One Forbidden Evening (Zebra Historical Romance)

by Jo Goodman

  She stirred under him. He made her restless and anxious with his heavy kisses and hands that would not be still. He lifted himself enough to raise one of her knees. Her gown and shift fell back to her hip before he settled himself between her legs. He laid his palm above her stocking and rubbed the back of her naked thigh all the way to the curve of her bottom. The restive impulse was upon her again, and this time she couldn’t move. His thumbnail lightly scored her skin. She felt herself contract inside, closing around an emptiness that he had not yet deigned to fill.

  She was breathing hard now, taking sharp, defined sips of air as his hand moved between their bodies. He cupped her mons and slipped one finger inside her. It was when he added the second that her heels dug deeply into the tick, and she arched so violently that she thought she would throw him off.

  Tears stung the back of her eyelids. Her moan became a hiccup that she could not quite cut off. Blinking hard, she stared up at him. There was passion in the darkening centers of his eyes and the fullness of his lower lip. He breathed deeply and his nostrils flared. She knew that he had captured the scent of her. His features were pulled taut by his self-imposed denial and the anticipation of release, yet there was nothing hard or savage in his expression. What she could not have divined was that he not only wanted her but that he still wanted to protect her.

  He was a man at war with himself.

  The band of sunlight across Cybelline’s forearm had shifted and now curved around the edge of the mattress. She lifted her arms and clasped her hands behind his neck. With the application of very little pressure she bent his head toward her until their mouths touched, then she kissed him.

  Her body contracted again. Her arms. Her knees. The muscles of her thighs. And finally, more intimately, she tightened around his fingers. His soft groan was torn from him, rising up from the back of his throat so that it rumbled against her lips. She felt him release her, raise her gown and shift, then he opened his breeches. She made no protest as he positioned her as he wanted, pressing back her knees and palming her bottom. Her fingers curled in the sheet under her.

  Cybelline accepted the thrust of his body. More than that, she pushed back, taking him as deeply as she could. If he had meant there only to be passion, she was the one who meant for it to be something more. A thread of violence wound around each caress, every kiss, and what might have been lovemaking became vaguely cruel and punishing.

  It satisfied Cybelline to be taken in anger, to have the stamp of his mouth on her neck and at her breasts, to have the faint bruising between her thighs, and the taste of her own blood on her tongue.

  He made certain there was pleasure for her, and this was something else she allowed him to do. It would be her most profoundly felt shame that he could make her know pleasure, and she would wear it like a hair shirt.

  He stroked her long and slowly and deeply, and she knew he was gauging her every expression, the movements she could not help and the small sounds she could not hold back.

  He did not try to keep her from crying out as she climaxed, rather he stopped her from pressing her fist to her mouth. She surrendered her pleasure to him, and, closing her eyes, she shuddered hard and was still riding the crest as he came.

  Chapter Nine

  Cybelline pushed at the hem of her gown as Ferrin rolled to one side. He attended to righting his own clothes while she tugged at her neckline to cover her breasts. She was relieved when she felt him rise from the bed, but wary when he merely stood beside it.

  When he finally spoke it was with quiet intensity. “Do you despise yourself so much, then?”

  Cybelline avoided meeting his gaze. “You cannot imagine.”

  There was a significant pause before Ferrin answered. “Do not be so certain.”

  Now Cybelline’s eyes darted to his, and what she saw was a look of such ineffable sadness and pain that she turned from it immediately. “Go,” she said, laying her forearm across her eyes. The weight of her arm eased the throbbing in her head. “Please go.”

  Ferrin stood over the bed a moment longer. Nothing in his expression changed. “As you wish.”

  Cybelline did not know the fullness to which he would take her meaning. She learned when supper was brought to her that he was preparing to quit the Sharpe house. According to Webb, no one among the staff was pleased to learn of it.

  “You could not expect he would stay here forever,” Cybelline said. She dutifully uncovered the tray that was delivered to the sitting room, though she had no idea whether she could find appetite enough for Mrs. Minty’s roast beef and boiled potatoes. “You can see for yourself that I am well enough. There is no reason that Mr. Wellsley must hover any longer.”

  Webb shrugged. “I see that you want to be well enough.”

  Cybelline broke off a piece of bread and dabbed at the gravy on her plate. “What do you mean by that? You seem to believe I am happy to see the last of him.”

  Webb picked up the blanket that was on the window bench and began to fold it. “Am I mistaken in thinking that’s not the way of it?”

  “He knows very well that I am grateful for his assistance.”

  Pausing as she folded, Webb merely regarded her mistress with a knowing mien. She did not have to point out that Cybelline’s response was no answer to her question.

  “It is not right that Mr. Wellsley should live in my pockets,” Cybelline said. She picked up her knife and fork and began to cut her meat. “He must have other things to occupy him.”

  “He does.” Webb lifted the lid on the window bench and placed the blanket inside. “I never knew a gentleman could have so much to occupy his time.”

  Cybelline told herself that she did not want to know. She managed to get a slice of roast beef all the way to her lips before she gave in to her curiosity. “How so?”

  Webb busied herself straightening the drapes at the window. “He’s always reading, except that when he’s not, he’s got this odd look in his eyes, like he’s thinking about what he’s read, and when he’s not got that look, it’s because he’s making sketches or writing or fiddling with one thing or another. He showed Mr. Kins where to set extra springs on the carriage, and that was because he’d overheard Kins mention to Henley that there’d been a dangerous sway the last time he’d taken it out. That was only this morning.”

  Stepping back from the drapes, Webb looked them over and nodded, satisfied with her efforts. “I don’t think a day’s gone by that he hasn’t done a bit of tinkering in his workroom.”

  Cybelline cheeked the potatoes in her mouth so she could speak around them. “He has a workroom?”

  “Oh, aye. It’s not much, mind you, and was no trouble at all to do for him. Henley set it up in the old wine cellar. Dragged in a chair and table and gave him what tools he asked for. It seemed to suit Mr. Wellsley well enough, leastwise he never indicated it didn’t.”

  “He spent a lot of time there?”

  Webb crossed the room to the fireplace and selected the poker. “Better than a fair amount, some would say. Henley told us Mr. Wellsley tinkered in there more than a few evenings long after midnight.”

  “But what does he do?”

  “Can’t say exactly. He’s closed-mouthed, is Mr. Wellsley.” Webb turned thoughtful. “Though I don’t think he’s building a telescope.”

  Frowning, Cybelline set down her fork. “What would make you think he was building a telescope? Or rather make you think he’s not building one?” Frustrated with her own inability to say what she meant, Cybelline came close to throwing up her hands. “For heaven’s sake, Webb, what has a telescope to do with anything?”

  Smiling to herself, Webb gave her full attention to the fire. She poked at the logs, rolling one to the back and bringing another forward. “I don’t suppose the telescope is of any account since he’s not making one, but he has, you know, made one, I mean. He made a present of it to his father.”

  Cybelline sat back in her chair. It was not Mr. Wellsley whom Webb was really talking about,
she reminded herself, but Ferrin. Wellsley had no contact with his father. On this occasion Ferrin had been telling Webb something about himself, not his friend.

  “And he made his own compass,” Webb went on. “Mr. Henley told me that. Then there’s Henley’s new sticks, but you know about them. I’ve heard talk about building a bridge.”

  “A bridge,” Cybelline said a little weakly. “What manner of bridge?”

  “One wide enough for a carriage to cross the brook between here and the Pembroke property. It seems there used to be one years ago. Might be that there will be again. Of course it could be that it’s only talk.” She turned and regarded the supper tray. “Will you not eat more? You can’t hope to be fit if you don’t eat. Mr. Wellsley’s been particular about that, and I agree with him.”

  “Does the man have any opinion that he keeps to himself? I thought you said he is closemouthed.”

  “Not concerning your recovery and good health,” Webb said. “As to anything else, I couldn’t say, though I believe Mr. Wellsley is a deep one.”

  If Webb had not been watching her so closely, Cybelline’s lip would have curled derisively. She sat up and lifted her fork again, spearing a piece of meat with particular relish. “Did he never leave here and go to the village?”

  “Not that I recall. He never went back to the cottage, either. What Mr. Lowell didn’t bring right off came in drips and drabs over the fortnight.”

  “Then he had all his possessions here.”

  “Seems as though he must have. Some things arrived for him at the cottage from London, and Mr. Lowell brought them here as well. Books mostly, from what I could tell. Some instruments, too, though I couldn’t say what purpose they serve. Couldn’t even properly describe them to you as I’ve only heard the maids comment about them after they’ve tidied up the workroom. Oh, he did make a bit of a fuss about that. One of them tossed a piece of glass he still had use for. Mrs. Henley cautioned the maids not to go in there again, and as far as I know, no one has.”

  A faint crease appeared between Cybelline’s brows. Her head ached and there was a peculiar pressure behind her eyes again. She felt as if she might want to cry, though she could not have named the reason this was so. “He does not impress as a scapegrace,” she said, giving voice to her confusion. “Do you think he does?”

  “No. Oh, no. I would not say he is that. I have to believe we have mistaken his reputation, else someone has been severe in their judgment of his character.”

  Cybelline nodded slowly. “Then you also observed nothing in his character to determine that he is a rake.”

  “Mr. Wellsley? A rake?” Webb chuckled. “Goodness, no. What a notion.”

  “Yes,” Cybelline said with rather more calm than she felt. “It is.”

  Webb returned the poker to its stand. “Has Lady Rivendale indicated he is such?” She hurried to add, “If I might be so free as to inquire.”

  “I have said nothing to Aunt Georgia about Mr. Wellsley, so she has no reason to mention him.” She glanced sharply at Webb. “You have not taken it upon yourself to write her, I hope.”

  “No! Not after giving you my word I would not. And I would have had no cause to mention Mr. Wellsley.”

  “I am sorry, Webb,” Cybelline said rather stiffly, “but you did tell Mr. Wellsley about the letters, and I did not think you would do that.”

  “The letters? Did I?” Webb cast her mind back, trying to recall. “I may have. I suppose I did if he says I did.”

  “He didn’t say it was you, but I cannot imagine that it was anyone else. No one else knew I was distressed by them, and that is how he put it to me, that he was aware of some correspondence of late that had disturbed me. Even when I try to have secrets from you, Webb, you see more than you let on. How long have you known?”

  Webb set her shoulders firmly and tried not to fidget under her mistress’s cool study. “For months now.”

  “Before we left London?”

  “Yes. Months before.”

  Cybelline’s short laugh was humorless. She set her fork down and pushed the tray back. “You said nothing at all about it. Have you told anyone besides Mr. Wellsley? Lady Rivendale, perhaps?”

  “No. No, I never said as much to her.”

  “And not a word to my brother?”

  “I’ve never exchanged more than a half dozen words with his lordship.”

  “And nothing to his wife?”

  “Nothing. I swear it.”

  Cybelline nodded, believing her. “Have you read the letters, Webb?”

  “No.”

  “I have them all, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Would you like to see them?”

  “No, I’m sure I wouldn’t.”

  “No,” Cybelline said with something like resignation in her tone. She spoke more to herself than to her maid. “I’m sure you wouldn’t, either.”

  Webb glanced toward the doorway.

  Cybelline understood the nature of that glance. Webb wanted to be dismissed but would not ask it for herself. “In a moment, Webb. I’ll release you in a moment, and you’ll be free to make your farewell to Mr. Wellsley with the rest of the staff. Tell me first, though, if there was any other bit of intelligence that you decided he should know.” When her maid looked longingly at the doorway again, Cybelline divined the answer. “Out with it, Webb. There are times I can comprehend your thoughts as well as you comprehend mine. What did you say to him?”

  Webb bit the inside of her cheek. “You were very ill,” she said in her defense. “And it seemed that what I knew that troubled you could be of import.”

  “That is your reasoning, but it does not tell me what particulars you related to Wellsley.”

  “It was only the one other particular. Truly. I mentioned the letters ever so briefly, and then I told him…” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed hard.

  “Yes?”

  “I told him how you were troubled by dreams.”

  Cybelline actually felt the color leave her face. Still, she kept her voice steady. “You can know even less about my dreams than about the letters, Webb. What could you have possibly said to him?”

  “That you weep at night. That’s all, I swear it. Oh, and that I heard a word here and there when you were speaking to her ladyship, and I thought it might be about the dreams.”

  Cybelline was sufficiently provoked to snap, “Bloody hell, Webb, did the man have a pistol to your head?”

  The words hung there in a room that was quite suddenly silent. Webb was clearly shaken, but no more than Cybelline. They shared equally anguished glances, then looked away. Webb pleated her apron with nervous fingers while Cybelline closed her eyes and massaged one of her throbbing temples.

  “You can go, Webb,” Cybelline said at length. “We will not speak of it again. It’s done.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Webb only narrowly managed to choke out her agreement before fleeing the room.

  For a time, Cybelline did not move. She rested her head against her hand and remained that way with her eyes closed and her heart thrumming. Simply because Ferrin knew she wept at night, it did not follow that he knew her dreams. If he gave any thought at all to their content, it was more likely that he supposed she dreamed of Nicholas. It was true, in its way, yet also infinitely more complicated. Neither did Webb know the whole of it. If she had not overheard some part of the discussion with Lady Rivendale, then Webb might have suspected nothing save that Cybelline wept for the loss of her husband. This was also true, and neither was it all she wept for.

  Cybelline wondered why she ever supposed she could manage to have secrets from Webb. It was not a thing that could be done successfully. No one knew her better. On the other hand, it shouldn’t have mattered what Webb discovered, because discretion and her position dictated that nothing would ever be said. Webb had violated her trust, and she knew it.

  Cybelline would not dismiss her, but she might entertain Webb’s resignation if it were tendered. Sh
e hoped it would not come to that, though she knew to whom she would assign responsibility. Not by any measure was Ferrin blameless. Cybelline could well imagine that he had bullied Webb into telling him what she knew. If he took exception to being named a bully, then at the very least he had used his lord’s high-handed manner on her poor maid and arrived at the same end.

  Rising from her chair, Cybelline closed the door to the sitting room to secure her privacy before she went to the window bench and knelt in front of it. She lifted the lid and removed the blankets. At the bottom she found the black enameled puzzle box she’d put there upon her arrival at the Sharpe house. It was one of her first items of business, to find a place for the box she’d carried from London. Someone would have to be searching specifically for it to find it, as all of the blankets stored in the chest would never be used. The discoverer of the box might well suppose it held jewelry or coins or bank notes, but that was not the nature of the contents.

  The box held only letters.

  His letters: Nicholas’s correspondence to his mistress.

  Her letters: the ones that came anonymously to Cybelline and accused her of murder.

  Cybelline turned the box over and carefully slid the cross-hatching of wooden pieces in the exact sequence and pattern that would open the box. The lid was merely for show. The Chinese box, a wedding gift from Nicholas, opened only on one side, and to accomplish that, one had to know how to manipulate the intricate inlay of pieces on the bottom. She smiled now, remembering how surprised he’d been by her determination to do the thing for herself. He’d wanted to offer her hints, but she had given him that certain glance that warned him not to interfere in her attempts to solve the puzzle. Did he mean to deny her the joy of accomplishment? she’d asked him. Nicholas had grinned at her then, understanding perfectly.

  Didn’t that mean he loved her? She’d thought so at the time. It seemed to her that to be so clearly in agreement must be one of the more critical aspects of love.

  He’d also said he loved her. He’d said it often, in fact. She had never considered that he might have been trying to convince himself. Looking back, she didn’t think she needed to hear it as often as he needed to say it, but she hadn’t known enough to question it then.