by Jo Goodman
He thought her denial perhaps too vehement, but he let it pass. If the truth were otherwise, she was most definitely not prepared to answer for it. It also occurred to him that she might not know the truth of it herself. “Very well. It was not done with purpose.”
“Do you think I did not want it back?”
“I don’t know. You never inquired after it.”
“How could I?”
“Lady Rivendale, mayhap?”
“She did not know I took it. I left the house as a shepherdess.” Cybelline noticed that he seemed to expect this answer. His mien became more contemplative, and his lips curved in a way that indicated satisfaction.
“Your aunt plays her cards very close.”
“I imagine you do not mean that only in the literal sense.”
“She did not give you away,” he said. “But it seemed to me that she knew something was not quite as it should be when I asked her about Boudicca.”
“I wish you had not involved her.”
“She was a link to you, and you were the link to the spear and Boudicca.”
“So you told her about them both.”
“I did. I am surprised she did not write to you regarding our conversation. I invited her for an evening of dinner and card play in my home. My family was there. So was Mr. Wellsley. You have received some correspondence from her, I believe.”
“Yes, but you do not know her at all well if you supposed she would inform me of what transpired that evening. I can believe it was her intention to do so, perhaps several times she even thought of it, but once she puts the pen to paper, it is what is on her mind at the moment that she will write about. Apparently, my lord, neither you nor your discourse made so lasting an impression.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
Cybelline could hear that he was unconvinced of this last, though modesty—or pride—forbade him from expressly saying so. “Tell me, my lord, did you describe Boudicca to her?”
Ferrin tried to recall what was said. “I believe she asked about the costume.”
“And the hair?”
“Whether it was said or not is of no consequence. Everyone knows Boudicca has red hair.”
“As did I that evening, and Aunt Georgia knew that very well. She saw it the following morning in spite of my attempts to conceal it from her. I can believe very easily that she has neglected to write of an evening’s conversation in your home, but I will never believe she did not comprehend the import of what she heard. Lady Rivendale is no one’s fool.”
“Of that I have no doubt.”
Cybelline nodded faintly, gratified to hear it. She sipped her tea. “It was my intention to ask her to make inquiries about Mr. Wellsley, but I never did.”
“Why not?”
“As I reflected on it, it did not seem so very important. I knew who you were. It did not matter who he was.”
“And I imagine you did not want to rouse her curiosity.”
“That also.” Cybelline regarded the biscuits on the tray and wondered if she dared eat one. Her stomach was no longer roiling, but she was uncertain if that would last long. “What are your intentions, my lord?”
“Will you not call me Ferrin?”
“No.”
“Then I hope you will not give me up to your servants by addressing me as ‘my lord.’ I prefer to be Mr. Wellsley while I am in Penwyckham.”
“And I would prefer to be a tea cozy, but that is not what I am, is it?”
Startled, Ferrin blinked. It was a rare occurrence that he was disconcerted in conversation, and he required a moment to form a response. “I had forgotten that you are in possession of so tart a tongue.”
“Some would say sharp.”
“That does not surprise.”
Cybelline set her teacup in the saucer and returned it to the tray. “But have I made my point?” she asked. “You can pretend all you like that you are a gentleman, but you have the manners of a lord.”
“I don’t believe you mean to compliment me.”
“I don’t. You cannot help yourself, I suppose. It is bred in the bone, or at least I have always thought so. Sherry, too, can be rather full of himself on occasion. The scoundrels have been known to call him His Nibs.”
Ferrin frowned. “They are permitted to address him as such?”
Cybelline tamped down her smile at his reaction. “I would not say that it is permitted but rather that it is done on occasion. I have heard them. And Lily treads firmly upon his toes when he is getting too high in the instep. You don’t approve?”
“I cannot say just yet. One wonders about the collapse of civilization.”
His arid accents provoked her to laughter. “I think you are far more amused than alarmed,” she said. “And that is a compliment.”
He inclined his head slightly, communicating approval in his most toplofty fashion, then threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. “You are quite right, of course. I am tolerant of all manner of things until I do not get my way, then I adopt the disagreeable disposition you have mentioned. I am not as certain as you that it would be any different were I only Kit Hollings rather than also the Earl of Ferrin, but I suppose that is what you mean when you say it is bred in the bone. One cannot properly separate the two.”
“Then you understand me perfectly.”
Ferrin only wished that were true. He did not think he understood her at all. It was still to his advantage not to point this out, as she would seize the high ground soon enough on her own.
“You have not told me your intentions,” Cybelline said. “Did you think I had forgotten that I’d asked?”
“I doubt that you forget anything, but I was moved to hope it might be so.”
She would not allow herself to be set off course this time, so rather than acknowledging his words, she waited him out.
Ferrin sighed. “I have not given it a great deal of thought.”
“You will find it difficult to convince me that you did not come here with some specific plan in mind.”
“Yes,” he said. “To learn Boudicca’s identity, perhaps even to learn where she lives.”
“That was your purpose,” Cybelline said evenly. “And it is has been accomplished, no matter that I wish it were otherwise. So what is your plan? You have said nothing of why you wanted to find Boudicca. And, pray, do not tell me it was so that you might return the spear. You suspected before you left London that the spear was the property of my late husband. You might have simply had it delivered to my home.”
“I considered it. I looked to Lady Rivendale to confirm the spear was yours, and she denied it.”
“You showed it to her?”
“No. I described it to her. I also described the gold bracelets and torc Boudicca wore that evening. She claimed you owned none of those items and would not have lent them to a friend if you had.”
“I imagine she hardly knew what to make of your inquiries and chose to say less rather than more. Certainly she knew I was in possession of all the things you mentioned.”
“I thought the same, though I could not prove it.”
“Did you bring the spear with you?”
“No.”
Cybelline’s smile was mildly mocking. “Then you did not truly care to confirm that it was mine.”
“On the contrary. I thought it too valuable to take from my London residence. According to Sir Richard, it is a museum-quality piece. I don’t know its worth in terms of money, but I imagined I knew something of its value in terms of history and the sentiment that you might attach to it.”
The ache behind Cybelline’s eyes returned. She could not speak for the swelling in her throat. Leaning forward, she picked up her teacup and raised it to her lips. She was capable only of sipping it. A mouthful would have choked her.
“Forgive me,” Ferrin said. “I have distressed you.”
She shook her head and took a steadying breath. Still, her voice was thready and uneven, and she barely recognized it herself. “You demon
strated more consideration for the piece than I did. If I am distressed, then it is on account of my own disregard for it.”
“I will see that it is returned to your London home.”
“Thank you.” Cybelline thought she might have need of the handkerchief again but managed to blink back the hot tears that threatened. She regarded him gravely, finding her bearings again. “And so I still have the same question, my lord: What were your intentions toward Boudicca?”
“It doesn’t matter what they were.”
“I beg to differ.”
Ferrin did not force the argument; he studied her instead. He thought it unlikely that she could know how heartbreakingly lovely she was in this moment. She sat so very still, her shoulders back, her spine unyielding, and yet there was more brittleness in the posture than stamina. The muslin day dress she wore emphasized the gray in her eyes and not the blue. This afternoon, with the translucency of tears coming to the surface, her eyes had what was in common with mist rising from the Thames, not steel that had been forged in hot ovens. Her slim fingers curved around the cup she held as though she craved the warmth more than the sustenance. Her thick, honey-colored hair was loosely swept back from her forehead and tied with a ribbon at her nape. She made simplicity seem elegant and stoicism appear fragile.
“I was going to ask Boudicca to accept my protection,” he said at last, matching the solemnity of Cybelline’s expression. “You understand what that means, do you not?”
She nodded once. “I understand. I was not aware that you often set up a mistress.”
Ferrin realized he would seldom err by depending upon her to speak plainly. “I do not, no.”
“I could not determine if it was a practice of all rakes or merely a practice of yours.”
“I couldn’t say,” he told her. “For myself, I find the complications of a mistress too often outweigh the conveniences.”
Cybelline considered this. “I imagine even a mistress has expectations of fidelity. It is perhaps too much to demand of a rake.”
“That has been my experience,” he said wryly.
“And yet you would make this offer to Boudicca?”
“I would have made it,” he said, correcting her tense from the present to the past.
“Why?”
“It seemed to me that the complications would be vastly entertaining.”
“Oh.”
“Indeed.” Ferrin finished his tea and set his cup down. “None of it is of any consequence now.”
Cybelline’s eyes darted toward the open doorway, then back to Ferrin. He was regarding her with something like amusement again, as though he anticipated her saying something untoward now that she had confirmed they were quite alone. It grieved her that she would not disappoint him. “I am wondering why it is of no consequence,” she said.
“I am compelled to point out that you are Sheridan’s sister.”
“Isn’t that merely a complication?”
“But not one that is remotely diverting.”
“That is where you are wrong. I would be greatly amused to see you face Sherry among the oaks at dawn.”
“That is because your thirst for blood is as great as Boudicca’s.”
“You flatter me.”
He chuckled. “I find you to be in every way a singular woman.”
“Then mayhap you are not so worldly as you would have society believe. I assure you, I am most unexceptional.”
While Ferrin could easily argue with this last, her first observation was uncomfortably close to the mark. He deliberately altered the course of the conversation. “I wonder if you will permit me to offer protection of a different nature?”
Surprised, and not a little wary, Cybelline was only able to give him a most reluctant nod.
“I understand there has been correspondence of late that has disturbed you,” he said. Ignoring her sharp intake of air, Ferrin went on. “I would consider it a privilege if you were to take me into your confidence and allow me to offer what assistance I am able.”
Cybelline’s lips parted, then closed again. A muscle worked in her cheek as she clenched her teeth.
“I see my offer is not welcome.”
“It is not an offer. It is interference. I will have the name of the person who shared this with you. Never mind, it can only have been Webb.” As she became agitated, Cybelline’s teacup rocked in the saucer. She returned it to the tray and stood. “She is under a misapprehension, and it was wrong of her to relate to you what poor observations she has made. I will take up the matter with her, and you should not concern yourself with any of it.”
Ferrin knew he was on the point of being dismissed and decided there was little he could lose by making a frontal assault. “Are you being blackmailed?” he asked baldly.
Cybelline’s feathered eyebrows rose halfway to her hairline. “Blackmailed? What absurd line of reasoning has led you to put that question to me?”
“Boudicca.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Is it absurd to wonder if you have used Boudicca before to move among society? You seemed to have made a study of me prior to making my acquaintance. It is not unreasonable to suppose that you have done the same on previous occasions with other men. It appears to me that you make your selections carefully so that you might avoid the complications and enjoy the convenience. You choose a man with morals to match your own impoverished ones.”
At her sides, Cybelline’s fingers clenched into bloodless fists. “You go too far.”
“I have not said enough,” he told her, coming to his feet. “If I found you with so little difficulty, it is possible that someone else has done the same. Perhaps you left another artifact behind. Perhaps you said something that revealed yourself. I imagine you asked other men to make the same promise you asked of me, and perhaps you even put all of it into words for them. You wanted discretion, silence, and, above all, anonymity. You could not be so naive that you didn’t comprehend you were asking it of men who might easily fail you on all of those counts. The very reasons you chose any of us also made you vulnerable to scandal, to blackmail”—he paused, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped to a husky pitch—“and finally to risk of harm.”
Cybelline’s chest had constricted, and now she could no longer draw a breath for the tightness. Her nostrils pinched as she tried to take in air. There was darkness at the periphery of her vision, and she would have welcomed fainting if it meant he would be gone when she awakened. She had the presence of mind to realize he would not be so easily moved.
“Sit down,” Ferrin said.
Cybelline dropped like a stone into the chair behind her. She felt Ferrin’s hand at the back of her neck, pressing her face toward her knees.
“Breathe.”
Her body convulsed as she fought for breath. His hand was on her back now, moving up and down along the length of her spine, easing the unnatural tautness of the muscles between her shoulder blades. He dropped beside the chair and brought his mouth close to her ear.
“Shall I give you the breath from my body?”
Uncertain of his meaning, Cybelline turned her face toward his. Her eyes closed as his lips covered hers, and she felt him blow gently into her mouth. The intimacy of it made her liquid. She sensed he was rising to his feet but came late to the understanding that she was being lifted with him. Her body was weightless, buoyed as if in water, and her lungs were filled now so that she could not slip below the surface.
It was a kiss as she had never experienced. He indulged himself in her mouth, taking extravagant pleasure in the taste of her. He sipped her lips, running his tongue along the underside, drawing first one, then the other between his teeth and making her feel the tender bite of his mouth. He drank from her, sucking her tongue into his mouth until it twisted and thrust alongside his. He cupped her face and pressed his lips hungrily again and again to hers, and when she began to sag, he caught her at the small of her back and brought her flush to him. His fea
sting made her mouth swollen and sensitive, and each time he kissed her there was some exquisite nuance of sensation that she had not felt before.
She clutched the lapels of his frock coat, though there was no need for her to do so. He cradled her against him so securely that she could not have torn herself loose had she wanted to.
She did not want to.
In defiance of reason, she wanted his mouth on hers, his hands at her back, the pressure of his erection against her belly. She wanted him to be the reason she had no breath and the source of getting it back.
Her breasts swelled until they were almost painfully tender. She whimpered in frustration as much as relief when he cupped one in his hand. The fabric of her gown dulled the sensation as he ran his thumb across the nipple. It seemed to her that she would not be close enough to him until he was under her skin.
There was a roar in her ears as she was jerked off her feet and lifted hard against his chest. Eyes closed, she did not think about where he was taking her. She would have been satisfied if he’d borne her to the sofa, the window bench, or all the way to the floor. What he did, though, was press her deeply into the feather tick on her own bed.
He followed her down, the weight of him pleasantly heavy and warm against her. A white winter sun lent its light through a break in the damask drapes. A bar of sunshine slanted across her arm where she’d flung it to one side. She turned her head as he raised his and regarded the beam of light while his fingers began to draw the neckline of her gown off one shoulder. She felt her breast exposed to the cool air first, then to the wet and warm suck of his mouth.
It seemed that the bar of sunlight restrained her, and she realized she rather liked the idea that this might be true. What blame could be attached to her if she was held back and made subject to what he wanted? She did not have to be ruthless in pursuit of her own pleasure, merely willing to accept what he would do to her. And she already knew there was nothing she would not permit him to do.
She arched, exposing the long line of her neck when he rolled her nipple between his teeth and lips. She bit off a cry and tasted blood on the tip of her tongue. He raised his head and took her mouth again, nursing her lips where before he had plundered them.
