hard: short, shallow strokes followed by one that buried him so deeply that he touched her womb.
They could not linger in the aftermath, of course. Neither of them tried. They separated, though not too quickly as to be unseemly. He helped her turn and get her knees under her but did not hold her in his arms. When he tried to assist her with righting her tunic, she gently pushed his hands away.
“Will you permit me to light one of the lamps?” he asked. It seemed unlikely that she would and, indeed, she firmly turned him down. He addressed the sorry condition of his own clothes. His tricornered hat was crushed, forcing him to beat it against his knee and press each side to return it to some semblance of its former shape. It was not so important that his stock was loosened. That was in no way out of keeping with his costume. He touched the eye patch to make certain it was still in place and refastened his breeches, waistcoat, and frock coat, then ran one hand down the front to judge his success with matching the buttons to the proper hole.
She was already standing when he got to his feet. “Have you your cloak?” he asked, brushing himself off. “The brooch? Do you require help with it?”
“No help, thank you. I have done the thing myself.”
He never doubted that she was that most thorny of all females to manipulate: independent and managing. He set his hat on his head, adjusted the angle, and inquired if she had her mask.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then will you want to return first to the ballroom or should I?”
“I’d like to go.”
“As you wish.”
She hesitated. “You will not…that is…you will not…”
He waited. Even on short acquaintance he knew it was not her way to leave a thought unfinished. When it was clear to him that she would not, could not, complete her sentence, he rescued her. “No, I will not. Whatever it is that you hope I will not do, know that I will not do it.”
“Thank you.”
“Shall I escort you down the stairs?”
“That will not be necessary.”
“Have a care, then; they’re steep.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Very well, Boudicca.”
There was an awkward silence—at least Ferrin found it so—then he felt her brush past him and begin her descent. He waited there on the landing for what he calculated was the better part of ten minutes, a decent enough interval for her to rejoin the party and perhaps even find her friend. Better yet, time enough for her to make her escape. It was this last that Ferrin anticipated she would do. The shepherdess, the one with the green ribbons on her crook, most likely had never existed but merely served as a ploy to engage his interest and activity. It had worked, though he’d never been very determined to resist it.
He started down the steps slowly, wondering what he would make of this extraordinary encounter in the morning or at any other time in the future. It was difficult to predict because he certainly did not know what to make of it now. Although his own motives were rather straightforward, hers defied him. He’d thought he’d hit upon her reasoning for seeking him out when he had suggested there might be a husband or fiancé she wanted to betray. Boudicca’s denial had seemed most sincere, and since no one had burst in upon them, it would appear she’d been honest in that regard.
He could even acquit Restell and Wellsley of playing him some trick. If either was so fortunate to know a woman as clever and diverting as Boudicca, he would have kept her to himself. Neither his brother nor his friend had given any indication that they recognized her. Indeed, Wellsley had hoped to make her acquaintance first. Restell was too preoccupied escaping marriage-minded mamas to pause for an introduction. And what would have been the point of serving him up a courtesan or opera dancer when he could fill his own plate as he wished?
No, it was neither about betrayal nor sport. Boudicca was a woman outside his experience, something he had not thought possible at the age of two and thirty. The puzzle that she was intrigued him, and he acknowledged that this was probably the worst of all outcomes for her.
Whenever he set his mind to inquiry, there was little he was not able to discover.
Cybelline Louisa Caldwell, née Grantham, wanted more than anything to have a lie-in. She wanted to fit herself comfortably in the warm depression she’d made in the mattress during the night and remain there, perhaps with the coverlet over her head or the drapes drawn. She wanted to pull a pillow about her ears so she could ignore what would surely come next: a scratching at the door and the subsequent well-intentioned questions regarding the state of her health. She wanted to refuse breakfast, refuse tea, and refuse visitors.
She would not do it, of course. Cybelline was not a petulant child, and she did not surrender to her wants.
Except that last night she had.
That thought was all that was required to propel her out of bed. She would not find respite from herself by remaining alone in her room. What was needed was activity and companionship, and she knew where to find both.
Cybelline rang for her personal maid. Miss Sarah Webb had been with her since Cybelline was sixteen and could be relied upon to observe everything and say almost nothing. She was in no circumstance a confidante, but Cybelline found her quiet, competent presence a comfort more often than not.
Webb assisted Cybelline with her ablutions and attire, then dressed her hair, scraping it back against her scalp, then securing it in a tight coil. The whole of it was hidden under a white linen cap.
“You don’t approve,” Cybelline said, catching Webb’s rather grim reflection in the mirror.
“It’s not for me to say.”
Cybelline did not press. Webb, who possessed a handsome countenance, if not a delicate one, looked as if she would put her teeth through her tongue before she’d offer an opinion about the condition of her mistress’s hair. “I’m going to take my breakfast with Anna.”
Webb set the comb aside. “I’ll tell Cook.”
The nursery was on the floor above her bedchamber. Cybelline climbed the stairs, lifting the hem of her dove-gray day dress just high enough to avoid a tumble. She passed through Nanny Baker’s room before coming upon the nursery. Crossing the threshold, her mood was immediately lighter.
“Mama!” Anna wriggled out of Nanny’s plump arms and toddled full tilt toward her mother.
Cybelline bent down and scooped her soft, warm, and freshly scrubbed daughter into her arms. She rubbed her face against Anna’s downy cheek and hair. “So sweet,” she said. “I want to eat you up!”
Predictably, Anna giggled. “Eat you! Eat you!” She gnashed the tiny pearls of her teeth together to emphasize her intent.
“My, but you’re a fierce one, darling.” Cybelline looked past her daughter to where Nanny Baker was rising to her feet. “Is that another tooth I’m seeing, Nanny? One in the back?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is. It broke through yesterday.”
Cybelline
