Читать книгу One Forbidden Evening - Jo Goodman - Страница 7

Although Ferrin was certain he’d heard Boudicca correctly, he believed it was incumbent upon him to put this highly unusual disclosure before them again, lest there be a misunderstanding. “You are hoping to be seduced?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot help but wonder if I am the candidate of your choosing or the candidate of your desperation.”

“Will it wound your pride to know that you are the fourth rakehell I’ve put this matter to this evening?”

He laughed outright at that. “I would be devastated if there was a grain of truth in it. However, I am confident there are not three rakes in all of London who would refuse to grant you what you say you wish above all things. If someone turned aside your proposal, then it is either because he is not a libertine of the first stare or because he was struck dumb. Nothing else explains it.”

“You are very sure of yourself,” she said. There was no accusation in her tone; it was merely an observation.

No amount of inducement could have tempted Ferrin to admit he had never been put more off his stride. He wondered what was to be done about her, for clearly she was a danger to herself. It occurred to him that finding the shepherdess was perhaps where he needed to begin. He was also very aware that Boudicca was waiting for an answer.

“You will appreciate, I think, that it will be difficult to seduce you when you seem to be agreeably inclined toward that end. It is in the nature of seduction that one participant is persuaded to engage in an activity that they might not typically consider to be prudent.”

“I understand the definition. Perhaps I could seduce you, as you do not seem eager to go about the thing.”

“It is timing,” he said, “and opportunity. Neither are in our favor.” Ferrin looked around the gallery. “You saw for yourself that the library is in use.”

“Is that a usual place for seduction? I confess, I’d thought it would be better accomplished in a cupboard under the stairs.”

“Not even if you were one of the housemaids,” he said. “Deuced uncomfortable.”

“You have familiarity, then.”

“With the cupboard, not the housemaids. I was fourteen and not by any measure a practiced libertine. My companion—I will call her Lady M—was herself a freethinker and introduced me to the advantages of that state of mind. The cupboard, though, had no advantages. I doubt that’s changed.”

“I am persuaded you know best.”

“Good.” Having made a full circle of the gallery, Ferrin paused when they reached the doorway. They broke apart as a Viking with long pale hair filled the entrance from the other side with his broad shoulders. He clutched a horned helmet to his chest. “Have a care, Restell,” Ferrin said, putting out his hand to stay his brother. “You’ll gore yourself. Are you invading or fleeing?”

“Fleeing. I have never made the acquaintance of so many determined mamas in one evening, every one of them with a daughter they swear is a veritable diamond.” His attention shifted from Ferrin to his companion. He made a slight bow. “Queen Boudicca, your servant.”

She nodded regally. “A Norseman. You are welcome here if it is your intent to slay the Romans.”

“Romans. Dragons. Mothers. You have but to point to whatever offends you, my queen, and I shall slay it. Is it your command that I begin with this scurvy-ridden, half-blind buccaneer?”

Boudicca was long in responding, making clear her intent was to carefully consider the suggestion.

Restell laughed when he observed Ferrin give her an arch look. “Oh, I believe she is baiting you, Kit. This is a good turn.” He glanced over his shoulder, saw a determined mother approaching, and excused himself hurriedly. “I am for my longboat,” he said.

Ferrin and Boudicca turned as one to watch him go. His long-legged stride made short work of the length of the gallery. He disappeared through a paneled door set into the wainscoting.

“I wonder where he keeps his longboat,” Boudicca said.

“Unless I miss my guess, he’s headed for the wine cellar.”

“That is rather presumptuous of him, is it not, to pillage your wine cellar?”

“That was Restell.” When she regarded him blankly, he realized the name meant nothing to her. “My brother. My stepbrother, actually. Netta’s older brother.”

“Is he a rake?”

“He certainly aspires to be one.”

“You disapprove of him following in your footsteps?”

There she had him. He reminded himself that he would have to be cautious not merely with what he said but also how he said it. Boudicca was a clever one for hearing the fine nuances of his tone. “One rakehell in a family is generally considered quite sufficient,” he told her.

“I had not realized.”

“It is a matter of the family marshaling its resources to manage a scandal and quell the gossip. There is bound to be a nine days’ wonder now and again, but no family, not even an eccentric one, tolerates abusing their good graces.”

“And since you are the oldest…” Her voice trailed off thoughtfully.

“That’s right. I am the designated rakehell.”

“A title. A fortune. And a reputation. It rather takes one’s breath.”

He caught her by the arm and escorted her back into the ballroom. “I have not noticed it taking yours, at least in any way that it affects your speech. You never seem to be at a loss for a rejoinder.”

“You are not the first to remark on it.”

Ferrin kept a firm link with Boudicca’s arm as they wended their way through the crush yet again. He inclined his head politely whenever one of his guests caught his eye, but he did not linger for conversation. He observed that Wynetta was looking flushed and happy to be taking a set on the dance floor with a wizard. Wellsley, he noted, did not look particularly pleased to be watching from the perimeter of the room. Imogene had collected several other shepherdesses to her side—though none with green ribbons on the crook—and was engaged in animated conversation. Her husband stood nearby, patiently awaiting her pleasure. Ian, Imogene’s twin, was partnering his wife in the set, and Sir Geoffrey was at his most persuasive, urging his wife to join him in the steps.

“Do you see your friend?” Ferrin asked.

“No. Perhaps the wine cellar.”

“Let us hope not. She will not be at all glad to make Restell’s acquaintance there. Perhaps the garden.”

“The garden? I had not considered she might step outside.”

“Then you have not found it as warm as I have. It is not unreasonable to suppose hothouse flowers would thrive in here. Come. This way. It will not take long. The garden is not large.” He led her to the entranceway and through the drawing room to the rear of his town residence. “Unless you intend to skewer your friend, mayhap you will want to leave your spear on this side of the door.”

Boudicca’s glance shifted to the spear. One corner of her mouth lifted, shaping her lips in a mildly scornful smile. “Of course.” She leaned the spear against the doorjamb.

“Where did you find that weapon?” Ferrin asked, opening the door for her. His nostrils flared as the introduction of the cooler air lifted the scent of lavender in her hair. “It looks as if it might be an artifact.”

“It is. I took it from my—” She stopped, looking up at him. “I think you are fishing again. It doesn’t really matter about the spear, does it?”

“I don’t suppose that it does, no. Unless you stole it from a museum.”

“No.”

“Then I agree, it doesn’t matter.” He led her to the narrow marble balustrade. “You will have noticed that we are alone.”

“Yes.”

Ferrin turned a little to the side, maneuvering Boudicca so she was cornered by the curve of the rail and his body. When she pivoted to look up at him, he had her neatly confined between his arms. He did not miss her shiver, but he chose to misinterpret it. Without asking permission, Ferrin pulled her blue wool cloak more securely about her shoulders and refastened the brooch. She made no move to stop him, even when his knuckles brushed the soft upper curve of her breast.

“You are no longer armed,” he said.

“It was clever of you to encourage me to leave my weapon behind.”

“Damnably sharp-witted.” He cupped her chin in his hand, raising her face another fraction toward him. Moonlight glanced off her hammered gold mask. His gaze fell to her mouth, and he used the pad of his thumb to trace her bottom lip. He felt the slight parting, the moist warmth of the sensitive underside. For a moment he thought she might touch the tip of her tongue to his thumb; her mouth trembled instead. His own reaction to that was something more than he could have predicted.

Ferrin released her face and bent his head. He kissed her, pressing his mouth to hers without regard for tenderness or reserve. Passion is what he felt and what he showed her. The sudden surge of it ran hot in his blood and settled hard and heavily in his groin. An involuntary thrust of his hips brought him flush against her and pushed the backs of her thighs against the rail. She would have to be singularly naive to mistake his response for anything but what it was.

Boudicca was not naive.

He plunged his tongue into her mouth, and she answered immediately in kind. She sucked, drawing him in, then teasing him. He groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat, reluctance and relief mingling to make the whole of it deeply felt.

He reached beneath her cloak and grasped her by the upper arms. Under one hand he felt taut, warm flesh; under the other was one of the wide metal bracelets. He could make out the intricate scrollwork under his palm, ancient symbols raised above the delicately beaten gold. He jerked her to him hard, eliminating what had been only a small space between them. She would have come up on her toes, but he held her down, responding to some perverse need to keep her still and answerable to him. She did not struggle or insist that it be different. She was both lithe and pliant, at her ease taking his direction.

It was not precisely surrender that he sensed in her, but something akin to it, an acceptance that he would have the upper hand and that she would allow it. What she might permit him to do made him fear for her, but what he wanted to do frightened him more.

Breathing hard, he drew back suddenly. She rocked forward on the balls of her feet, and he set her from him. He saw her seek purchase against the marble rail behind her, her elegantly tapered fingers curling around the polished stone.

“Are you married?” he asked abruptly.

“What?”

“Is there a husband you are wont to make a cuckold?”

“No.”

“Then a lover? A fiancé?”

“No.” There was uncertainty in her voice. “Neither.”

“Then it is my honor you wish to impugn?” He thought he saw her blink behind her mask, but he could not be sure. “There is a brother waiting in the shrubbery, perhaps. A father. Three male cousins who box for sport. Can I expect to be called out?”

“How am I impugning your honor? You have chosen a damnably inconvenient time to discover that you are in possession of certain scruples.”

“It is not the scruples,” he said somewhat harshly. “It is the trap.”

“What trap? You are speaking nonsense.”

Ferrin drew himself up stiffly. He was unused to being addressed in such a manner. The fact that he might indeed be speaking nonsense did nothing to improve his mood. “Then Restell is paying you dearly for this charade. You are one of his paramours.”

She shook her head. “I never met your brother before this evening.”

“Wellsley, then.”

“I don’t know any Wellsley. Is he another brother?”

“A friend.”

“You entertain peculiar notions of what tricks your family and your friends will get up to. If you are so suspicious of some trap being laid, it might be more the thing to look to your enemies.”

That she was making sense and he was not was the end of enough. The urge was upon him to shake her, but only because he could not shake himself. What he did was draw a steadying breath and release it slowly. Except for the light strains of music coming from the house, quiet settled around them. He was aware of her stillness. Her fingers still held the rail at her back. The length of her slim throat remained exposed to him as she had never once dropped her chin or tried to look away in the face of his accusations.

“I have no enemies,” he said at length.

“Everyone has enemies, though if you are the exception to the rule, perhaps you should cultivate some. They might be less apt to play false with you than either your brother or this Wellsley person.”

“I did not say Restell or my friend ever played me false.”

“You charged them with entertaining themselves at your expense, and you named them with unseemly haste. I think that speaks to what you think of their character.”

“They are both possessed of good character.”

“And yet,” she said, “you do not trust them.”

“No, that is not it at all.” Ferrin regarded her upturned face closely, trying to see behind the mask. “I don’t trust you.”

“That is altogether different. At least you have begun to make sense.”

“Have I?” He was not so sure. That kiss—and it was the only explanation for what followed—had turned his brain to pudding. His chest rose and fell as he released another long breath. “I was thinking that if you had retained your spear I could impale myself upon it.” He watched the curve of her smile appear slowly. “I take it you approve.”

“Let us say, it’s difficult to make any argument against it.”

Ferrin discovered that he had not entirely lost his sense of humor. A chuckle rippled through him, releasing tension in its wake. “I could prostrate myself at your feet, I suppose. Would that suffice?”

“Suffice for what?”

“An apology.”

“For what? For asking if I was married or betrothed? It was not an unreasonable question, though the timing of it was ill-considered.” She held up one hand when he would have spoken, cutting him off. When he fell silent, she did not let her arm fall away but rather placed her palm squarely against his chest. “You cannot wish to apologize to me for the accusations you made against your brother or your friend. That would be better done with them, if you are ever of a mind to tell them what has passed this night. I will not. And finally, would you apologize for saying that you do not trust me when I have given you no reason that you should?”

“I was thinking I would apologize for making a cake of myself.”

“Well, there you have me.” She glanced down. “You will not want to lie at my feet long. I think the stone will be quite cold.”

He drew her close instead, kissing her with more gentleness this time. Her hand remained between them, but she didn’t push him away. Her fingertips nudged the top button of his waistcoat. Her mouth opened under his, and she allowed him to drink from her. He thought her lips trembled under his, then thought the tremble might have begun in him. The kiss was long and slow and sweet. He could not quite get enough of her when it seemed she was always willing to give more. Her mouth was warm. He tasted the sweet-tart tang of the lemonade they’d drunk earlier. It was precisely how she should taste, he thought, both sweet and tart with kisses made liquid by desire.

When he raised his head he noticed that her fingers were no longer trapped between them. Instead, both hands were clutching the sleeves of his frock coat. It was the first indication that she was not so steady on her feet as he’d thought. It was fitting, then, because he was in danger of rocking backward. They teetered a moment, weight and counterweight, before a tenuous balance was achieved.

His voice, when he found it, was not much above a husky whisper. “It does not mean that I trust you.”

“I understand.” Her fingers did not relax their grip. “But know this: I mean you no harm.”

“I believe you. I wonder, though, whether it matters what your intentions are. Harm will be done.”

She shook her head. “No. That is not—”

Ferrin placed one finger firmly against her lips. “I didn’t say I minded, merely that I expect it. Do not be contrary.”

“I’m afraid it is in my nature.”

No surprise there. “Does anyone, save me, know what it is you wish for above all things this evening?”

“To be seduced, you mean?”

His eyebrows kicked up in tandem. “If you have some other wish, I should like to hear it before I proceed granting this one.” He thought he heard her breath catch. What he knew with certainty was that she was again unsteady on her feet. The moment quickly passed, and she was Boudicca once more: determined, ruthless warrior.

He remembered thinking that she was a danger to herself and wondered if he was merely choosing to ignore that aspect, or if he was in the right of it when he sensed the greater danger would be to allow her to leave him.

“You are thinking again,” she whispered.

“Guilty.”

“It cannot be good for you. A rake should not entertain so many qualms.”

“You will scarcely credit it, but I’ve never had my qualms put to such a test before.”

“Perhaps if you kiss me again.” Hesitating, she bit her lower lip and worried it for the span of a heartbeat. “Or does that merely qualm the waters?”

Ferrin literally took her in hand, ignoring her light laugh, which he thought sounded suspiciously like a titter. He drew her back into the house, not pausing long enough in the doorway for her to retrieve her spear. The hand she flung out for it came away empty.

“This way,” he said, brooking no refusal. “This way” was through a deserted second parlor and into a dimly lighted stairwell. He drew her up eighteen steeply winding steps before he stopped on the small landing. An explanation was hardly required, but he gave her one anyway. “Servants’ passage.”

“It is almost as good as a cupboard.”

“Better, in fact. The servants are busy everywhere below stairs, not above. There’s no reason for one of them to come this way.”

“Then we will not be disturbed.”

“That is the idea.” He regarded her, trying to make out her thoughts from a shadowed expression that gave nothing away. “At least that was my idea. It is not part of your wish that we are observed, is it?” He was gratified to see this caused a reaction he could finally interpret. She was properly shocked at the notion of being watched. “Is it all you hoped for?”

Boudicca glanced about the close quarters. “It is…cozy.”

He smiled. “It is roomier than a cupboard.”

“My. I hadn’t realized.”

Ferrin never thought she was in the habit of making propositions like the one she had tonight. Still, he was gratified to have it confirmed. “You weren’t in anticipation of a bed, were you?”

“No. Oh, no. That would seem calculating rather than precipitous.”

He could have pointed out that throughout this encounter she had demonstrated more in the way of strategy than Napoleon had upon escaping Elba. He said nothing, however. Apparently she was taken with the notion of a chance meeting and reckless abandon. He was in favor of both those things, but they had nothing at all to do with this night’s work.

Ferrin observed that she was still looking around. He wondered if she was having second thoughts and how he felt about it if that were so. “Have you changed your mind?” he asked.

She shook her head. Her flame-red hair, so brilliant in the ballroom, had faded to burnt umber in the constricted space of the stairwell. A lock of it fell forward over her shoulders. Before she could push it back, he did it for her.

“I thought it was a wig,” he said.

Boudicca made no reply to that. What she said was, “Will you extinguish the lamps?”

“If you wish.”

“I do.”

Ferrin was disappointed but not surprised. She’d made it clear at the outset that she wanted to preserve her anonymity. He was the one exposed here, with or without candlelight. “Very well,” he said. It did not take him long to blow out the lamp below them, then climb to the second landing and extinguish that flame as well. His returning descent was slowed by the complete darkness. When he reached what he thought was the last step, he felt her hand brush his sleeve and knew then that he had arrived.

It was not that she was waiting for him with open arms, but that she went so easily into his. The fit was perfect. As soon as he kissed her, he knew she was no longer wearing her mask. Darkness had freed her. His hands came up and cupped her face. He let his thumbs pass lightly across the arch of her cheekbones. She was more finely made than he’d imagined the raw-boned queen of Britain had been. This Boudicca’s features were elegantly contoured, the symmetry just shy of perfection. He used his index finger to trace the pared line of her nose. No break or bump altered the intended shape of it. His fingers slipped under her heavy fall of hair, threading behind her head to support her as he deepened the kiss.

She was working the buttons of his frock coat, her movements not so practiced that they weren’t a bit tentative and clumsy. When she released the last one she began on his waistcoat, then pulled his shirt free of his breeches. He sucked in a breath when her hands lay flat against his chest.

“Cold?” she asked, beginning to pull away.

“Hot,” he said, drawing her back. His mouth covered hers again, harder this time, insistent. He pushed her against the wall and swallowed her moan. Her hands slid around his back until her fingers met at his spine. Her nails lightly scored the length of it from his nape to where it disappeared beneath his waistband. Her breasts flattened against his chest, but he was so sensitive to her touch that the twin buds of her nipples seemed to score him much as her nails did. He lifted his lips, then placed them at the curve of her neck just below her ear.

His breath was hot and humid, and he whispered what he wanted from her, what he wanted to do to her. She strained against him and clutched him tighter. He sipped her skin, knowing he would leave a mark there. She knew it too. Her hands and fingers stilled and she stiffened, then the moment passed and she was yielding to his mouth again, no longer caring that he was placing his stamp upon her.

The golden torc she wore fit closely. He kissed her at the opening, above the base of her throat. He felt her tremble.

They lowered each other to the landing, neither of them consciously taking the lead. It was surprisingly simple. At one moment they were standing, in another they were not.

He found the brooch that fastened her cloak. “Be still,” he said, “else I will stick one of us with this. I would rather it not be me.”

“You are not at all gallant.”

“Rakes rarely are. Or rather they can be when it serves their purpose.” His chuckle rose deep from the back of his throat when she pushed his hands aside and managed the brooch herself. She let him remove the cloak from her shoulders. He folded it so that it made a pillow for her head, then he bore her down on it.

Her tunic fell to her thighs when he raised her knees and settled himself between them. Neither of them moved at first, becoming acquainted with this new intimacy. Of necessity there were adjustments to be made. Her head bumped the lip of an upper step. His knee caught the lip of a lower one. The landing afforded them not much more space than an armoire, and they turned and twisted until they had an arrangement that suited them both.

“Aren’t you pleased I talked you out of the cupboard?” he asked.

“You cannot imagine.” She raised her head just enough to brush his lips with hers. The tip of her tongue wet his lower lip. “Shall I help you with your flies?”

If the mask had made her bold before, darkness made her bolder. “I can manage. Do you need help with your shift?”

“I can manage.”

There was no mistaking that he was ready for her, but Ferrin was not as certain the reverse was true. Reckless and impassioned they might be, he reasoned there was time enough yet to lay siege to all of her senses. To that end, he began in precisely the same place he had stopped when they had slid to the floor. The hollow of her throat was still damp from his last kiss. Her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

He moved lower, finding the edge of her tunic with his teeth and tugging. He used his fingers to slip it over one of her shoulders, then traced the line of her collarbone. He retraced it with his lips. She arched a little under him, raising her breasts. He pulled the tunic lower until it was her flesh he felt under his palm and the sweet thorny point of her nipple against his thumb.

She filled his hand. He bent his head and suckled her. She cried out, and he was forced to stop. He placed his mouth near her own and whispered that she must accept quietly what was done to her, else they would arouse the curiosity of the housemaids and footmen. He felt her nod and smiled because she would not for anything risk a single word in reply.

This time when he took her nipple in his mouth she merely whimpered. The sound of that tight little gasp made his blood surge again. He was achingly hard. He ground his hips against her, and he rolled the tip of her breast between his lips, touching her ever so lightly with the ridge of his teeth. He felt the hand she’d laid on his shoulder lift, then heard her muffled cry and knew she’d jammed her fist against her mouth.

When she shifted under him he realized she meant for him to show the same delicate attention to her other breast. He did. She was so responsive to his touch that he found himself holding back, gentling her as though she might break apart in his hands. She would have none of it, or none of it for long. When his reserve became too much for her, the fragile foreplay a torture in itself, she caught his face between her hands and kissed him hard enough to bruise their lips.

As an invitation it could not have been clearer. Ferrin released his erection from his breeches, then slipped his hands under her bottom and lifted. He felt her draw her knees higher, opening for him, then clasping him. He did not go gently now but thrust forward so that she reared up and for a moment seemed as if she would stop him. The fists that he thought might pummel him when they pressed against his shoulders slowly uncurled. Her fingers fluttered, then were still.

He waited her out, another adjustment to be made as her body stretched to accommodate his entry. Her breathing was quick and shallow, the response to a heart racing so hard it threatened to burst her chest. He was quiet, patient. That would change, but for now he could be patient.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want…” But she did not say what she wanted. “Please,” she said again instead.

They fit so tightly that the cramped space they occupied was without consequence. He moved slowly at first, long, sure strokes that helped her find his rhythm and take him so deeply he thought he might die with the pleasure of it. He didn’t, but he would not have minded if he had.

He set about making certain that she felt the very same. Releasing her abruptly, he turned her over and folded her forward on her knees. Her forearms braced on one of the steps above; the curve of her bottom was raised toward him. He palmed her buttocks, finding her cleft, then entered her again, this time from behind. He sensed her ducking her head and realized she was protecting her nose and chin from a collision with one of the upper steps. He swore softly, in way of apology, then leaned forward and kissed her shoulder to punctuate it.

“All is well?” he asked.

“Yes.” He began to move in her again. “Oh, yes,” she said.

One of his hands left her hip and sought the wet, slippery folds of flesh beneath her mons. He ran a finger between them, flicking the hooded bud with the tip of his nail. Her entire body quivered. The cadence of her breathing changed again, this time coming more irregularly as she caught, then held, a sip of air at the back of her throat.

In the ballroom a waltz was being played. The lilting three-quarter time insinuated itself into the dark passage. The vibration of so many dancers taking to the floor could be felt in the stairwell. Occasionally a servant moved below and then they would quiet, only the harshness of their breathing hinting at the mixture of anticipation and excitement they held at bay. Each brief respite served to heighten pleasure already spiraling in a dizzying arc.

He didn’t know what she did to keep from screaming, but when she shuddered violently in his arms he had little doubt it was what she had wanted to do. His own climax came as hard: short, shallow strokes followed by one that buried him so deeply that he touched her womb.

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 question. “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?”