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
