One Forbidden Evening (Zebra Historical Romance) Page 6

  They could not linger in the aftermath, of course. Neither of them tried. They separated, though not too quickly as to be unseemly. He helped her turn and get her knees under her but did not hold her in his arms. When he tried to assist her with righting her tunic, she gently pushed his hands away.

  “Will you permit me to light one of the lamps?” he asked. It seemed unlikely that she would and, indeed, she firmly turned him down. He addressed the sorry condition of his own clothes. His tricornered hat was crushed, forcing him to beat it against his knee and press each side to return it to some semblance of its former shape. It was not so important that his stock was loosened. That was in no way out of keeping with his costume. He touched the eye patch to make certain it was still in place and refastened his breeches, waistcoat, and frock coat, then ran one hand down the front to judge his success with matching the buttons to the proper hole.

  She was already standing when he got to his feet. “Have you your cloak?” he asked, brushing himself off. “The brooch? Do you require help with it?”

  “No help, thank you. I have done the thing myself.”

  He never doubted that she was that most thorny of all females to manipulate: independent and managing. He set his hat on his head, adjusted the angle, and inquired if she had her mask.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then will you want to return first to the ballroom or should I?”

  “I’d like to go.”

  “As you wish.”

  She hesitated. “You will not…that is…you will not…”

  He waited. Even on short acquaintance he knew it was not her way to leave a thought unfinished. When it was clear to him that she would not, could not, complete her sentence, he rescued her. “No, I will not. Whatever it is that you hope I will not do, know that I will not do it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Shall I escort you down the stairs?”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  “Have a care, then; they’re steep.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Very well, Boudicca.”

  There was an awkward silence—at least Ferrin found it so—then he felt her brush past him and begin her descent. He waited there on the landing for what he calculated was the better part of ten minutes, a decent enough interval for her to rejoin the party and perhaps even find her friend. Better yet, time enough for her to make her escape. It was this last that Ferrin anticipated she would do. The shepherdess, the one with the green ribbons on her crook, most likely had never existed but merely served as a ploy to engage his interest and activity. It had worked, though he’d never been very determined to resist it.

  He started down the steps slowly, wondering what he would make of this extraordinary encounter in the morning or at any other time in the future. It was difficult to predict because he certainly did not know what to make of it now. Although his own motives were rather straightforward, hers defied him. He’d thought he’d hit upon her reasoning for seeking him out when he had suggested there might be a husband or fiancé she wanted to betray. Boudicca’s denial had seemed most sincere, and since no one had burst in upon them, it would appear she’d been honest in that regard.

  He could even acquit Restell and Wellsley of playing him some trick. If either was so fortunate to know a woman as clever and diverting as Boudicca, he would have kept her to himself. Neither his brother nor his friend had given any indication that they recognized her. Indeed, Wellsley had hoped to make her acquaintance first. Restell was too preoccupied escaping marriage-minded mamas to pause for an introduction. And what would have been the point of serving him up a courtesan or opera dancer when he could fill his own plate as he wished?

  No, it was neither about betrayal nor sport. Boudicca was a woman outside his experience, something he had not thought possible at the age of two and thirty. The puzzle that she was intrigued him, and he acknowledged that this was probably the worst of all outcomes for her.

  Whenever he set his mind to inquiry, there was little he was not able to discover.

  Cybelline Louisa Caldwell, née Grantham, wanted more than anything to have a lie-in. She wanted to fit herself comfortably in the warm depression she’d made in the mattress during the night and remain there, perhaps with the coverlet over her head or the drapes drawn. She wanted to pull a pillow about her ears so she could ignore what would surely come next: a scratching at the door and the subsequent well-intentioned questions regarding the state of her health. She wanted to refuse breakfast, refuse tea, and refuse visitors.

  She would not do it, of course. Cybelline was not a petulant child, and she did not surrender to her wants.

  Except that last night she had.

  That thought was all that was required to propel her out of bed. She would not find respite from herself by remaining alone in her room. What was needed was activity and companionship, and she knew where to find both.

  Cybelline rang for her personal maid. Miss Sarah Webb had been with her since Cybelline was sixteen and could be relied upon to observe everything and say almost nothing. She was in no circumstance a confidante, but Cybelline found her quiet, competent presence a comfort more often than not.

  Webb assisted Cybelline with her ablutions and attire, then dressed her hair, scraping it back against her scalp, then securing it in a tight coil. The whole of it was hidden under a white linen cap.

  “You don’t approve,” Cybelline said, catching Webb’s rather grim reflection in the mirror.

  “It’s not for me to say.”

  Cybelline did not press. Webb, who possessed a handsome countenance, if not a delicate one, looked as if she would put her teeth through her tongue before she’d offer an opinion about the condition of her mistress’s hair. “I’m going to take my breakfast with Anna.”

  Webb set the comb aside. “I’ll tell Cook.”

  The nursery was on the floor above her bedchamber. Cybelline climbed the stairs, lifting the hem of her dove-gray day dress just high enough to avoid a tumble. She passed through Nanny Baker’s room before coming upon the nursery. Crossing the threshold, her mood was immediately lighter.

  “Mama!” Anna wriggled out of Nanny’s plump arms and toddled full tilt toward her mother.

  Cybelline bent down and scooped her soft, warm, and freshly scrubbed daughter into her arms. She rubbed her face against Anna’s downy cheek and hair. “So sweet,” she said. “I want to eat you up!”

  Predictably, Anna giggled. “Eat you! Eat you!” She gnashed the tiny pearls of her teeth together to emphasize her intent.

  “My, but you’re a fierce one, darling.” Cybelline looked past her daughter to where Nanny Baker was rising to her feet. “Is that another tooth I’m seeing, Nanny? One in the back?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is. It broke through yesterday.”

  Cybelline regarded her daughter again but spoke to Nanny. “Did she fret?”

  “Not overmuch. She rubbed her cheek a bit, which is how I knew something was amiss. I gave her some sweet cloves for her gums, and she liked that well enough.”

  Anna was now tapping her teeth together, quite aware the conversation had everything to do with her. “You minx,” Cybelline teased. “You cannot imagine a world in which you are not the center of everything.” She kissed her daughter’s brow. “And that is quite as it should be.”

  Anna buried her face in the curve of her mother’s neck and shoulder and snuggled. This surfeit of affection squeezed Cybelline’s heart to the point where drawing a breath was painful. For a moment her eyes welled. Turning so that Nanny might not see them, she rapidly blinked back tears.

  “I am having my breakfast here with Anna this morning, Nanny Baker. There’s no need for you to stay.”

  “Will you want me to finish dressing her?”

  “I’ll do that. Anna will help me, won’t you, darling?”

  Anna’s head came up abruptly. Her damp, red-gold curls fluttered around her ears and forehead. “No!”

  “Really?�
�� Cybelline asked, untroubled by this refusal. Her daughter was possessed of that singular independence common to two-year-olds, or so she was given to understand. She was perhaps more indulgent regarding this expression of individualism than Nanny Baker, but she did not let it rule her. “Because I was going to tell you a story, but I need your help first.”

  “Story!”

  “Help.”

  “No!”

  Cybelline merely smiled and waited Anna out. “You can go, Nanny Baker. I’ll manage here.”

  “I can’t say that I like it when she speaks to you like that, ma’am.”

  “I’m not particularly fond of it, either, but didn’t you tell me it will pass?”

  “I did, and so it will, but she’s especially headstrong for one that just had her second birthday.”

  “Is that so?” She tapped her daughter on the mutinous line of her lips. “I cannot imagine where she comes by that. Her father was a most agreeable gentleman.”

  Nanny Baker snorted softly, pursing her lips together in disapproval. “I’ll be in the servants’ hall,” she said, excusing herself.

  When Cybelline heard the heavy fall of Nanny’s retreating footsteps in the stairwell, she finally gave in to the urge to laugh. “Nanny takes herself—and us—a bit too seriously, doesn’t she? She thinks I don’t know that you are in every way my daughter. It is true that your father was most agreeable. I, in perfect contrast, have rarely been.”

  Mimicking Cybelline’s good humor, Anna giggled.

  Cybelline gave Anna a little bounce. The giggle changed pitch, causing Anna’s blue eyes to widen as she realized the wavering sound came from her. Cybelline bounced her again to the same effect, and they carried on in such a manner until one of the younger housemaids arrived carrying their breakfast tray.

  “Not there,” Cybelline said when the girl moved toward the round cherry wood table near the fireplace. “Put it on Anna’s tea table. I’ll sit in one of her chairs.” The maid did as she was directed while Cybelline turned her attention back to her daughter. “You like it when I sit perched like a bird on one of your tiny chairs, don’t you?”

  Anna looked around, caught by the part of her mother’s sentence that she understood best. “Bird? Where bird?”

  “Oh, dear, now I’ve done it.” She carried Anna to the window where the drapes had already been tied back. The morning was overcast, but there was a break in the distant clouds that held the promise of sunshine. Cybelline opened the window and allowed Anna to poke her head out.

  “Bird?” Fortunately, there were several plump pigeons on parade. They were strutting along the lip of the neighbor’s roof, perfectly content to be the object of so much admiration from across the way. “Bird! There bird!”

  “Indeed.” Cybelline squeezed her daughter, making small cooing noises that were not unlike the conversation going on between the pigeons. It was only when Anna flapped her arms that the birds objected. They scattered so quickly that Anna was startled. Her small head snapped back, catching Cybelline on the chin.

  “Oooh!” They said it in unison.

  Cybelline rubbed the back of her child’s head, forgoing the urge to massage her own chin. She kissed the injured spot for good measure and to keep Anna’s face from crumpling, she pointed to her chin and said, “Kiss Mama here.”

  Anna pursed her dewy lips and followed her mother’s finger. There was a rather loud smacking noise and a bit of drool, but the sentiment was clear.

  “How I love you,” Cybelline whispered, her heart in her throat. “There are no words.”

  Lady Rivendale set down her cup as Cybelline entered the breakfast room. “I was not certain I would see you this morning. I thought you might enjoy a lie-in. You returned quite late, I noticed.”

  Instead of responding to this overture, Cybelline went to the sideboard and served herself from the plate of eggs and sliced tomatoes. “Good morning, Aunt Georgia.”

  Georgia Pendleton, Countess of Rivendale, was in point of fact no blood relation to Cybelline, nor even the wife of a blood relation. Those who might offer the homily that blood was thicker than water failed to measure the viscosity of the relationship that Lady Rivendale had nurtured over a score of years with her godson and his younger sister.

  The countess, being the dearest friend of Cybelline’s mother, had been named godmother to Alexander Henry Grantham at his baptism. Eight years later, when Cybelline had had the same rite performed on her, Lady Rivendale was touring the Continent, and no one was named to that position of responsibility. It was just as well, Cybelline had come to realize, for Lady Rivendale would have cheerfully removed the competition.

  When Cybelline’s parents perished in a fire it was the countess who came to take her and her brother in hand. There had been an uncle who was named guardian, but Lady Rivendale and her solicitor made short work of that. It was not as if the uncle had tried very hard to keep them. She was not long out of the nursery and her brother—now the Viscount Sheridan—was still at Eton. They must have seemed singularly uninteresting persons to their uncle, she thought, but to Lady Rivendale they were fascinating—in a bug-in-a-jar fashion.

  “You are smiling,” Lady Rivendale said as Cybelline turned away from the sideboard. “Am I right to count that as a happy turn?”

  “I believe it is a good thing, yes.” She took her seat beside the countess and picked up her fork. “I was remembering your timely rescue of me and Sherry from our uncle’s home. Do you know that he called us brats at the funeral of our parents?”

  “I knew it. I didn’t realize you did.”

  “I overheard him, the same as Sherry.”

  “You trod on the man’s toes, I hope.”

  “No, but I sobbed until I made myself sick—at his feet.”

  “A perfectly elegant solution. I have always been impressed with your ability to rise to the occasion, Cybelline.”

  “Thank you…I think.” She relieved her discomfort by taking a bite of shirred egg. “Did you sleep well? I have not inquired as to your health this morning, though you are looking fit.”

  “You mean you have not inquired as to when I intend to quit your home.”

  Cybelline waggled her fork at Lady Rivendale. “I meant nothing of the sort. It is very bad of you to put words in my mouth.” She returned to her meal. “I should very much like to hear how you fare.”

  “I slept very well, thank you. I do not know the cause of the plaguey stomach ailment that has confined me here these last three days, but I am pleased to report it seems to have vanished last night.” She indicated her plate. “You can see for yourself that my appetite has returned. I am fit enough to travel and I will be making arrangements for doing so this morning.”

  Cybelline kept her smile in check. The distance to the countess’s residence was no greater than a mile, but to hear her speak of traveling there one could be forgiven for thinking she lived in Cornwall. When she took ill suddenly during an afternoon visit, there was no question but that she would stay. Although Lady Rivendale might have been more comfortable in her own bed, ordering around her own servants, Cybelline suspected that she truly did not want to be alone while she made a drama of her recovery. It was easier to uproot the countess’s servants and bring them to Cybelline’s than it was to distress the countess.

  “You know I was delighted to have you stay here, though you must not think I am happy that it was illness that forced your hand. Anna enjoys your visits, as do I.”

  “Still, I was a bother.”

  Now Cybelline let her smile surface. “I am never certain what the politic response is. Is it more important that I agree with you, thereby sustaining the notion that you are always in the right of things, or is the better strategy to argue that in this instance you could not be more wrong? I should like you to advise me how to proceed.”

  Lady Rivendale picked up her coffee cup and shrewdly regarded Cybelline over the rim before she sipped from it. The tactic gave her time to digest the whole of Cybelline’s q
uestion. “I declare, you are even more accomplished at disarming me than your brother—and Sherry is excellent.”

  “No one disarms you, Aunt Georgia. If you do not fire back a volley, it is only because you are choosing your battles, not because you have been relieved of your weapons.”

  The countess nodded appreciatively. “A very pretty compliment, one I shall cherish.” She set her cup in the saucer again and touched her chin thoughtfully, still regarding Cybelline but without her earlier intensity. “What is that on your cap?” she asked. “On the ruffle.”

  Cybelline touched the front of her cap and felt a sticky globule of something she could not immediately identify. She carefully removed it with a fingertip and examined it. She chuckled when she saw what it was. “Porridge. Anna lobbed a spoonful of porridge at me. I’m afraid I didn’t eat much myself, which is why I came—” She stopped because Lady Rivendale’s gaze was riveted on the cap again. Her hands flew to it. “What is it? What—”

  The countess stood and quickly rounded the table to Cybelline’s side. Without communicating her intention, she plucked the cap from Cybelline’s head. Her sharp intake of breath was perfectly audible. She abandoned the dramatic gesture of placing one hand on her heart and chose instead to sink slowly back into her chair. It was also effective.

  Although the question was largely superfluous, Lady Rivendale felt compelled to ask it anyway. “Bloody hell, Cybelline, what have you done to your hair?”

  Chapter Three

  Cybelline calmly held out her hand for her linen cap. Lady Rivendale gave it over immediately. Crumpled as it was, Cybelline returned it to her head and carefully tucked away all evidence that her hair was now fiery red. “I am sorry it offends you, Aunt Georgia.”

  “Offends me? Why, it caused me to swear, and you know I have been trying to set a better example for the scoundrels.”

  “Then it is good they are not here.” The scoundrels were her brother’s three wards. Sherry had plucked the young ruffians from the streets of Holborn, giving the matter as much thought as one might have for plucking feathers from a chicken. Pinch, Dash, and Midge—names from the streets that had not yet been put to rest—were a considerable trial as well as a source of great joy. Lily, Sherry’s wife, remarked more fondly than not that they were like puppies in want of proper training: There were bound to be accidents. There had been noticeably fewer mishaps since Lily gave birth. The presence of a baby in the home had quieted them but in no way quelled their spirit. “I will tell them about your slip, of course. You can depend on it. You will have to add a shilling to their collection jar. It’s only fair since you set the rules.”