Page 71 of The Rogue’s Embrace

"My dear Mr. Cranborne, of course it is nonsense for you to put up at The Wren."

Lord Partington patted him on the arm after they'd dispersed from the church. "Did I not say it in my letter?"

The letter had been such a bombshell Stephen had refused to completely believe its contents until it could be confirmed, in person, by Lord Partington.

Some of the tense, wound-up feelings he'd bottled up inside for the past few weeks relaxed.

Lord Partington hadn't said how long he was to remain his guest and Stephen had wondered if in fact he'd been summoned on spec.

Fortunately it seemed he passed muster on first impressions. Lady Partington had been gracious, Lord Partington enthusiastic and judging by the gleam in the lovely, raven-haired Araminta's eye, he could look forward to some mild flirtation.

He forced back an image of Lady Julia, determined to conduct himself with the utmost propriety, saying conversationally as they were borne over the rutted roads in the most comfortable conveyance he'd enjoyed since before his mother died, "I remember meeting you when I was a lad and you were both little girls."

He smiled. "And now you are beautiful young women."

Yes, he would conduct himself with propriety but he could afford to flirt. Lord Partington was riding on the box with the coachman and the ladies had made clear their welcome.

Cousin Araminta smiled. "Nor are you the shy young lad I remember who preferred to catch tadpoles rather than play with your cousins, Mr. Cranborne,"

she said coyly, perhaps for her mother's benefit for her eyes flashed the subtext for which he'd been fishing. "I remember not all our dolls, dressed for the occasion of your visit, could entice you, although we tried to interest you in the elaborate rig-outs of one-eyed Miss Lilly Vanilly and bald Lady Jane Tremain. I hope you will be less interested in tadpoles this visit, Mr. Cranborne. Or should I say Cousin Stephen?"

"Of course you should,"

Lady Partington interjected. Araminta, beside her, fixed him with her curiously feline smile as she smoothed the folds of her dress. She managed to combine sexual allure with enough girlish innocence to please all parties in the carriage, for clearly her mother was unaware of the lures she was casting.

"I shall try to be less disappointing,"

he replied. "Ten-year-old boys understand far less than young girls about what's important but now my vocabulary is sufficiently broadened to be able to remark that your eyes are reflected by the color of your gown, whose fashionable name I believe is Pomona green."

With blinding clarity he recalled the candlelight catching the lustrous folds of Lady Julia's Pomona-green gown in their trysting closet and confusion washed over him.

What had she been about? Stephen had left their home rather as a street urchin who'd been invited into the inner sanctum and after supping and being cosseted like a princeling by a lovely queen had been booted out into the night—but with promises of similar delights in a nebulous future.

This feeling was distinctly assuaged by the interest in Cousin Araminta's assessing green eyes. He recalled Lady Julia's remarks about the girl.

Could Araminta really have marked him out?

"Very clever, Cousin Stephen,"

she murmured. "Where did you learn that, for you have no sisters?"

"I'm not a complete novice when it comes to ladies' attire,"

he responded.

"Where were you when you got the letter, Mr. Cranborne?"

Although it was the first question Cousin Hetty addressed to him, her mother caged her daughter's hand and murmured, "It is not polite to be so direct, Hetty."

"I'm not embarrassed by directness, Lady Partington,"

he assured her, transfixed by Miss Araminta's full, enticing mouth rather than her homely sister who was waiting for an answer.

He caught himself up and transferred his attention with difficulty. "To answer your question, Cousin Hetty, I had recently returned from Spain and was staying with an aunt in Dorset."

"You were in Spain?"

Hetty's hazel eyes widened and she looked almost pretty with the light burnishing her chestnut-brown hair. "That's where our poor cousin Edgar died of a bullet wound."

She gave a little hiccup of distress and Lady Partington patted her hand, adding by way of explanation, "Hetty was very fond of her cousin Edgar. They were great playmates when they were children. His death came as a shock to everyone."

He registered the curious look in Lady Partington's eyes and the tightness of her mouth and shifted awkwardly.

How did Lady Partington regard the young usurper, Stephen Cranborne, whose arrival reinforced the absence of her beloved late son, George? Of Edgar?

"I am very sorry for your losses, Lady Partington,"

he murmured, resisting the urge to stroke her lilac-gloved hand. It was true he seemed to respond with instant attraction to women with flashing pomona-green eyes but gentle-natured, doe-eyed women like Lady Partington and her younger daughter appealed to the chivalric part of his nature.

When the carriage drew up in front of the steps, Lady Partington left the young people chatting on the front portico before departing to ensure Stephen's room had been satisfactorily prepared.

"I'm so sorry to leave you like this but I have the most terrible megrim and Araminta will look after you. The reverend's fiery pronouncements have done nothing to improve my aching head,"

she'd said by way of parting.

As the front doors closed behind her, Stephen indicated the well-kept grassy slopes and roses bushes. "Perhaps we could take a turn about the garden since the weather has turned so agreeable,"

he suggested, not being disposed to drawing room chatter when he'd much rather get a sense of the dimensions of his future domain.

He glanced across the verdant green lawn toward the beech woods that bordered the manicured gardens. Shooting parties in August? A spear of anticipation shot through him as the young ladies readily agreed to his suggestion before hurrying upstairs to fetch shawls and change their clothes with the promise to meet him in five minutes.

Stephen wandered out into the center of the lawn and gazed up at the Queen Anne fa?ade of The Grange. How could it be improved? A conservatory? A new wing? Perhaps a tennis court. He'd never imagined being in a position to put his own stamp on things.

Hetty's girlish giggles made him turn and he smiled to see the two young ladies crossing the lawn toward him. Cousin Hetty fairly galloped. Beside her, Cousin Araminta had perfected the regal glide. With her glossy dark hair and her proud eyes she looked like no other member of her family.

Hetty pointed at The Grange. "So, Cousin Stephen, do you like our home?"

Araminta immediately quashed Hetty's high spirits. "Cousin Stephen is surveying the house that will be his after Papa meets his maker."

Her look was pert. "Isn't that right, Mr. Cranborne?"

Hetty wasn't the only one whose spirits were quashed. Stephen managed a brittle smile. "You must resent that The Grange passes out of the family because you have no brothers, Cousin Araminta."

"I refuse to resent what I cannot change, Cousin Stephen."

Araminta tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Let us walk and I will answer everything I can about our family and the estate."

Gallantly, Stephen offered Hetty his other arm. He'd seen her uncertainty. "It will be many years before you must worry about your home passing to me,"

he assured them. "Your father is in excellent health and has merely asked me here because he is a wise man who plans ahead."

"What would you like to know, Cousin Stephen?"

Araminta reeled him back to her. "No doubt you have questions that must have kept you awake since receiving Papa's letter."

Stephen met her challenging look with a smile. So there was resentment after all. "I had no idea Edgar had died,"

he said with complete candor. "Not once did it enter my head that I should one day inherit and become the next Viscount Partington."

"Please, don't speak of Edgar again. I can't bear it,"

said Hetty. "For months I've prayed he'd turn up unexpectedly on our doorstep?—"

"Well, that's a nice thing to say to Cousin Stephen,"

Araminta snapped. Composing her smile, she asked conversationally, "So where did you spend last night, Cousin Stephen?"

After an uncomfortable pause, Stephen replied, "I was the guest of Lady Julia and Sir Archibald."

Adjusting his suddenly too-tight high collar, he directed an enquiring look at Araminta, who'd burst into shrill laughter.

"Lady Julia!"

She emphasized the title with heavy scorn. "Is that what she's asked you to call her? Why, she's the most designing brownnoser I've ever come across, the daughter of a wool merchant who spared no expense in seeing she was tricked out to make a good catch, though she likes to pretend she's an earl's daughter."

Hetty tugged her sleeve, looking worried as she reminded her sister in an undertone, "Lady Julia—or rather, Lady Ledger—is a friend of Cousin Stephen's."

Araminta tossed her head. "Surely Cousin Stephen is a friend of Sir Archibald. Sir Archie and Lady Julia—as she would have us call her—have been married such a short time and only because—"

She broke off, clearly reconsidering her words. "Ah well, you're right, Hetty. It's not my place to tell Cousin Stephen what he already knows and what you have no need to know."

As they negotiated a small dip in the path, Stephen was glad that Hetty took umbrage at her condescending tone. He'd very much like to know what he supposedly already knew.

"Why ought I not know the reason they married, Araminta? I shall be coming out in a few months. You're not that ahead of me."

Araminta slanted a sly look at the pair of them. "Miss Julia's eyes are as sharp as her nose and she knows how to sniff out a sure thing. She proved that when she fainted into Lord Clairmont's arms at Hatchard's Bookshop the day after she took up Laetitia Milbank's challenge that she couldn't inveigle herself into his carriage."

"But Lady Julia didn't marry Lord Clairmont."

Hetty frowned. "Not that she'd want to. He's in his dotage!"

"Just over forty and definitely in need of a wife, though clearly Miss Julia thought she could do even better than Lord Clairmont after she'd won her wager. Anyway."

Araminta rolled her eyes and resumed her tale. "Quite by chance, it seems, Lady Julia was in Hatchard's when Lord Clairmont walked in, whereupon she promptly fainted right into his arms. He had her carried to his carriage whereupon his lady friend's vinaigrette quickly had her up to the mark."

Hetty appeared let down by the story. "So she didn't receive a marriage offer from him, then?"

"No, but that wasn't what the wager was about. It was about money and clearly a stepping stone to more of it. Lady Julia used her trickery to get herself into Lord Milbank's carriage and won her wager, which Miss Laetitia Milbank had to hand over that afternoon when Miss Julia called upon her with two witnesses and, believe me, that was worth a tidy sum."

"How big was the wager?"

asked Stephen, feeling distinctly green around the gills.

"It was big."

Cousin Araminta looked up at him, her eyes gleaming. "Miss Milbank's pearl choker, would you believe? A small fortune, but then Miss Julia will take big risks for big stakes."

In an undertone she added, "Of course, she took the biggest risk of all to snare Sir Archie but was then awfully miffed to discover his prospects weren't at all as grand as she'd been led to believe."

Stephen cleared his throat. "They appeared a very devoted couple,"

he lied. He was conscious of the lack of conviction in his tone and not surprised Araminta seized upon it.

"Of course! Lady Julia didn't get where she did without being a consummate actress. Now, Cousin Stephen, I'm glad to note you're nothing like our other cousin, poor Edgar, who was next in line after Papa. You're tall and athletic and very handsome while Edgar was dumpy with sandy hair and freckles and couldn't talk about anything except hunting and shooting. Quite frankly, poor Edgar was a clodpoll."

Miss Araminta said it as if it were the last word. She seemed the kind of young lady who liked having the last word on everything.

"How can you say such a thing?"

Hetty's expression was murderous.

Stephen could not resist a smile. "Your loyalty is to be commended, Cousin Hetty."

"It wasn't me who said it."

Miss Araminta looked smug. "It was Papa, if you must know."

"Papa?"

Stephen patted Hetty's hand, understanding her betrayal amidst the undercurrents. "I'm sure he didn't mean it. I'm sure Edgar was an excellent sort."

"He was my best friend."

Hetty looked away, silent as her sister changed the subject, pointing to the house.

"There's Mama's wing, to the right,"

Araminta said. "Papa's is on the other side. Hetty and I are at the back with no view at all while you will have one of the guest bedrooms that run between them, perhaps even the room the late King George stayed in."

"You are very proud of your home."

"I love it more than anything."

This was spoken with quiet fervor.

"The footman is about to take in my trunk."

In the distance Stephen saw the carriage that had obviously been dispatched to fetch the last of his belongings draw up in front of the portico. "I have a present for you, ladies, which I would like to give to you now."

They retraced their footsteps to the house, the young ladies gasping with pleasure at the caged canary Stephen presented them with a flourish.

"Does it have a name?"

asked Hetty.

"A very grand name,"

said Stephen. "Lady Zena, in fact. She belonged to my aunt who had to give her away after she took up residence with her daughter who couldn't abide Lady Zena's singing."

"Lady Zena sings?"

Hetty's plump face flushed with pleasure.

"Not only that but she'll sit obediently on your wrist and eat breadcrumbs from your hand."

"Really?"

Hetty's girlish squeal gratified Stephen in a way he was quite unused to. Genuine girlish enthusiasm was refreshing, he was surprised to find—but Miss Araminta's scorching green-eyed gaze above Hetty's head as the younger sister fiddled with the latch of the birdcage promised so much more.

It was not hard to interpret her meaning. Had she really picked him out?

Heat prickled his skin and he licked his lips. Fixing his attention upon the tiny mole to the right of her mouth, he imagined running his tongue over the contours of her satin-smooth skin. Miss Araminta loved her home and she clearly was not immune to the charms of the newly summoned heir.

If she had picked him out, he could think of a lot worse ways to spend his future than leg-shackled to such a diamond of the first water.

"Oh!"

Hetty's shriek punctuated his appreciation of the lovely Araminta, who was returning his look with transparent interest. "The bird! Oh no, she's flown away!"

Hetty leapt to her feet, her mouth open with dismay as they all watched the canary alight upon the ivy-clad windowsill of one of the upper casements. It tilted its little head jauntily and immediately broke into song.

"Careless girl, Hetty!"

snapped Araminta. "She'll make a tasty meal for the nighthawks, won't she?"

Her sister began to cry, great, gulping sobs that made her face red and blotchy.

"She'll come to me. Don't cry, Cousin Hetty,"

Stephen assured her, assessing the distance to the first floor. Grasping the thick ivy, he found a firm foothold and hauled himself up.

"Oh no, Cousin Stephen, you'll hurt yourself."

The fact Hetty was more afraid for his safety than the loss of the canary, which just minutes before had been the greatest tragedy, determined him. He would get the bird back.

Stephen was fit and agile. He'd climbed the Andes like a goat and sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar without even casting up his accounts, so hoisting himself onto a sturdy ivy root, reaching for a secure piece of trellis and hauling himself up one story was no major feat.

"Ooh, careful!"

The gasps of both young ladies was balm to his youthful ego.

"Come, my pretty. Come, Lady Zena."

Carefully, he extended his hand toward the bird.

After some contemplation, the little bird decided to make him work for his reward. When she hopped onto the sill of the farthest casement windows, Stephen had no choice but to follow.

This involved a heroic full-body thrust followed by a hasty snatch at the stone ledge. With heart hammering and very conscious of his audience below, Stephen hauled himself across the wall, securing one foot on the buttress. Victory was in sight. Lady Zena hadn't moved position for some minutes and soon he'd pop her onto his shoulder and descend to the rapturous cries of the young ladies. It would be a just recompense for what, he realized looking down, was a rather risky ascent after all.

Eyeballing the canary, he whistled softly. She hopped daintily toward him then hopped backward. Clearly she was enjoying the game.

Stephen growled, hoping this dance of seduction was not going to become prolonged.

It was only the merest flash of something in his peripheral vision that made him turn his head slightly to the right. There was certainly no intent to peep through the misted windows. Yet the shock of seeing a shapely pair of thighs connected to a round, ripe naked bottom as its owner bent down to pick up one stocking was completely unexpected.

Sucking in a breath, he put his head closer to the pane, not pausing to consider it an act of prurience. He was simply riveted to the spot by such a tantalising sight, wondering what else the lovely creature had to offer in the way of fleshly delights.

The bird fluttered by his ear but he ignored it. Instead, Stephen squinted to see better. Rising steam indicated a bathtub to the rear of the room from which the lady in question had just risen. In fact, steam still swirled in eddies that partially obscured her until she discarded the linen she'd been using to dry herself.

Vaguely, he was conscious of the young ladies below calling to him but he was rooted to the spot, desperate to see what more this as-yet-unintroduced female had in the way of sensuous charms.

Who could she be? A house guest? A cousin of the family?

He couldn't make out her face, but her light hair rippled to below her waist and her pale limbs, the color of whipped cream, were well turned. He tried to gauge her age for she walked with calm, fluid movements, like one who has grown used to her body without realizing how lovely it is.

"Cousin Stephen! Lady Zena is right by your left hand!"

Hetty's voice contained a note of desperation as it floated up to him and Stephen forced himself to acknowledge her—and the bird which hopped away, this time right onto the window ledge in front of him.

It provided him with just the justification he needed to refresh his view of the scene though he made a half-hearted attempt to reach for the canary.

But Lady Zena was the least of his concerns right now. He simply could not pull his gaze away from the woman as she made her way languidly from her bathtub towards the bed. It was a large, intricately carved tester covered in a sumptuous white counterpane, edged with white velvet, and as she lowered herself onto it her lustrous golden tresses swirled about her waist.

Golden tresses!

Last night's breathless, clandestine encounter with Lady Julia in the small closet returned with all the intensity of a full immersion in bilge water. He shuddered and closed his eyes. All day he'd experienced surges of the utmost remorse for his actions for they had certainly not been those of a gentleman.

Because of him, Lady Julia had committed adultery. And, despite Stephen's other self-confessed failings, adultery was one of those sins he most despised having experienced the terrible effects faithlessness had had on his own young life.

What on earth had attracted him to Lady Julia? he wondered, when her behaviour ran so parallel to the behaviour he'd most despised in his mother.

"Cousin Stephen! Lady Zena is right there! Can't you see her?"

It was only when opening his eyes and seeing that the mist had dissipated that Stephen suddenly realised with the most enormous shock the identity of the woman upon whom he was spying.

Surely not?

He shook his head as if to clear it, and looked again.

Dear God, it was true. The naked woman in the bedroom was the quiet, modest woman who'd welcomed him here. He'd barely noticed her in the carriage with her hair covered by a blue silk bonnet and her manner almost deferring to her eldest daughter, who certainly wanted to put herself forward.

This was Lady Partington.

Torn between the desire to scramble away as fast as he could and to strain his eyes for one final look, fascinated desire won out. She was exquisite.

Stephen watched as she flicked aside the curtain of her hair to reach for a stocking, raising her leg to put it on so that he was treated to the most intimate view a newly arrived heir no doubt had ever received of his benefactor's wife, the lady of the manor.

He swallowed. He had to go. Glancing over his shoulder, he met the expectant looks of both his cousins far below him. Sweet innocent girls who held no interest for him.

But this woman, so close through the glass, yet so far away… He turned his head as if for closure, half wanting to see her clothe herself and so firmly put an end to this sensual extravaganza to which she was treating him.

Instead, Lady Partington eased the stocking onto her ankle then, in a seemingly unrelated act Stephen could not at first explain, she hooked her ankle over her knee and placed her head on her thigh. Then she raised her head…

And looked him squarely in the eye.

At first he did not move. He registered the flare of shock in her expression, quickly followed by confusion. She stood up quickly, her hair frothing about her waist, one hand moving to cover the fluff at the juncture of her legs, the other to conceal her full, heavy breasts. From this distance he could see the sheen of moisture from her bath and the faint marks left by pregnancy on her soft and rounded body.

He'd been with women who'd given birth to children but never one who'd shied away from him with such outraged horror.

As was only to be expected. Lady Partington preserved such delicacies for her husband and Stephen was guilty of gross voyeurism. He ought to be ashamed of himself yet he was curiously aroused in a way he'd not expected. Against her vibrant eldest daughter she'd been a soft little pouter pigeon, clucking her welcome. Now she'd stepped into a different league altogether.

Lady Zena chose this moment to hop onto his shoulder and Stephen deemed it timely to beat a rapid retreat. With his heartbeat roaring in his ears, he descended in record time, leaping the last six feet and going over on his ankle, surrounded by the young ladies—Hetty who gripped his arm and Araminta whose regal self-possession was nevertheless disturbed by the violence of his fall.

"Did you hurt yourself, Cousin Stephen?"

she cried.

He was about to dismiss their concerns when he checked himself. "I might have twisted my ankle. Perhaps if we retired indoors you'd be so good as to administer a soothing poultice."

Araminta read his meaning at once, offering him her shoulder to lean on, which he made good use of, and the close proximity. She was worldly enough to know he'd hardly make a fuss over a minor injury and she would be flattered that he'd use the opportunity to gain access.

Yet while her perfume teased his senses and her ministering touch was gratifying he could not get out of his mind the lush, ripe nakedness of Lady Partington's unexpectedly desirable body.

Limping into the house, he realized how terribly embarrassing the episode would be for Lady Partington once she understood he was blameless. Hopefully she could dress it up as an amusing anecdote to share with Lord Partington as they cozily discussed the day's events—something Stephen was looking forward to doing with his own wife when the time came.

Simple pleasures.

Lord Partington had done well in his marriage, even if he didn't have a living son. The demure fa?ade presented by Her Ladyship was clearly very different from the reality.

Sybil didn't know how she had the courage to enter the dining room that evening. Should she tell Humphrey? How would he take the fact that his highly anticipated heir was a peeping Tom? That he had spied on her in her bedroom and leered at her naked. For he hadn't looked away in shame. Oh no, he'd continued to stare right at her.

Her stomach roiled. At his contempt? His disgust? When he addressed her in future he'd think only of her old, ugly body while he pretended the requisite courtesies.

She knew she should face him with regal hauteur but her embarrassment was too acute.

"Mama, come and look at Lady Zena."

Hetty leaped to her feet when Sybil entered the drawing room. "Isn't she a darling?"

she demanded as she ran across the Wilton carpet to drag Sybil to the corner where Araminta—and, lord forbid—Cousin Stephen were crowded ‘round what looked to be a bird's cage.

Sybil could not meet his eye. She should make clear her indignation and outrage but she lacked the courage. Was he embarrassed that he'd been caught peeping? Or did he imagine her such a mouse that she'd say nothing?

Running a hand across her heated brow, Sybil forced herself to attend to Hetty's prattle while acutely conscious of the young man's strong, lithe body only feet from her. Her brain whirled with questions. Why had he spied on her? And—not that it should matter, but…how badly had he been repulsed?

"We were quite certain poor Cousin Stephen was going to break his neck,"

Araminta said, casting a surprisingly warm glance at the young man. "Then Hetty wanted to run into your room to see if we could help him through the window as it was your sill he was clinging to."

Sybil stiffened. "What did you say, Araminta?"

"Mama, you are so vague,"

Araminta huffed. "I said that Cousin Stephen rescued Lady Zena, the canary he gave to us this afternoon, after it flew out of its cage and landed on your windowsill."

"He was so daring and insisted the bird would come to him if he could get close enough,"

said Hetty. "He climbed right up to your bedchamber. I'm surprised you didn't see him."

"But he was in such a hurry to climb down again he twisted his ankle when he landed,"

said Araminta.

Cousin Stephen cleared his throat. "All's well that ends well and no damage was done, I assure you, Lady Partington."

Oh dear Lord, he was looking directly at her, a faint smile playing about his beautifully formed lips.

What was wrong with her? He certainly didn't look disgusted. In fact…well, the very opposite.

"I hope you didn't object to my surprise, Lady Partington."

"No, I—"

Sybil could utter nothing coherent, she was so overcome with confusion. Her embarrassment only increased when Mr. Cranborne added, "I mean, to my giving the girls a bird."

Oh, Lord. Did he imagine she'd misinterpreted him? Well, she had…for just a second. "A bird?"

she croaked. "No, of course not. No objections, nothing to object to, that is—is there?"

"I hoped you'd feel that way."

His response was so soothing. Meanwhile she was acting like a flustered peagoose whose feathers were being gently stroked.

With unexpected relief she welcomed Humphrey, who joined them in the drawing room, saying, "I trust you had a pleasant afternoon, Stephen, and that the ladies have entertained you."

"I've been vastly entertained, my lord."

The young man bowed, glancing at Sybil as he raised his head. Was he making fun of her? A young man seeing a woman more than ten years older than himself in such a state? No, she was imagining it. He was looking at Araminta beside her. How could she have imagined he'd even bother making fun of a woman old enough to be his mother? Well, nearly old enough.

Smoothly, he continued the conversation he'd obviously had earlier with Humphrey. "I should enjoy joining you for an afternoon ride tomorrow, my lord. Riding is one of the things I like best, in fact."

"Excellent, excellent."

There was an encouraging degree of enthusiasm in Humphrey's tone.

Sybil knew how relieved he was that Stephen was so unlike Edgar. Stephen was strong, tall, handsome and apparently capable. Levelheaded and considered. Unlike chuckle-headed, indecisive Edgar.

"Cousin Stephen, there is something I'd like to show you."

It was Araminta, using her voice like a lure.

Sybil wondered by what method she'd honed her considerable powers of attraction when her mother had none. Sybil could not even entice her husband into her bed to try for another son.

The young people drifted over to the window seat, Hetty's presence like a gooseberry, it soon became clear.

Humphrey chuckled as he took a seat beside Sybil near the fire. "Araminta is clearly delighted with her cousin."

Sybil smiled. "They look a fine couple. What man would not fall in love with Araminta? Cousin Stephen looks taken with her."

"A good thing since our young lady has her sights set on him. And Araminta always gets what she wants."

The warm gaze Humphrey directed at their daughter was some solace. He looked very at home leaning back against the blue silk upholstery and she was struck by how rarely he inhabited this domestic domain, amongst his legitimate family.

Impulsively, Sybil said, "Our daughter is very lovely, Humphrey. You must be proud of her."

She closed her eyes to enjoy the warmth of the fire then opened them again to gaze about the handsomely decorated drawing room with its Chippendale furniture, oil paintings and sumptuous Aubusson carpet. Any mother of two healthy marriageable daughters—who was in good health, herself— would consider it a domestic dream come true.

All that was missing was love.

And respect.

"Proud indeed. Now, about this evening, my dear."

He turned the subject and Sybil's heart thudded to the pit of her stomach when he said, "I'll be out late so don't expect me at breakfast."

"But Humphrey, it's Stephen's first night?—"

"And he's had a tiring day so will sleep late. We've made arrangements to go riding the day after."

The dinner gong sounded. "Of course, Humphrey,"

she said, beckoning to the girls then, as the most senior lady, taking Stephen's arm so he could lead her into dinner.

Her spirits were so weighed down she could barely put one leg in front of the other.

"I hope I am not the reason you look so downcast, my lady,"

she heard Stephen whisper and was surprised at the kindness in his expression. The fine, arched eyebrows that she imagined could deliver such disdain—and surely such a handsome young man delivered that in spade loads—were angled above eyes that were warm with compassion.

Two footmen threw open the double doors and Sybil raised her head like the lady of the manor, which for most of her life made her feel like such a sham.

With surprise, she registered the light touch of Stephen's hand over hers in what seemed almost, though not quite, far too familiar a gesture under the circumstances. "I'm sorry to have discomposed you, Lady Partington. Please don't be angry with me."

Heat rose in her cheeks. "Of course not,"

she murmured, wondering how anyone could be angry with him as she held his look for just a second. He was lovely.

Araminta obviously thought so too as she waxed lyrical about the original manor house, which had been added to over the centuries, the fine library of books—most of which she intimated she'd read, which was nonsense, of course.

To his credit, Stephen appeared entranced so that by the end of the evening, when the ladies and gentlemen reconvened in the drawing room, Humphrey cornered Sybil in a dark corner and said, "What a satisfactory evening, my dear. Araminta turned on the charm like I've never seen before."

"Then you don't see enough of her."

Sybil knew there was no point in shaming him, so she added, "And Stephen appeared taken."

Humphrey dismissed her comment and went on in his usual distracted manner, though to discuss their eldest daughter, which was a change.

Araminta was seated near the fire and had elicited Stephen's help in winding a skein of wool into a ball she could work with. From time to time the rhythm was broken either by the inexperience or deliberate offices of her cousin, and Araminta, with an arch look, would stop her winding to untangle the wool from around his fingers. This obviously involved a degree of surreptitious intimacy, which brought amusement to Humphrey's eyes.

"That girl is tempting fate,"

he remarked. "Sybil, you'll have to talk to him."

"Me?"

The idea of broaching the topic to which he alluded was horrifying at the best of times and now was not the best of times.

Humphrey frowned. "It's hardly something I would discuss with Stephen, my dear. Araminta needs to tread carefully. Have you heard whispers as to why she cut her season short?"

Sybil shook her head.

"Really, Sybil, you have your head in the clouds. Isn't that an essential role of a mother? To have one's ears to the ground for the first sign of trouble?"

Irritated perhaps by Sybil's blush of shame more than anything else, he went on, "There are whispers that the only reason young Inglesham's heir shot himself was because Araminta turned him down?—"

"But Humphrey, that's perfectly obvious. I knew that."

"If you would let me finish."

Humphrey was never angry with her but his regular irritation was a thorn in her flesh. Forcing herself to patiently accept his inevitable censure, Sybil waited.

"Word is that his pockets weren't deep enough for Araminta's ambition."

He raised an eyebrow and nodded as if Sybil had already corroborated his horror. "Indeed, word is that Araminta boasted she'd not accept anyone with under a hundred thousand or who wouldn't build her an exact replica of The Grange."

Sybil gasped and would have said something to defend her daughter, whom she knew was probably entirely guilty of such charges, only Humphrey cut her off. "Apparently our daughter had returned to this nonsense of hers about seeing if she couldn't whip Edgar into shape. Edgar! Can you imagine Araminta marrying that dweedlenap? Lord knows I shouldn't speak ill of the dead but I'm glad he?—"

"No, Stephen, you mustn't say it."

Humphrey snorted but changed the subject. "It's your duty to warn Stephen to take care. Tell him he must adhere strictly to the gentleman's code. That is, unless he intends to make Araminta an offer sooner rather than later, which may be entirely possible since most men seem unable to resist the girl's charms."

Sybil nodded miserably. "Yes, Humphrey."

"Good."

He rose, then, and moved toward the door, saying over his shoulder, "In fact, I've already mentioned you'd like to speak to him on a private matter."

Sybil felt like she was shrivelling up inside in horror at the mere thought of such a thing.

The only person who could possibly know how she felt was Hetty. Plump, ungainly Hetty, who always tried too hard was a younger version of herself, Sybil thought sadly as she studied her youngest child, deep in conversation with Lady Zena. Who else was there to talk to, after all? A great surge of tenderness welled up in her breast as she contemplated Hetty's prospects during her forthcoming debut in just a couple of months.

The girl's dowry was not insignificant. She'd in all likelihood find a husband but it was unlikely to be one who'd offer her his heart with the same enthusiasm he offered her marriage in expectation of the financial rewards that would come his way.

The idea of vibrant, enthusiastic, loving Hetty living a life like hers—a life without love—was almost too hard to bear.

Sybil turned away, afraid of being unmasked in this vulnerable moment. It was time to make her exit and leave the young people to themselves. They were cousins. They should get to know one another.

As she rose to leave, Araminta called from across the room. "Mama, are you going to bed? I forgot to tell you that I saw Mrs. Wilcock in the village today. She asked after you and says Mrs. Hazlett is selling Bunty. You know I've always loved that horse. I thought you could suggest to Papa that he buy her for me."

Clearly misinterpreting Sybil's look, she went on impatiently, "You know who I'm talking about, surely? Mrs. Hazlett with the fine brown hair, who lives in the house closest to the bridge."

Could Araminta really not know?

Sybil damped down her horror. "Why should she want to sell Bunty?"

It was a rhetorical question. All Sybil wanted was to make a hasty exit and never have to hear about Mrs. Hazlett ever again.

"She's going away. Mrs. Wilcock said she was suffering fainting and dizzy spells and the only cure for such a malady was nine months' rest."

Sybil fixed Araminta with a beady look. Was her daughter taunting her? Was she saying what Sybil thought she was saying? Surely Araminta was not so na?ve?

It appeared she was. Certainly it appeared one could be a minx and a jade without knowing a thing about the realities of life.

Undaunted by her mother's lack of enthusiasm, Araminta went on, "Mrs. Hazlett is going away for nine months, according to Mrs. Wilcock, and taking her eldest daughter with her so they're selling that lovely bay. Do you think if I ask Papa he'll buy it for me?"

"Oh, I'm quite sure he will if it'll benefit Mrs. Hazlett,"

Sybil said with more venom than was wise. "Good night Cousin Stephen, girls."

With a curt nod, she turned on her heel and hurried up the passage.

Mrs. Hazlett's lack of feeling up to the mark was something Sybil could empathize with. Her fainting spells and nausea were another thing altogether. Maladies Sybil herself should be suffering—if only Humphrey would let her.

She cast herself onto the bed as soon as she gained the privacy of her room and began to sob.

Humphrey had deemed an heir from another line of the family preferable to intimacy with Sybil. Not even the familiarity of twenty years could overcome his aversion. She was a repugnant old woman who couldn't even tempt a husband desperate to beget an heir.

Mary came in a few minutes later and helped her mistress out of her clothes and into her nightdress. Though she made soothing noises in response to Sybil's obvious recent tears and told her there'd be better days ahead, she could not understand and Sybil was too proud to make a confidante of anyone, even a trusted retainer who'd been with her for more than a decade.

She was just drifting off to sleep when a cursory knock was followed by the door being pushed open. Araminta drifted across the carpet and sat at her dressing table, looking at her reflection rather than at her mother as she said, "Cousin Stephen is very nice, don't you think? Much nicer than Edgar."

She shuddered. "I'd have hated to marry Edgar but now I'll have a dashing husband and still call The Grange home and live here as mistress of the manor. You'd live in the gatehouse once you're a dowager, of course."

Sybil listened to Araminta's excited prattle and through bleary, tear-filled eyes, watched her confident daughter uncoil her hair as she extolled the many virtues of the "next Viscount Partington", who it never occurred to her wouldn't see her as the best candidate for his viscountess.

"Perhaps your Cousin Stephen is already attached, Araminta, dear,"

Sybil suggested almost diffidently.

Araminta just shrugged her shoulders and replied, "Well, he's not married and that's all that counts."

Finally the girl rose, her sigh of satisfaction suggesting that all was nicely in order in her world, and Sybil heaved a sigh of relief that she'd soon be able to close her eyes on this perfectly awful day.

But Araminta wasn't done yet. "Mama, you will remember to tell Papa he must buy Mrs. Hazlett's mare for me, won't you?"