One Forbidden Evening (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Jo Goodman

  “You would rather be at your gentleman’s club.”

  “That might suit.”

  “Playing cards and gaming.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Discussing politics.”

  “That is done on occasion.”

  “Scheming.”

  He smiled slightly. “That is done more often.”

  She made no response to this last but allowed him to resume their tour of the gallery. The other couples in the room were moving on as well. The wizard Merlin entered not long afterward, accompanied by Pocahontas and a shepherdess.

  “She is not the shepherdess I’m seeking,” Boudicca said.

  “I know. She’s Mrs. Edward Branson, better known to me as my sister Imogene.”

  “I had not realized. I was introduced to her earlier, but I did not understand she was a relation.”

  “Then she is not the one who placed you on the invitation list.”

  Boudicca gave him a sidelong glance. “I think your lordship is fishing for my name. I will not take the bait, you know. I am finding anonymity to be in every way to my liking.”

  “As you wish.”

  She smiled a little then. “I did not expect you to give up quite so easily.”

  “Do I disappoint? The truth is I’ve never enjoyed fishing. You are aware, are you not, that there are worms involved. And fish. It’s a messy business.”

  “I think you are teasing now.”

  “Am I?” When she did not reply, he wondered if he had finally disconcerted her into silence or if she was so certain she was in the right of it that no argument was necessary. She was quite correct in one assertion: He had been fishing.

  They paused in front of another portrait that intrigued her, and while he gave her an account of his ancestor’s accomplishments and missteps, he watched her out of the corner of his eye, searching for some feature that he would be able to identify at a later date. The flame-red hair would distinguish her, of course, if it were indeed her own. He was no longer confident that was the case. Skillfully woven, natural in every detail, Ferrin could imagine the wig—if indeed it was one—had cost a goodly sum. He wondered that anyone considered this one evening’s entertainment to be worth such expense.

  He did not voice this thought aloud. She would have found it more peculiar if he had. After all, he’d paid far more to provide tonight’s entertainment, as she was likely to point out. He could explain it as fulfilling an obligation to his family, another responsibility of his station, yet duty was no factor in this night’s work. A rake’s reputation was never served, however, by admitting that there was little he would not do for his family. Netta, in particular, merely had to crook her finger and he would walk through fire. That he was so vulnerable to the whims of his mother and sisters, and only marginally less susceptible to the impulses of his stepfather and brothers, was not an element of his character that he wanted known. He would be exploited to distraction and very nearly helpless in the face of it.

  “Why Boudicca?” he asked.

  “I don’t understand.”

  They began to walk again. “What I mean is, why not Cleopatra? A lady-in-waiting. Guinevere. Or even, Heaven help us, a shepherdess. How did you come to choose Boudicca?” She remained quiet so long that Ferrin thought she did not mean to answer. When she did, he was struck by the gravity of her response.

  “I chose her for her ruthlessness.”

  “I see.”

  She smiled a little at that. “That cannot possibly be the case, for I am uncertain that I understand it myself.”

  “It is rather surprising.”

  “Yes.”

  “You admire ruthlessness?”

  “It would be truer that I have come to respect the need for it.”

  “It has its place.”

  She nodded. “You are more than passingly familiar with it, I expect. A man of your reputation would have to be.”

  “Because I am a pirate?”

  “Because you are accounted by the ton to be a rake.”

  Ferrin glanced sideways, marking her profile. What he could make out of her features appeared to be composed. She had not even the grace to flush at her own boldness. “Is it Boudicca that makes you daring or do you always speak so directly?”

  “Did I misspeak? I wasn’t aware. You cannot be unfamiliar with your reputation in society.”

  “You will allow, perhaps, that it is disconcerting to have it placed so plainly before me.”

  “I didn’t realize. It was not my intention to cause you discomfort, indeed, I thought gentlemen were agreeably flattered by that reputation. Was I wrong?”

  “Some gentlemen are, I suppose.” Ferrin waited to see if she would pose the question to him. She did not, thereby saving him from the complication of a lie. “You are acquainted with a great many rakes?” he asked.

  “No, not at all, else I would be more certain of my facts regarding their character.”

  He chuckled. They were almost upon another couple, so Ferrin slowed his step and pretended interest in the landscape above the mantelpiece. “Tell me more about a rake’s character,” he said. “I am frankly fascinated.”

  “I believe you are more amused than fascinated, but I will indulge you, nevertheless.” She disengaged herself from his arm, though she did not turn to face him. “By the accepted definition, he is a libertine. A rakehell. Someone given to licentious behavior. It is not so much that he has disdain for the conventions of society, but that he is unrestrained by them.”

  “It is a fine distinction.”

  “Mayhap it is.”

  “You will have to say more about these conventions of society—the ones that do not restrain a rakehell.”

  “Now I know you are amused because you cannot be ignorant of them.”

  “There is always the possibility that I have restrained myself unnecessarily. I certainly hope that is not the way of it. I should very much like to hear your list.”

  “Freethinking,” she said. “Libertines are by their nature freethinkers in matters of religion and morality.”

  “Yes, I can see how that could disturb the order of society.”

  “Drink.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Rakes are given to excess in drink.”

  “Oh.”

  She glanced at him. “I do not think it was lemonade you were imbibing in the card room.”

  “You have me there. It was whisky. I am compelled to point out that I am not foxed.”

  “And I am compelled to counter that it is yet early in the evening, by your own admission boredom was upon you, and who is to say that my interruption has not saved you from an overindulgence of spirits?”

  “As you are of the firmly held opinion that I am a libertine, I suppose you will not accept my word on the matter.”

  “It would be foolish of me to do so, would it not? Rakes cannot be relied upon to tell the truth, else how would they manage the seduction of so many females?”

  Ferrin’s brows lifted. “My, you do speak frankly, Boudicca.”

  “Perhaps you think that is only the province of men.”

  Ferrin recognized dangerous waters without having to put his toe in. He chose his words carefully. “What I think is that convictions such as you are wont to espouse should have the support of fact, not fancy.”

  Her step faltered, and she held back, drawing Ferrin up short as well. “Then you are not, in fact, a rakehell?”

  He turned slightly, facing her. His superior height and position drew her eyes upward. “A question first,” he said. “Why is my answer of so much consequence to you?”

  There was no hesitation, only a slight shift in the forward thrust of her small chin. “Because what I wish above all things this evening is that you will seduce me.”

  Chapter Two

  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.