One Forbidden Evening. Jo Goodman
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 regarded her daughter again but spoke to Nanny. “Did she fret?”
“Not overmuch. She rubbed her cheek a bit, which is how I knew something was amiss. I gave her some sweet cloves for her gums, and she liked that well enough.”
Anna was now tapping her teeth together, quite aware the conversation had everything to do with her. “You minx,” Cybelline teased. “You cannot imagine a world in which you are not the center of everything.” She kissed her daughter’s brow. “And that is quite as it should be.”
Anna buried her face in the curve of her mother’s neck and shoulder and snuggled. This surfeit of affection squeezed Cybelline’s heart to the point where drawing a breath was painful. For a moment her eyes welled. Turning so that Nanny might not see them, she rapidly blinked back tears.
“I am having my breakfast here with Anna this morning, Nanny Baker. There’s no need for you to stay.”
“Will you want me to finish dressing her?”
“I’ll do that. Anna will help me, won’t you, darling?”
Anna’s head came up abruptly. Her damp, red-gold curls fluttered around her ears and forehead. “No!”
“Really?” Cybelline asked, untroubled by this refusal. Her daughter was possessed of that singular independence common to two-year-olds, or so she was given to understand. She was perhaps more indulgent regarding this expression of individualism than Nanny Baker, but she did not let it rule her. “Because I was going to tell you a story, but I need your help first.”
“Story!”
“Help.”
“No!”
Cybelline merely smiled and waited Anna out. “You can go, Nanny Baker. I’ll manage here.”
“I can’t say that I like it when she speaks to you like that, ma’am.”
“I’m not particularly fond of it, either, but didn’t you tell me it will pass?”
“I did, and so it will, but she’s especially headstrong for one that just had her second birthday.”
“Is that so?” She tapped her daughter on the mutinous line of her lips. “I cannot imagine where she comes by that. Her father was a most agreeable gentleman.”
Nanny Baker snorted softly, pursing her lips together in disapproval. “I’ll be in the servants’ hall,” she said, excusing herself.
When Cybelline heard the heavy fall of Nanny’s retreating footsteps in the stairwell, she finally gave in to the urge to laugh. “Nanny takes herself—and us—a bit too seriously, doesn’t she? She thinks I don’t know that you are in every way my daughter. It is true that your father was most agreeable. I, in perfect contrast, have rarely been.”
Mimicking Cybelline’s good humor, Anna giggled.
Cybelline gave Anna a little bounce. The giggle changed pitch, causing Anna’s blue eyes to widen as she realized the wavering sound came from her. Cybelline bounced her again to the same effect, and they carried on in such a manner until one of the younger housemaids arrived carrying their breakfast tray.
“Not there,” Cybelline said when the girl moved toward the round cherry wood table near the fireplace. “Put it on Anna’s tea table. I’ll sit in one of her chairs.” The maid did as she was directed while Cybelline turned her attention back to her daughter. “You like it when I sit perched like a bird on one of your tiny chairs, don’t you?”
Anna