One Forbidden Evening (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Jo Goodman

  Lady Rivendale’s generously full mouth flattened, and she harrumphed softly. “I disapprove of tattling, you know.”

  Cybelline merely smiled.

  “Though I might be tempted to tell Sherry and Lily what you’ve done to your hair.”

  Cybelline’s smile faltered.

  “Hah!” The countess possessed a remarkably smooth countenance for one in her fifty-fourth year. This was a consequence of a nightly regimen of creams and lemon juice and avoidance of the sun. Lines such as she had—at the corners of her mouth and eyes—did not overly concern her, as she believed they were righteously earned by love and laughter and surviving the vagaries of life. Her face crinkled now, amusement deepening twin creases between her eyebrows. “So you do not want your brother to know. Nor Lily either, though I imagine she would come to understand your actions much more quickly than Sherry. I wonder, however, if she will understand more quickly than I.”

  The threat was subtle but clear, and Cybelline did not miss it. Some explanation was expected. She was not hopeful that she could stray far from the truth and stand up to Lady Rivendale’s scrutiny. It was never comforting to have that steely, sharp-as-a-razor glance turn in her direction. Sherry had always been better at ducking his godmother’s inspection, and he would be the first to admit he suffered it far more often than was his wish.

  “It was you, Aunt Georgia, who suggested that some change might be in order.” It was a good beginning, Cybelline thought, reminding the countess of her own words. “You cannot have forgotten our conversation.”

  “No, indeed, but I think I remember it differently than you. We were speaking of your taking up residence at Penwyckham. I suggested that you consider spending a few months there with Anna. It was a change of scenery that I had in mind and well you know it.”

  “We were discussing change,” Cybelline said. “I was thinking of it in another manner.”

  “I doubt you were thinking at all. That is a most unfortunate shade of red you have acquired. There is not so much orange in it as to be carroty, but neither does it have the richness of auburn. You were right to cover it. I shouldn’t wonder if Anna might think you have burst into flame.”

  Somewhat self-consciously, Cybelline adjusted her cap again. She smoothed the ruffle where it had crumpled against her ear. “It is merely henna. I admit I thought it would be darker, but I do not think Webb mixed it to the proportions suggested by the chemist. However, I do not blame her. She disapproved, though naturally she would not fail to assist me.”

  “Undoubtedly because she determined you were set on the matter with or without her help.”

  “I’m certain you’re right.”

  “It’s a blessing, I suppose, that you did not go out like that last night. I cannot imagine what comments it would inspire—even at a masquerade. Forgive me for speaking frankly,” Lady Rivendale said as though it were not a common occurrence, “but it is a color more suited to a cyprian.”

  “That is precisely why I wore a wig.”

  “So you did do this yesterday?” Now the countess placed one hand over her heart and regarded Cybelline with astonishment. “Before you departed?”

  “I certainly did not do it after I returned. You noted quite correctly that it was late when I arrived home.” Cybelline leaned forward in her chair and extended one arm toward the countess. “You must calm yourself. No harm has been done. I showed you the powdered wig, remember?”

  “Yes, but not when you were wearing it. I was sleeping when you left, and you had not the good sense to wake me.” She let her hand drop away from her heart and took up Cybelline’s, squeezing it lightly. “Tell me, was your costume a great success?”

  “I think that is fair to say. I was the only shepherdess there with green streamers on her crook.”

  It took Lady Rivendale a moment to hear the meaning behind Cybelline’s words. She frowned. “The only shepherdess with green streamers? Pray, how many shepherdesses were there?”

  “I counted seven. One blue, three pink, two yellow, and my green.”

  “So you were one of seven. Oh, but that is unfair. They were not all cut from the same cloth, I hope.”

  “Panniers. White leggings. Lace trim on the underskirts. Bows on every tier of fabric. Perfectly coiffed white wigs in the French fashion.”

  “Beauty marks?”

  “Yes. I suspect we took our inspiration from the same painting.”

  The countess was having none of that explanation. “I suspect someone took their inspiration from me. I was the one who sat with the dressmaker while she put my ideas to paper. She said it was a complete original. I selected the fabric, the lace, the bows, and the streamers. Must I remind you that the painting hangs in my home?”

  “And you have noted that it is oft admired by your friends. Perhaps you should be flattered that they considered it so worthy of imitation.”

  “I cannot be flattered when I feel sorely abused.”

  Cybelline gave her a disbelieving look. “Aunt Georgia, you are making rather too much of it. I would prefer it if you returned to scolding me for my hair. I certainly was delighted to be in such esteemed company. Mrs. Edward Branson was one of the shepherdesses. Blue ribbons, I believe. I had not made her acquaintance before last night. She was everything gracious.”

  “Of course she was. She was wearing your costume.”

  Cybelline ignored that. As a rule, Lady Rivendale was not given to being disagreeable. Some tolerance was in order. “She is Lady Gardner’s stepdaughter. I did not make that connection before.”

  “I do not know her. She was married and gone from home when I made the acquaintance of Sir Geoffrey and Lady Gardner. She has a twin brother, I believe. I suppose he was present, given that the masque was in Miss Wynetta’s honor.”

  “Yes, though I cannot say I met him. He was pointed out to me.”

  “He was not also a shepherdess, I hope.”

  Cybelline smiled. Lady Rivendale was recovering her sense of humor, albeit tinged with sarcasm. “One of the Knights Templar. There were enough of them present to mount a crusade, I can tell you that.”

  “And Miss Wynetta?”

  “An exotic-looking Cleopatra. Indeed, her admirers were thick around her, which was the point of it all, I suppose.”

  “Then I was not wrong to insist you go without me?”

  There was but one way Cybelline could respond to that poser. It was difficult not to look away as she spoke. “No, you were not wrong.”

  “Does that mean you are prepared to rejoin society, Cybelline?” the countess asked gently. “I wish beyond everything that is so.”

  Cybelline removed her hand from under Lady Rivendale’s and sat back in her chair. “I am prepared, I believe, to enter a smaller society, Aunt. You will scarcely credit it, but I have been considering your offer of the house at Penwyckham. I would like to accept it. Last night’s entertainment convinced me that I am not yet comfortable with the crush. I did not find the conversation easy, nor of particular interest. There was gossip, of course, but I could not restrain the thought that sooner or later I would hear Nicholas’s name.”

  “Oh, my dear girl, that you should have suffered those thoughts. It has been over a year since…since his passing.”

  “Since he killed himself,” Cybelline said firmly. “It is better to say it plainly, I think, than to speak of it as if he merely slipped away. Almost seventeen months, Aunt Georgia. Sometimes I mark the days since I held him in my arms. It was four hundred eighty when I recorded it last. I dream of him. I cannot seem to help myself.”

  “I know,” Lady Rivendale said quietly. “It is why I thought it was time for you to leave this house and embrace the possibility of meeting someone.”

  Cybelline flushed a little. “I should not have told you about that dream.”

  “Stuff! Who better to confide in? I have not lived my life under a rock. I have experiences that make me the perfect confidante—and I am family. You can trust it will go no further.”
She pitched her voice lower so there was no chance she could be heard beyond the breakfast room by a passing servant. “I believe it is quite unexceptional to dream of one’s husband after he has passed. Oh, shush, do not make me dwell on the fact that Mr. Caldwell killed himself. I am still out of patience with him for that.” She saw Cybelline’s mouth snap shut in surprise. “Good. Now, as I was saying, it is within the bounds of reason to suppose that from time to time those dreams would be about your most intimate moments. I cannot think how it could be otherwise. I thought the same when it happened to me—though I will say that Lord Rivendale was a better lover dead than he was alive—and I have not heard anything from you that persuades me your dreams are at all unusual. I am uncertain how I can be more clear that you are not at fault for the nature of your mind when it is in the throes of Morpheus.”

  Cybelline required a moment to consider all that had been said. Putting aside the rather surprising revelation about Lord Rivendale’s lovemaking, the remainder of the countess’s speech was something Cybelline had heard before. She remained unconvinced.

  There was something terribly wrong with her, something dark and lowering, something wholly reprehensible. It could not be in the nature of what was decent that of late her husband’s face was obscured by shadow so that she could only pretend he was the one coming to her bed. She had never told Lady Rivendale that she’d woken up to discover that she’d pleasured herself. It still shamed her when she thought of it.

  But not so much, it seemed, that it hadn’t happened a second time. And a third.

  So last night she had invited a man to do the same. It had been what she wished for above all things, to submit herself to a man’s touch again, to engage in an act of moral and carnal prostitution, selling what was left of her soul and all of her body to a man who would not ask why she had chosen him or why she despised herself.

  The Earl of Ferrin had proved in the end that he was just such a man.

  Thinking of him now, Cybelline felt another rush of heat flush her cheeks. She was aware that Lady Rivendale’s gaze had narrowed again and that she was the subject of further study. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking down for a moment. “You can appreciate, I think, that I am embarrassed to discuss these things. You believe my dreams to be unexceptional. They do not seem so to me. I agreed to attend last evening’s entertainment, but it has left me knowing that I want a different experience than parties and social circles and the ton during the Season. Sherry and Lily have invited me many times to Granville Hall, yet I cannot bring myself to spend more than a few days in their company when they are in town. They are so happy that my presence makes them feel guilty for it.”

  “That is nonsense.”

  “No, it’s not. They would deny it, of course, as you do, but I can feel there is always some strain. If it is not with them, then it is with me. The pretense of trying not to grieve openly is wearing, Aunt Georgia. It is enough for me that I must do it in Anna’s presence. I love my brother and do not wish him any unhappiness, so it is beyond everything I understand that I can resent him for having in his life what I no longer do. I do not think you can appreciate how deeply it hurts me to admit that aloud, or how it tears at my heart when it intrudes upon my thoughts and I remain silent. I cannot put Nicholas’s suicide in the past because I am as angry with him as I am sorry for myself. Sometimes I am frightened that it will never change. How shall I go on, then? What will I say to Anna that will ease her when I find no ease?”

  Lady Rivendale used the serviette lying on her lap to dab at her damp eyes. “How I wish I could take this burden of yours upon my own shoulders. I have grieved, true, but little enough of it has been for Mr. Caldwell. I grieve for you, Cybelline, for the ache that has permanent residency in your heart.”

  “I know you do,” Cybelline said quietly. “And I am sorry for that, though I do not know how it can be different. It is why I am prepared to accept your gracious offer. As you have remarked to me more than once, leaving London is just the thing. I should have done it months ago.” When the letters began to arrive, she told herself. She knew better than to share this last thought. It was odd that it was far easier to speak to her aunt about the dreams than it was to even hint at the letters. Removing herself from her momentary reverie, Cybelline added earnestly, “You have been everything patient to wait me out and not force my hand.”

  Although the countess’s eyes no longer glistened with tears, her smile was a trifle watery. “I could hardly order you to go, now could I?”

  “I trust that is a rhetorical question, because you certainly have been that managing before.”

  “It has always worked better with your brother. He permits it, you know, to humor me. You do not.”

  Cybelline nodded. “Sherry indulges me as well. He is the best of all of us, I think.” She took a small, steadying breath when tears threatened. “I will write to him, of course. I will even tell him what I have done to my hair. There was an invitation to spend Christmas at Granville. I did not know how I might graciously refuse it, but I think he will understand when I tell him that I mean to set up in your home at Penwyckham. If my explanation does not serve to allay his concerns for me, I hope you will help him understand.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “I have never doubted that, Aunt Georgia. You have always been our rock.”

  “A pebble in your shoe, mayhap.”

  “When you had to be.”

  Lady Rivendale chuckled. “I should have expected that you would agree.” She replaced her serviette in her lap and absently smoothed the creases. “When will you want to leave?”

  Cybelline wanted to tell her that tomorrow would not be soon enough, or even better, that she should have left before the masque. “It will not take long to arrange our departure. I was thinking that all could be made ready in three days.”

  “Three days! That is no time at all. The house has been neglected, Cybelline. I thought I explained that. There is only Mr. and Mrs. Henley from the village who look after the property. I have not been there in four years. I cannot say that I even recall how many rooms you shall have use of.”

  “More than enough, I should think,” Cybelline said confidently. “Can you not know that the home’s neglect is one of the attractions for me? Of course you do, you sly puss. That is why you suggested it and not one of your other properties. I will take such servants as I think I need and keep the Henleys on. There cannot be so much work in Penwyckham that I will have difficulty hiring gardeners and grooms should I have need of them.”

  Lady Rivendale lifted one hand and massaged her temple with her fingertips. “This is not unfolding in quite the manner I had envisioned.” She raised her fingers and indicated the silver threads of hair. “Have I more? I do believe that I have more. It is astonishing to me that I will go to my bed tonight with more silver in my hair than I had upon rising from it this morning.”

  “I highly recommend the henna.”

  The countess’s humor asserted itself. She had a full-throated, husky laugh that filled the small breakfast room. Cybelline was immediately warmed by it.

  “You are too clever by half,” Lady Rivendale said, still smiling. “You will always have the better of me. Very well. What is to be done, then? Shall I send a missive to the Henleys and hope it arrives before you do? It will give them perhaps as much as a day or two to prepare. The journey will require some three or four days of travel, much of it on roads that rarely do not cause a mishap. Penwyckham is not on the other side of the earth, but close enough.”

  “Warning the Henleys of my imminent arrival is only fair to them. It is my experience that such surprises are generally unwelcome. I will be relying on them to assist my own servants and provide such information as I require about the village and the locals. They will be invaluable if I need to hire more help. You are satisfied, I collect, with their quarterly reports to you?”

  “Yes. What repairs they have suggested have always seemed reasonable, though I have entertai
ned fears they err on the side of doing too little. It was why you will be doing me a very great favor by going there.”

  “Surely you’ve had your steward visit from time to time.”

  The countess shook her head. “Matters at Rivendale keep him occupied. There is also the property at Trent and the one near Nottingham. I have stewards for each. The house at Penwyckham is not part of an estate that requires overseeing tenants and lands, collecting rents and the like. I hope I have not misled you in that regard. I have to trust that the Henleys were as they presented themselves to me when I engaged them. I encourage you to write to me and inform me if I was wrong.”

  “I suspect I will write to you about all manner of things, though I doubt any one of them will be about your making an error of judgment.”

  Lady Rivendale gave her a skeptical look. “Is it that you don’t think I can make such an error or that you shy from confronting me?”

  “There is no answer to that poser that will not put me in Dutch with you.”

  “Not if you tell the truth, there is not. Lying, however, will put you in my good graces.”

  Cybelline laughed. She picked up a triangle of toast, now stone cold, and bit it delicately. “Why have you not visited Penwyckham yourself, Aunt?”

  “The house was left to me by my own aunt, my father’s sister. I could scarcely abide her. Upon reflection, it is more truthful to say I was afraid of her. I spent summers with her as a child when my parents were abroad. Her heart was hard—that is what I remember thinking as a child. Bitter, I would say now. I conceived the notion that she didn’t like me. Certainly she had no use for me. I don’t think I saw her more than a score of times in all of the summers I resided there. She spent a great many hours in the drawing room reading from her Bible. She took her meals alone and suffered my presence only when a melancholia was upon her.”