by Jo Goodman
“They were absorbed in Lady Bellingham’s gardens when last I saw them,” Ferrin told her.
“Ducking into the maze,” Cybelline said.
“Then I shall find Lady Bellingham. She will have a great deal to say about her grandson, the reformed scapegrace.” Ignoring their laughter, she turned on her heel and slipped easily among the guests extending best wishes to the newlyweds.
Watching her go, Cybelline was moved to say, “She is immensely fond of you, my lord.”
“I have that sense,” he said. “Frankly, I quake at the thought of disappointing her.”
“Indeed. That is the power she wields.”
“It is a diabolic strategem.”
Cybelline nodded. “Sherry and I have always thought so. You know, don’t you, that she has claimed full responsibility for bringing us together? She can even make a claim that she had a hand in your sister and Mr. Wellsley exchanging vows today. Her friends are so impressed by her success that they have taken to petitioning her for advice.” She saw Ferrin’s eyes widen a fraction. “Alarming, is it not?”
“‘Alarming’ hardly describes it.”
“Just so.”
“You don’t think we’ll be expected to attend all the weddings she arranges, do you?”
Cybelline chuckled as Ferrin’s concern became clear. “No, my lord, not if we flee London for the country.”
Ferrin’s relief was so patent that it bordered on the comical. “That is very good news.”
“There is one wedding I must insist that we witness,” she told him.
“Oh?”
“Miss Webb and Mr. Foster. You cannot have forgotten. They will wed in Penwyckham next month.”
“That is entirely agreeable. I have a workroom at the Sharpe house.”
“My, but you are dull.”
“It is proper that we lend our consequence to the nuptials.”
“Terribly high in the instep also.”
He leaned toward her and whispered, “I have it in my mind that when Anna goes down for her afternoon nap, you and I will retire to our own room.”
She feigned a yawn. “And completely tiresome in your devotion to your family.”
His appreciative chuckle was cut short as he saw his mother and stepfather approaching from the left, his youngest sisters making a frontal assault, and Restell and the twins working their way through the throng on the right. Straightening, he gently turned Cybelline in the direction of the open French doors and the garden beyond. “Quickly,” he said, “before they set upon us.”
Cybelline stared at him, holding her ground as his family swarmed closer.
“Devoted in my attentions,” he said, “not defective in my reasoning. They will not allow us to escape.”
“I know.” Her smile was brilliant. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
It was quite late when they arrived home. Lady Gardner had prevailed upon them to remain long after Wynetta and Wellsley had departed. Lady Rivendale and Wellsley’s grandmother also stayed. Laughter was the order of the evening as each of them shared their perspective on Wellsley’s rather unorthodox pursuit of Wynetta’s hand. In truth, because so much of the courting had been conducted in secret, none of them knew the whole of it, but no one hesitated to go on as if they were privy to every particular.
Recalling the evening, Cybelline smiled to herself. She dismissed her maid and stepped out of the dressing room wearing a sleeveless batiste chemise. She absently fingered the lace-trimmed neckline as she walked to her side of the bed. “Do you know, Christopher, I believe Lady Bellingham pronounced Mr. Wellsley a scapegrace no fewer than four times tonight. I am not certain if he has benefited overmuch from your ascension to paragon, at least not in his grandmother’s eyes.”
“I made it to be six times that she said it, but it might be that I started counting while we were yet at the wedding supper. Lady Bellingham is getting on in years. It occurred to me tonight that she does not always remember his name.”
“The woman is as sharp as a soldier turned out in regimental dress. It must be an endearment after all.”
Ferrin held up the covers for Cybelline. “That is probably the case. What is important is that she gave her blessing to the marriage.”
“Which it appears she would have done had he explained that his attentions were fixed on your sister.”
“Not everyone can be as straightforward or confident as Boudicca.”
“True.” She edged closer, warmed by the place he made for her beside him. “It was a lovely wedding, I thought. And it was not possible for Wynetta to radiate more happiness. Wellsley was struck dumb.”
“I tried to warn him.”
“You did?”
“I felt I must. The very same happened to me.”
“You never told me that.”
“That is the very essence of being struck dumb,” he said. “I have only now found the words.”
Cybelline raised herself up just enough to kiss him on the mouth. “I think we can depend upon Anna to sleep through the night now that Becky has returned to us.”
“Anna always sleeps through the night, yet somehow she manages to find her way here.”
“That is because you insisted we should make the nursery across the hall. It is not very challenging for her.”
Ferrin’s smile was a trifle sheepish. “Then it must be that I sleep better knowing where she is.”
Cybelline understood that well enough. She made her own confession. “As comfortable as I find it in your arms, I sleep better knowing Sir Richard Settle is half a world away.”
“Nicely put, though he may not be so far as that. By my reckoning, the transport ship will not reach Sydney for at least another fortnight, and that is if the seas are calm and the winds kind. Given Sir Richard’s presence on board Wayfarer, I would say that neither is likely.”
“Did you actually plot the course?”
“No.” He pretended to be offended by the question. “I would not waste gray matter on such a trivial endeavor.” Ferrin sifted Cybelline’s silky, honey-colored hair through his fingers. After a moment, he admitted, “I acquired the information from a ship’s master.”
That earned him another kiss, this one considerably more lengthy than the last.
“What was that in aid of?” he asked when she lifted her head.
“Thoroughness. I am saluting yours with my own.”
He tipped his head, caught her lips with his, then rolled so that she was under him. She lifted her hands and placed them at the back of his neck. Her fingers flicked the dark, curling hair at his nape, then walked down the length of his spine, following the path of his shiver.
He said her name softly, first against her mouth, then against her ear. His voice tripped a like response in her. She stirred in his arms, stretching, rising, reaching. It was precisely what he had been imagining all day, each time he looked in Cybelline’s direction, each time someone asked him if there’d ever been two people so in love. He’d thought of her like this, in his arms, her knees drawing up on either side of his hips, her soft chemise being lifted slowly to the level of her waist. He’d imagined coming to her just as he was now, her hand guiding him, her body inviting him, then giving her such pleasure in the moment that he could not help but fall into it himself.
“Reforming a rake has much to recommend it,” she said when they were quiet again and their breathing had calmed.
“That is my perspective also.”
She smiled sleepily. “Of course it is.”
Ferrin turned on his side and plumped the pillow beneath his head. He rested his hand lightly on Cybelline’s hip and watched her eyelids grow heavy. The candle in the dish at their bedside sputtered, then extinguished itself. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. By then her faintly swollen lips were parted and she was sleeping.
Moonlight slipped through a break in the curtains. As she was turned away from the window, a deep shadow fell across the upper half of Cybelline’s face. It
startled Ferrin to see her now as she had been that night at the masquerade, mysteriously concealed by the hammered gold mask.
The shadow moved on, the moment passed, but the memory lingered. In time he slept, and when Boudicca came to him, he accepted it as the most natural course of events. She was all fiery hair and brilliant raiment, her spear standing tall at her side. The golden torc at her throat was the source of the brilliant light cupping her face. Her proud bearing warned him that she would give him no quarter.
Ferrin asked for none.
As he’d known from the outset, surrendering to a queen had much to recommend it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jo Goodman lives with her family in Colliers, West Virginia. She is currently working on her newest Zebra historical romance, once again set in the Regency period. Look for it in 2007! Jo loves hearing from readers, and you may write to her c/o Zebra Books. Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope if you would like a response. Or you can visit her website at www.jogoodman.com.
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