One Forbidden Evening. Jo Goodman

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 soul and all of her body to a man who would not ask why she had chosen him or why she despised herself.

      The Earl of Ferrin had proved in the end that he was just such a man.

      Thinking of him now, Cybelline felt another rush of heat flush her cheeks. She was aware that Lady Rivendale’s gaze had narrowed again and that she was the subject of further study. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking down for a moment. “You can appreciate, I think, that I am embarrassed to discuss these things. You believe my dreams to be unexceptional. They do not seem so to me. I agreed to attend last evening’s entertainment, but it has left me knowing that I want a different experience than parties and social circles and the ton during the Season. Sherry and Lily have invited me many times to Granville Hall, yet I cannot bring myself to spend more than a few days in their company when they are in town. They are so happy that my presence makes them feel guilty for it.”

      “That is nonsense.”

      “No, it’s not. They would deny it, of course, as you do, but I can feel there is always some strain. If it is not with them, then it is with me. The pretense of trying not to grieve openly is wearing, Aunt Georgia. It is enough for me that I must do it in Anna’s presence. I love my brother and do not wish him any unhappiness, so it is beyond everything I understand that I can resent him for having in his life what I no longer do. I do not think you can appreciate how deeply it hurts me to admit that aloud, or how it tears at my heart when it intrudes upon my thoughts and I remain silent. I cannot put Nicholas’s suicide in the past because I am as angry with him as I am sorry for myself. Sometimes I am frightened that it will never change. How shall I go on, then? What will I say to Anna that will ease her when I find no ease?”

      Lady Rivendale used the serviette lying on her lap to dab at her damp eyes. “How I wish I could take this burden of yours upon my own shoulders. I have grieved, true, but little enough of it has been for Mr. Caldwell. I grieve for you, Cybelline, for the ache that has permanent residency in your heart.”

      “I know you do,” Cybelline said quietly. “And I am sorry for that, though I do not know how it can be different. It is why I am prepared to accept your gracious offer. As you have remarked to me more than once, leaving London is just the thing. I should have done it months ago.” When the letters began to arrive, she told herself. She knew better than to share this last thought. It was odd that it was far easier to speak to her aunt about the dreams than it was to even hint at the letters. Removing herself from her momentary reverie, Cybelline added earnestly, “You have been everything patient to wait me out and not force my hand.”

      Although the countess’s eyes no longer glistened with tears, her smile was a trifle watery. “I could hardly order you to go, now could I?”

      “I trust that is a rhetorical question, because you certainly have been that managing before.”

      “It has always worked better with your brother. He permits it, you know, to humor me. You do not.”

      Cybelline nodded. “Sherry indulges me as well. He is the best of all of us, I think.” She took a small, steadying breath when tears threatened. “I will write to him, of course. I will even tell him what I have done to my hair. There was an invitation to spend Christmas at Granville. I did not know how I might graciously refuse it, but I think he will understand when I tell him that I mean to set up in your home at Penwyckham. If my explanation does not serve to allay his concerns for me, I hope you will help him understand.”

      “I will do my best.”

      “I have never doubted that, Aunt Georgia. You have always been our rock.”

      “A pebble in your shoe, mayhap.”

      “When you had to be.”

      Lady Rivendale chuckled. “I should have expected that you would agree.” She replaced her serviette in her lap and absently smoothed the creases. “When will you want to leave?”

      Cybelline wanted to tell her that tomorrow would not be soon enough, or even better, that she should have left before the masque. “It will not take long to arrange our departure. I was thinking that all could be made ready in three days.”

      “Three days! That is no time at all. The house has been neglected, Cybelline. I thought I explained that. There is only Mr. and Mrs. Henley from the village who look after the property. I have not been there in four years. I cannot say that I even recall how many rooms you shall have use of.”

      “More than enough, I should think,” Cybelline said confidently. “Can you not know that the home’s neglect is one of the attractions for me? Of course you do, you sly puss. That is why you suggested it and not one of your other properties. I will take such servants as I think I need and keep the Henleys on. There cannot be so much work in Penwyckham that I will have difficulty hiring gardeners and grooms should I have need of them.”

      Lady Rivendale lifted one hand and massaged her temple with her fingertips. “This is not unfolding in quite the manner I had envisioned.” She raised her fingers and indicated the silver threads of hair. “Have I more? I do believe that I have more. It is astonishing to me that I will go to my bed tonight with more silver in my hair than I had upon rising from it this morning.”

      “I highly recommend the henna.”

      The countess’s humor asserted itself. She had a full-throated, husky laugh that filled the small breakfast room. Cybelline was immediately warmed by it.

      “You are too clever by half,” Lady Rivendale said, still smiling. “You will always have the better of me. Very well. What is to be done, then? Shall I send a missive to the Henleys and hope it arrives before you do? It will give them perhaps as much as a day or two to prepare. The journey will require