the one that was caused not by loneliness or longing but by such a surfeit of love that she could barely contain it.

  Ferrin stopped and drew her into his embrace. “You are a watering pot,” he said with gentle humor.

  Cybelline meant to take exception to this, but her scornful sniff was more in the way of a sniffle. Sighing, she searched for her handkerchief, then accepted the one Ferrin gave her. She could not find it in herself to be offended by the low, rumbling laughter that vibrated his chest.

  “You are benefiting from my wealth of experience with emotional females, you know.”

  “Oh?” Cybelline looked up at him, vaguely suspicious of his bravado. “Because you carry a handkerchief? I hadn’t realized.”

  “Because I carry an extra handkerchief. Go on, you can keep it. I purchase them by the gross.”

  Cybelline tried to determine what she might believe, but the expression Ferrin showed her was perfectly serious. “I suppose that you’ve had to be prepared on any number of occasions to manage a woman’s tears. A handkerchief is practically a calling card for a rake.”

  “More practical, anyway.”

  In spite of her wish to appear unaffected, Cybelline felt herself stiffen. “I see.”

  Ferrin shook his head. “I don’t think you do. The emotional females in my life are my mother, my sisters, my sister-in-law, and Mrs. Lancaster.”

  “Who is Mrs. Lancaster?”

  “The cook at Fairfield.”

  “Oh.”

  “Indeed.” He held her loosely, threading his fingers behind her back. “I don’t have a mistress, Cybelline. I haven’t for some time.”

  It seemed incredible to her, but she believed him. Quickly, before her courage failed her, she asked, “When I approached you at the masquerade, what did you think?”

  “That I was the most fortunate man in all of England.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Please do not make light of me. I am prepared to hear the truth.”

  “I don’t lie to you, Cybelline. I may not have told you everything, but I don’t lie. It’s important you know that.”

  “Then tell me everything.”

  He said nothing for a moment, searching his mind for the memories of that November evening. “I thought you were dangerous. If not to me—though I wasn’t entirely certain of that—then at least to yourself. I thought you had selected me at random, that I might have been anyone. I can admit that I was flattered by your attention, but I fe
ared for you as well. If I turned your extraordinary offer down, I didn’t know what you might be moved to do next. It was most assuredly self-serving, but I trusted myself to deal fairly with you. I was not so confident of others.”

  “Not even Mr. Wellsley?”

  Ferrin touched his forehead to hers and whispered, “I believe I explained it was self-serving.”

  Cybelline felt her breath catch in anticipation of his kiss. When he raised his head without brushing her lips, disappointment warred with frustration. She found it difficult to grasp the threads of their conversation. He seemed to be waiting her out, as composed as she was disquieted.

  “Did you wonder if I was a whore?” she asked.

  “No. No common one, at least. It occurred to me that you might be a courtesan, but that was when I was wondering if you intended some trap for me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “All sorts of reasons came to my mind. Few of them made sense.”

  “You accused me of having a brother or father or cousin waiting to call you out.”

  Ferrin did not miss her oversight. “You did not mention a husband.”

  “Didn’t I?” She bit her lip. “No, I suppose I didn’t.”

  “Wasn’t he the reason you were there?”

  “No, not the way you mean. Not entirely. It wasn’t revenge. What sense would that make? At best, it would be a hollow victory. Nicholas is dead.” Cybelline’s throat thickened; her voice dropped to a husky pitch. She plunged ahead with her explanation because she believed it must finally be said, not because she wanted to say it. “It’s truer that I wanted to get something of my own back.”

  “And that’s not revenge?”

  “No. Not when that something I wanted was a part of me. That I set out to meet you…that I suggested a seduction…that I had it in my mind that you must needs be a rake…all of it was in aid of experiencing my own base satisfaction. You named your own actions that night as self-serving, but they hardly qualify as such when compared to my own. I wanted my own selfish pleasure…” Her voice was a mere thread of sound now. “And I no longer wanted to find it alone.”

  Ferrin cupped the side of Cybelline’s face when she would have looked away. “Delicately put,” he said, “and still the most frank admission I have ever known. You humble me, Cybelline, and you honor me.”

  She frowned a little. “Perhaps you did not understand what I was saying.”

  “I understood quite well.” He bent his head and kissed her softly on the lips. “And I approve of your curiosity. I could not very well do otherwise, could I? It was an experiment of sorts.”

  Cybelline was much less certain of that. “You are good to want to see my behavior in that light, but we both know it was beyond the pale. You cannot deny that you thought so. You have said as much to me.”

  “A judgment I made without facts. It was not well done of me.” The wind whipped a lock of Cybelline’s hair across her cheek, and Ferrin tucked it behind her ear. “I can regret what I said but not what you did. How can I? We might never have met. That was not inevitable.”

  “Wasn’t it? I have wondered, you know. Sometimes it seems to me that we could not have avoided each other.”

  One of Ferrin’s dark eyebrows kicked up. The look in his eyes was significant and knowing. “You are making it difficult for me to return you to the Sharpe house unmolested.”

  “Am I?”

  He pulled her closer and let her feel the answer pressing hard between them.

  Cybelline slipped her arms around him again. “That is very good to know,” she said softly, resting her head against his shoulder. “Very good to know.”

  Pinch, Dash, and Midge ran out to meet the carriage as soon as Mr. Kins turned into the drive. Excitement had them trading friendly shoves as they each sought to be at the front of their impromptu receiving line. They exchanged places several times before the carriage finally came to a halt. At the last moment Midge surged ahead only to be brought up short when Pinch caught him by the hair and yanked.

  “Bloody ’ell, Pinch! Let go!”

  Pinch released his grip so suddenly that Midge fell on his backside. “Serves you right!”

  Dash took the opportunity afforded by this altercation to circle them both and set himself within inches of the carriage door.

  Ferrin looked away from the window and glanced at Cybelline. “These three can be none other than the scoundrels.”

  She nodding, sighing. “The one with his nose pressed to the door is Dash. Midge is on the ground, and that’s Pinch standing over him.” She held Anna up to the window. “Wave to your favorite young gentlemen, darling.”

  Anna tried to launch herself off Cybelline’s lap to get to the boys. Her happy laughter filled the carriage, and she beat her small fists against the glass. This was the cue for the scoundrels to take turns jumping up and down so their faces appeared framed by the window.

  Ferrin noticed that Anna was highly entertained by their antics; Cybelline, only marginally less so. He realized he was smiling as well. Their exuberance was almost as contagious as Anna’s laughter.

  Mr. Kins shooed the boys out of the way and opened the door. Servants were hurrying from the house to assist with the valises and trunks, their approach infinitely more dignified than the scoundrels’ had been. Grooms rounded the drive from the stable and prepared to take the horses and carriage.

  Anna grew shy as soon as she was confronted by the welcoming party. She buried her face in Cybelline’s fur collar and refused to allow anyone to take her. Cybelline returned to her seat until Ferrin exited, then she pried Anna’s fingers loose and handed her down. Anna clung with equal tenacity to the capes of Ferrin’s greatcoat and steadfastly ignored all attempts to get her to go to someone else. Even Becky Potter, the maid Cybelline brought along to assist her, was unsuccessful at cajoling Anna from Ferrin’s arms.

  “She’s fine where she is,” Ferrin said. “Let her be.”

  Cybelline smiled to herself as everyone stepped back, even the scoundrels. There was no mistaking either Ferrin’s protectiveness or his command. She accepted the hand Mr. Kins extended to her and carefully stepped down. She did not try to take Anna back. “I am not fooled,” she said in a whispered aside to Ferrin. “You are thinking Sherry will not shoot if you are carrying his niece.”

  Ferrin did not even pretend to be offended. “If there is something wrong with my strategy, tell me quickly, because I believe I see your brother now.”

  The grandeur of Granville Hall faded into the background the moment Cybelline spied her brother. He stood on the lip of the uppermost step, framed by the wide entrance. He was a dark, stoic figure against the hall’s ochre stones, seemingly impervious to the chill wind that blew up from the lake and across the dormant, terraced gardens. Wearing neither coat nor hat, he nevertheless stood perfectly still while his hair was whipped about and his trousers beat a tattoo against his legs.

  His arms had not quite begun to lift to welcome her when Cybelline started her charge toward him. Sherry rocked back on his heels as she threw herself at him. Feeling something desperate, something needy in her embrace, he held her just as tightly and was thrown back in time to the first moment he’d seen Cybelline after learning their parents were dead. It had been an embrace such as this one that held them upright, each leaning against the other, each making a shelter for their hearts.

  “I am so very glad you’ve come,” he said quietly. “It’s been too long.”

  “I know. For me as well.”

  Above her head Sherry observed the activity around the carriage. With almost preternatural calm, he said, “The gentleman holding Anna…that is not Wellsley.”

  She sighed. “You won’t shoot him, will you?”

  “What an absurd notion.” He loosened the embrace and regarded Cybelline closely. “Will I want to?”

  A faintly guilty smile crossed her face. “I think you might, yes.”

  “Why? What have you done, Cybelline?”


  Bracing her hands on Sherry’s shoulders, Cybelline stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear.

  Sherry listened to her confession, nodded slowly, then said, “I think I should like to hear his explanation for it.”

  Cybelline dropped back on her heels. “Yes,” she said. “That would be the prudent thing to do.”

  The prudent thing to do, Sherry knew from experience, was rarely easily accomplished. He had to cool his heels while Cybelline and Ferrin were shown to their rooms, Anna was made comfortable in the nursery, the scoundrels were taken in hand, and his own wife was apprised of the true identity of their guest. Lily was all for immediate confrontation and divulging his sister’s confession only increased her wariness.

  Still, Lily was gracious when she was introduced to Ferrin, and there was no awkwardness when she smoothly suggested an activity in the schoolroom that would take her and Cybelline away.

  “Whisky?” Sherry asked when he and Ferrin were alone in the library. “Brandy?”

  “Whisky,” Ferrin said.

  Neither man spoke while Sherry poured the drinks. The silence was not uncomfortable, merely long. Ferrin did not insult his host by offering inconsequential observations about the weather, Granville Hall, or the journey from Penwyckham. He waited for Sherry to make the overture.

  Sherry handed Ferrin a tumbler with three generous fingers of whisky. Ferrin regarded his glass with a skeptical eye. “In vino veritas?”

  “Precisely.” He raised his glass in a mock salute. “Truth from you, comfort for me. Will you sit?”

  Nodding, Ferrin chose the sofa set at an angle before the fireplace. He was not surprised when Sherry remained standing. Had their situations been reversed, he also would have chosen the high ground beside the green-veined marble mantelpiece.

  Sherry rolled his tumbler between his palms. “I informed my sister that you are not Wellsley,” he said. “That I am permitting you to make an explanation now is because she already knew, otherwise…” Sherry did not underscore the unspoken threat with a helpless shrug or a hard, significant look. His silence was sufficiently powerful.