Page 72 of The Rogue’s Embrace

By day three Stephen was still reveling in the excellent horseflesh beneath him as he tore through the woods that would belong to him someday.

Life was full of surprises but it would be hard to beat his elevation to all this. He cast his eye around the sweeping fields of golden corn, the beech wood to the east; there was the glistening lake with its picturesque rotunda and boathouse at the bottom of sweeping lawns and the squat but handsome house, now about half a mile away, which he would one day call home. Not to mention the young lady of the manor.

It was clear Araminta had set her sights on him. While he had to acknowledge this was on the basis of his recent expectations, there'd be few men not thrilled at such an alliance. She was exquisite.

Exquisite and willing. It seemed the ideal solution. His courtship would be short and straightforward and there'd be no surprises. He would sire sons who would inherit all this and he'd grow old in comfort. Respected and revered.

An uncomfortable image of his encounter with Lady Julia returned. Not his proudest moment yet for a few minutes he'd genuinely deceived himself into believing his feelings for her went beyond lust. Now, although he tried to erase her from his mind he couldn't shake his shame. He'd been a fool. Anyone could see that. Hopefully only he would know it. But the inner shame went deeper. What gentleman would have behaved as he had?

The only mollification was: What lady would have behaved as she had?

Then there was the debt. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to settle that—or explain it to Lord Partington.

Although generally genial, His Lordship was at other times distant and aloof. How would he react when he learned that his heir was all but dunned?

Lady Partington, on the other hand, was like a sweet little peahen, always running an anxious eye over her daughters. Hetty, in particular, he noted. It was quite clear Cousin Araminta could look after herself but anyone could see Hetty would not make a similarly confident entrance when she was introduced to society.

He must remember to keep an eye out for potential fortune-hunters of the heartbreaking variety, for Hetty and Lady Partington were birds of a feather—tender-hearted creatures who needed extra bolstering. They reminded him of his dear cousin Annabelle, who'd made such a disastrous match.

The sudden flap of wings as a partridge burst out of the gorse in front of him turned his thoughts from peahens to the richer game he'd soon enjoy as the future Lord Partington. Like hunting parties in August for which he'd be renowned as the most generous of hosts with the most desirable wife.

Turning his mount for the home that would be some years in coming, he was again struck by his immediate pecuniary obligations.

Before his two-week visit ended he'd have no choice but to broach the subject with his benefactor.

It was with interest and more than a little curiosity that he was told upon arrival that Lady Partington desired to see him on a private matter "at his convenience"

some time that day.

As he changed from riding dress into a new coat with boots zealously polished to disguise their age, and trousers he'd bartered from a colleague, he hoped his appearance sufficient to inspire confidence.

Confidence was required in any interview that dealt variously with money or marriage, and he rather suspected Lady Partington had something of importance to say upon one of these subjects.

Mary, the viscountess' lady's maid, eyed him with some concern when he presented himself, adding dubiously that he could wait in Lady Partington's private sitting room while she sought out Her Ladyship.

So Stephen lowered his lanky form onto a delicate gilt sofa and was studying the amateur water colors done by Lady Partington, when a rustle made him glance up at the paneled wooden door that led in from the passage. Waiting was always a tedious business when there were so many more interesting pursuits on offer, and The Grange offered an abundant supply. He could never be bored here. His Lordship had offered to take him on a tour of the estate later this afternoon after he'd returned from wherever it was he spent his mornings, and Stephen was looking forward to learning how to run things properly.

To his surprise, Lady Partington entered from a doorway hidden near the bed. Clearly unaware of his presence, she made her way directly to her writing desk, seated herself and then took down her inkpot.

Stephen was about to declare himself when her next action rendered him indecisive.

With a heart-rending sob she leaned back, covering her face with her hands. When she dropped them and raised her eyes to the ceiling, her expression was desolate.

She must have heard something for she jerked her head around, crying, "Cousin Stephen!"

In a trice he was on his feet and covering the short distance between them, his hand upon her shoulder, aware this was the second time he'd caught her at a disadvantage. "Lady Partington, forgive me but I was told to wait in your sitting room. Please don't be angry."

For the wide-eyed horror she fixed upon him indicated the extent of her wounded pride.

He stopped when he realized he was gently stroking the back of her neck. Far too familiar an action under the circumstances but instinctive when he'd seen her distress. For Stephen, who'd seen so much pain and death on the battlefield, and who'd craved the tender caresses of a mother too self absorbed to acknowledge him for the most part, it was a rare privilege to be in a position to offer comfort. "I know you must deplore the reasons I am here,"

he said, assuming her unhappiness must be related and transferring his rather desperate look from her face to her mahogany night stand. "It is not easy to see everything go to a virtual stranger because you have only daughters, but despite my reputation, I intend to be as diligent in my duties toward the estate as your husband is."

She exhaled bitterly. "If my husband were as diligent as you suggest, he might have his own son to whom he'd pass everything, but he has no wish to deal with me."

Stephen glanced at her, uncertainly, as she heaved in another shuddering breath. Her eyes looked luminous in her pale face. From so close, he could see the dampness on her pale lashes and had to resist the urge to wipe her tears away. Stephen had witnessed women whose distress made their faces blotchy in their hysteria but Lady Partington had a self-imposed regalness about her that made her fragility something precious and beautiful.

"I'm sorry, pay no heed,"

she continued, gathering herself and pulling away. "This is very irregular. You should not see me like this."

"I should not,"

he agreed. "And I should not have tried to capture Lady Zena on the ledge either,"

he added, casting caution to the wind as he alluded to that which had caused her such embarrassment. "However I did and as you have no reason to be ashamed I hope you will forgive me."

He thought she might turn her back on him and show him the door with an imperious wave. Clearly she was contemplating it. Stephen stared at the veins standing out on the back of her hand as it gripped the edge of the escritoire and realised such tenseness must be one of many devices she used to bottle up her emotions.

Then she relented and met his determined, bolstering smile with an unsteady one of her own. Her hair was loose and he noted the rich gloss of it. Earlier, he'd thought she'd intimated that Lord Partington was insensible to her physical charms. But that could not be true. Such a beautiful, dignified woman would have no shortage of admirers.

"That is in the past,"

she said with brittle formality. "Thank you for your concern but if you'll excuse me I must dress for dinner. We can discuss the matter I intended to broach with you at some other time."

Obediently he turned toward the door, hesitating to remark, "If you'll forgive the impertinence, Lady Partington, I strongly recommend bold colors, which I believe would be more flattering to your complexion."

He indicated the pale pink gown her maid had laid out on the bed. "The color and construction are decidedly matronly for one of your youthful looks."

With a final bow, he excused himself, his mind running wild over what transgression or failings Lord Partington was guilty of in the eyes of his distressed wife. No heir? That must obviously be Lord Partington's fault in the physical sense and not for want of trying.

Lady Partington was exquisite.

The household whiled away the hours after dinner in pleasant conversation with their guest and close neighbor rear admiral Hopton, whom Humphrey had felt obliged to invite. Their fathers had been testy comrades and as the rear admiral took a paternal interest in Humphrey's affairs, the arrival of the heir-apparent was more than a passing social interest.

"Good strong chin,"

the rear admiral wheezed into Sybil's ear. "Not like that namby-pamby Edgar. Good thing Corunna took care of him."

Sybil didn't reply. She was ashamed that she tacitly agreed with the sentiment that her nephew's death during the bloody Peninsular campaign was a godsend for Humphrey and The Grange.

The admiral's next sentence heated her cheeks. "Bit peremptory of your husband to bring in reinforcements when you should be able to provide one of your own."

The rear admiral had been raised in a more down-to-earth era and no doubt considered the implication of his sharp-eyed study of her middle region not at all ill-mannered.

Sybil managed to swallow her Madeira without making any unladylike noises before murmuring, "My husband wanted time to groom Mr. Cranborne for his role in case?—"

"Aye, that's right, in case he went the way of his old pater."

Sybil did not comment. Humphrey's father had drowned when in his cups at the tender age of forty-five.

"Not likely. In fact, your husband would do better if he were more like the old pater. But this Mr. Cranborne. Will he go his mother's way? That'd be more my concern. Little strumpet, Miss Bessie Brayford was in her day. Aye, no credit to her sex, that's what my mother said, but we don't always listen to our mothers, do we? Your Miss Araminta doesn't and I'll warrant it won't do her a jot of harm."

The warmth of his glance as he gazed upon the young woman he'd dandled on his knee as an infant sent a pang of some unidentified longing through Sybil. Araminta, seated by the window, was holding court, Stephen appearing like a rapt disciple as he lounged against the wall and listened. Pride—and something else—raged through Sybil. Her daughter's beauty was breathtaking, as was her ability to take what she wanted in life without thought for the consequences. While Sybil wanted nothing but happiness for her eldest daughter, Araminta was not going to get Mrs. Hazlett's gray mare. Sybil was determined upon it.

The rear admiral's look was as admiring as Stephen's. "The girl knows how to get what she wants. Thank the lord she's not playing up to that sapskull Edgar, which she would be if he were here being groomed for the role of heir."

"Araminta wants to make a good match this season,"

Sybil murmured. "Mr. Cranborne would be a very good match."

"Two months ago he wouldn't have been. No, Miss Araminta has an eye to the main chance, and good on her. Let's just hope Mr. Cranborne knows what's expected of him. Young man's been around. He knows how to please the ladies, no doubt about that,"

the rear admiral observed.

Sybil squinted at the young pair. Was her neighbor suggesting Mr. Cranborne wasn't genuinely smitten?

"No need to fluff up your feathers like a protective mother hen,"

chuckled the rear admiral. "Mind you, with your eyes so bright and in that gown, you're a fine sight to behold."

A tremor of pleasure ran through her. It was the first time she'd been complimented in years. Her red silk gown was one she'd had made in a fit of daring the year before but never worn after Araminta derided her for trying to appear in the first stare "when surely you're old enough, Mama, to know how positively sad it is to look like you're trying to compete with your daughters."

Since then she'd reverted to the simple, safe and matronly pastels she'd always worn. Mr. Cranborne's comment tonight had emboldened her to select the dress.

"And no need to gape as if you don't know it's true. You're a damn fine-looking woman, Sybil, only Humphrey don't appreciate it."

He took another sip of his drink, staring down his claret nose to add, "Araminta's not the only beauty in the family. Now, as you're clearly not used to compliments and your husband is looking this way, I shall bid you good evening and go and speak to my old neighbor."

Sybil closed her mouth, returned Hetty's smile—she was kneeling by Lady Zena's cage whispering to the bird—then resumed watching Stephen and Araminta.

What had the rear admiral meant? Mr. Cranborne was like every young man who met Araminta. He'd fallen completely under her spell. The only danger was if proceedings went awry. After the curtailing of her first season, no breath of scandal must touch Araminta.

No, let all proceed quietly to plan, prayed Sybil. Mr. Cranborne was the new heir and Araminta, since the death of her brother, had been determined to marry whomever she needed to become mistress of The Grange.

It was Sybil's duty, however, to warn Mr. Cranborne, subtly, of Araminta's expectations so as to avoid any potential misunderstandings.

Stephen was enjoying the attention of his lovely female audience as he leaned against the wall and listened to Araminta spout a string of deriding comments about all the ape leaders with whom she'd been forced to rub shoulders during her first season.

Clearly she'd despised everything as much as she'd enjoyed it. "Miss Clara Doyle only stood up three times at Almacks the first night I attended. She has more than ten thousand a year, but imagine a gentleman having to get past that nose of hers."

"A large nose is an impediment to anyone, even those with ten thousand a year,"

he agreed.

She sent him a wary glance before relaxing with a smile that twisted with derision as she went on, "And then there was poor Miss Myrtle, who might have been pretty had her guardian not insisted on dressing her like she'd been dragged out of a fashion plate from The Lady's Magazine ten years ago. Why, the rig-outs?—"

"One's dress is vital to one's success."

Stephen nodded, glancing at Lady Partington who looked, he conceded, mighty fine in hers this evening. One might even argue she looked a good ten years younger than her real age, which he calculated must be around thirty-six, given that the earliest she could have given birth to Araminta must have been seventeen. Perhaps she was older though he doubted it. Yet what did it matter? Age had no meaning—and nor should beauty—when it was what was in the heart that counted.

He watched Lady Partington say something to the rear admiral, a worried frown creasing her brow, but a disarming remark from her companion brought on a spontaneous laugh that lit up her face, making her in that moment exceptionally lovely. Lovely in quite a different way from Araminta, whose shrewd eyes narrowed as she intercepted his gaze.

"Poor Mama's trying too hard again, I see,"

she remarked. "I told her never to wear that dress. She's far too old."

"I don't think so."

Araminta stared at him. Clearly this was not the kind of thing she was either used to or had been expecting.

"Mama is practically in her dotage,"

she insisted, leaning forward and looking past Stephen to frown at her elderly parent still deep in conversation with the rear admiral.

"No, she's not."

"She's too old to provide Papa with an heir,"

Araminta rejoined, spitefully.

Stephen said nothing to this but naturally he did wonder at the veiled allusion Lady Partington had made earlier that day that would refute this.

Yet surely if Lord Partington considered it safe to call Stephen here and pronounce him the new heir it was because they were unable to produce one themselves. Perhaps Lady Partington had been unable to have more children after her last child. He reflected on her unhappiness and wondered if it stemmed from the fact that she refused to accept her barrenness.

"If Mama's trying hard now, she left it too late, didn't she?"

Araminta's scornful look softened as she transferred it to her father talking to the rear admiral.

At Stephen's quizzical glance she muttered, "Papa has no desire for Mama's society. As soon as he can get away, he does. He hardly ever spends the night here and only returns for luncheon."

Stephen was shocked both by the charge and the veiled accusation. "And you consider that your mama's fault?"

"Well, it's not mine."

Araminta replaced her glare with a beauteous smile. "But let's not talk about dreary old Mama, Cousin Stephen. Let me hear all about yourself and your daring exploits."

Stephen participated in the lighthearted banter that followed, though Araminta seemed to take most of what she told him a lot more seriously than he did.

Nevertheless, it was a novelty to be the focus of attention from a beautiful young woman, even if she was a trifle self-absorbed. She was also young and no doubt she'd be softened by a more maternal side when the time came. Like her mother, whom he did not consider dreary at all.

If Araminta had marked him out as her future husband, he could do worse. It was time to claim a wife and with possibly years to wait until his inheritance, there would be definite financial benefits.

It was on the subject of his pecuniary and, he hoped, only temporary embarrassment, that he finally got up the courage to approach Lord Partington.

There was no point in beating around the bush, Stephen decided, as he accompanied His Lordship on horseback around the grounds of The Grange with an almost lung-bursting sense of pride. In all his wildest dreams he'd never imagined a future as glittering as the one that had opened up before him.

"Where do you live when you're in town?"

his Lordship asked as they followed a meandering brook through a pretty meadow.

"With my grandmother while I look for something more suitable,"

he replied.

"In that case you'll stay at the Grange until something else is arranged."

His Lordship squinted toward the hills to the east. The columns of smoke from the village could be seen above the trees. "Besides, you'll need to spend some time here so you can understand the responsibilities you'll be required to undertake one day. Obviously you'll want to spend a good deal of time in town. You're a bachelor after all."

He hesitated. "Though perhaps not for long."

Stephen ignored the questioning look in his eye but obliged him with, "I think I'll find myself quite content to molder in the country for at least a few more weeks."

He sent his benefactor a knowing look and the viscount chuckled. "Be wary, my boy."

He opened his mouth to continue, hesitated, then went on, "My daughter is a vixen who knows how to get what she wants and if you have other ideas you'd better state them now."

Stephen grinned. "I'm quite partial to vixens,"

he said. "Especially the green-eyed variety."

Lord Partington slapped his thigh as he stared out over the beech forest before fixing Stephen with a gimlet look. "She'll lead you a merry dance and don't say I didn't warn you, but it's a satisfactory situation all ‘round. Her dowry is generous but you'll need money in the meantime. I'll arrange for a small stipend that'll keep you until…something more formal comes to pass."

Stephen saw his chance. "My lord, I've one outstanding debt that needs attending to."

His Lordship swung round in the saddle, his expression none too pleased. "Dunned, are you? But of course, why did I not expect it? You're your mother's son after all."

"I hope I favor my father,"

Stephen said stiffly. "However last week at Sir Archie Ledger's house party I was prevailed upon to make a foolish bet."

"Foolish, eh?"

His Lordship raised his eyebrows.

After some hesitation, Stephen finally admitted, "I bet a thousand on a spider and lost."

The flush that stole up his neck burned as he stared straight ahead. Put like this his folly seemed extreme.

"A spider! Pity you weren't an expert on the subject of arachnids, then, boy."

"With respect, my lord, I consider myself quite an expert. The outcome was astonishing and, I believe, engineered in Sir Archie's favor. Nevertheless, the fact is that I lost the bet and I owe Sir Archie a thousand pounds."

Stephen cringed at Lord Partington's incisive stare. He'd never lost so much in a single wager but he'd been so sure of a victory that would have helped him repay a loan from his grandmother. Not that he intended mentioning that to His Lordship. Fortunately it was a trifle in comparison.

His Lordship settled back into his saddle and said in a resigned tone, "I'll have my bank arrange a letter of credit. You're an expert on the subject of arachnids, then, are you? A passing fancy of last week?"

"No, my lord."

Stephen forded a small stream in Lord Partington's wake. "For some unexplained reason I've been fascinated by spiders since I was a child. I had a collection, to my mother's horror, which I studied endlessly. Therefore I was convinced that, having observed the mating spiders, we would soon see the newly impregnated female devour the male. Sir Archie said this would not occur, that the male sex was dominant in every arena and he would wager this was another example."

He saw that Lord Partington was listening and went on. "We remained to watch what would transpire, however I was detained for some time by Lady Julia and when I returned half an hour later the male spider appeared to be making a judicious exit, sated and quite intact. I, however, was suspicious of what I judged to be tampering of the web. Nevertheless, Sir Archie prevailed and I was declared the loser of the bet."

Lord Partington's complexion had grown florid. "Sir Archie Ledger,"

he muttered. "Floppy Ledger's son. The little weasel sounds like his father."

He clicked his tongue and urged his mount over a fallen log, shouting back over his shoulder, "You'll invite him here and prove your theory sound."

Stephen drew level and his cousin twisted in the saddle, warming to his theme as they continued at a leisurely canter. "A male arachnid, especially if it's small, always comes off second best. You were cheated. Indeed, I'll not hand over such a sum if your version of matters proves true."

"Oh, it's quite true, and I'd happily see you invite him here, my lord, to prove it."

"We'll need examples so the boy can see with his own eyes that he can't bamboozle us. Ask Araminta to start gathering a collection."

They laughed. Amusement, however, turned to admiration after they returned to the house to propose the idea and Hetty rose to the challenge. Araminta declared roundly that she'd do so only on pain of death.

"Not even to please me?"

Stephen asked with a suitably cajoling smile.

"You have a lot to learn, if that's how you think you'll win me,"

she declared with a sly look beneath lowered lashes as she demurely plied her needle.

Nevertheless, Stephen was satisfied by her response. Araminta had all but stated how things stood. In a few days the time would be right. He'd ask for her hand and all would be settled in his world. Even the debt was no longer a niggling boil that needed lancing.

Returning later that afternoon from The Slippery Green Toad after a couple of pots of porter, Stephen was reminded that not everyone was as fortunate. The evening was still light and he was in the east paddock closest to the house when the sound of weeping interspersed with the soft, snuffly noises of a horse caught his attention.

Stephen stepped quietly round the corner of the barn and peered across to where a hitherto unknown gray mare was nuzzling the neck of, if he wasn't seeing things, the mistress of Partington Hall.

Lady Partington was in evening dress. She must have left the house on a sudden whim before dinner. A strangely compelling desire indeed, for as he drew nearer, Stephen saw that her silk slippers were completely covered in mud and filth.

An owl hooted and the horse startled. In the moonlight Stephen saw how horse and mistress seemed to settle each other.

"Lady Partington?"

he called out impulsively, only realising as the words cut the silence that she may wish for privacy. However, her forlorn stance demanded that he step forward to render what assistance or comfort he could. "Is anything the matter?"

When she merely raised a baleful eye from above the straggly mane of the gray mare he added, self-deprecatingly, "Of course, I realize something's the matter otherwise you'd not be crying or have ruined your evening slippers. Whose mare is this?"

"Her name's Bunty and His Lordship bought her this afternoon for Araminta. She's not yet seen it but it will be a mighty fine victory for her."

He wondered at the bitterness in her tone. "Miss Araminta already has a fine mare. Does she need another?"

"That's of no account when Araminta wants something. My husband will deny her nothing and now he has bought her this, which belonged to someone who has had to go away. It's an insult to me. A cruel blow though Humphrey does not see it that way. He'd consider such talk hysterical. He's always thought me overstrung and yet I've maintained my dignity in the face of his continual denigration."

Her words became muffled as she buried her face in the docile mare's flank. It seemed she had no wish to censor what she said but would drown her words instead.

Stephen was not unused to comforting weeping women. In fact, this was a favored ploy usually resulting in said weeping woman throwing herself into his arms. Stephen was generally quite happy to render his assistance. However he now stood before his benefactress. In the half-light with her hair ruffled out of its careful coiffure and the utterly desperate vision of misery she presented, Stephen couldn't help himself.

He crossed the churned up ground to put his hands on her shoulders and drew her round to face him. "My dear Lady Partington,"

he murmured, frowning into soft, doe-brown eyes that bore soulfully into his. "I'm sure your husband had no intention of causing you such heartbreak. If you wished for a mare of your own why not just ask? His Lordship is a generous man."

Lady Partington rested her forehead against his chest. "Generous, indeed!"

She trembled. "Loyal would be a better way of describing him yet in this case it is not a compliment to me."

She drew in a shuddering breath and raised her face to his. "Had I known his heart was engaged elsewhere when he offered for me, I'd never have agreed to the contract."

The evening twilight and the lack of formality in their surroundings added to the sense of unreality. This was neither a conversation for the drawing room, the great outdoors or one to be had by two people in their requisite stations. But Lady Partington had clearly cast convention to the wind.

For now anyway.

With a great sigh she twisted out of Stephen's embrace. She seemed neither embarrassed nor inclined to invite his confidence. Just unutterably weary as she gazed about at the stables behind her and The Grange before them. "I'll have to attend to my appearance before I present myself for dinner."

Stephen rubbed his chin, unsure what to do next. "Perhaps you should plead a megrim, ma'am, in view of your distress."

She gave him a wry smile. "Distress is a general state for me."

She seemed to register Stephen's lack of surety and put her hand to his cheek as if to return the gesture of comfort. "I think you are kinder at heart than I gave you credit for. Perhaps you will be good for The Grange and for Araminta—if that is what you want."

In the semi dark, Stephen stroked the mare's flank as he watched Lady Partington walk slowly toward the house. She carried herself with grace, the skirts of her crimson dress frothing around her ankles, and a sudden image visited him of her dark-gold tresses swinging around her hips. A surge of some identified feeling for her rose up in his breast, truncated by the sound of running footsteps from the opposite direction.

"Bunty! Oh, you darling horse!"

With a cry of joy, Araminta threw herself upon the horse's neck and kissed the mare rapturously. It was a moment before she realized she was not alone.

"Cousin Stephen!"

she cried, smiling, taking a step towards him, one hand still on the horse's flank. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard your mama's distress over this animal. I believe your father bought her for you this afternoon."

Dimples appeared in Araminta's cheeks. "Isn't she beautiful? The finest in the county, I believe."

"Your mama doesn't share your enthusiasm."

Araminta made a noise of irritation. "If Mama were cleverer—or prettier—perhaps Papa would want to spend more time with us instead of giving horses and no doubt other gifts to the ladies he prefers."

Stephen studied her in amazement. Did she know what she was saying?

Which was? Quickly he went over the aspersions suggested by Lady Partington.

"Your father gave this horse to another lady?"

he asked bluntly.

"Yes. Mrs. Hazlett, who's apparently had to go away."

Araminta lifted her chin proudly as she transferred her attention back to the horse. "Anyway, that's according to the apothecary's wife in the village, who told me Mrs. Hazlett was looking to sell darling Bunty."

"If you suspect your father gave Bunty to this Mrs. Hazlett, aren't you concerned at the thought of upsetting your mother? I'm sure I wouldn't like to think of my wife bestowing such generous gifts on another man."

Araminta swung round from her enthusiastic petting of Bunty with a glare. "Don't you see? It's why I did it."

In response to Stephen's look of confusion she went on, "I had to teach Mama a lesson. If she wants to keep Papa here with us she must try harder. She's such a little dormouse, isn't she?"

Stephen found himself actively revolting against her sentiments. "I don't think so."

Araminta's jaw dropped. Deciding against arguing, she dropped her hand from Bunty's flank and stepped closer. Only a foot separated them and they were hidden from the house. Her eyes danced as she nibbled her bottom lip. "You can kiss me if you like, Cousin Stephen."

She tilted up her chin and closed her eyes. Tendrils of desire snaked through him yet his heart wasn't in it, even though he rested his hands on her shoulders for he was not about to refuse her invitation. He'd already decided he'd marry her.

When Hetty called from the back step he wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

He drew back before Araminta did. "I shall have to be patient, shan't I?"

"And you shall be well rewarded for it, Mr. Cranborne,"

she promised in a whisper, giving his hand a quick squeeze before turning toward the house.

Through a haze of misery, Sybil observed the budding romance between Stephen and Araminta. Araminta made no secret of her feelings—that she wanted to be the next lady of the manor. She thought, too, that Araminta's desire for the young man was genuine, which took the edge off her misery.

Humphrey's thoughts echoed hers when he remarked after dinner, "How fortuitous that Araminta's lofty ambitions will be grounded in true love."

Then he surprised her by adding, "Yet I wonder if Stephen is as smitten."

"Why, Humphrey, I thought you imagined all men were in love with our daughter."

She liked to refer to Araminta like this, reinforcing the bond between them.

Humphrey toyed with his drink as he reclined in his usual leather wingback chair in front of the fire. "Oh, he'll make her an offer before the end of the week,"

he predicted. "Yet he seems distracted."

"By her beauty."

"No, something else."

Sybil stared. It was unusual for Humphrey to notice anything going on around him at the Grange. A bitter knot lodged in her throat. Of course, his mistress had departed, exhausted by a condition which "only nine months would cure". It was why he was at her side so late this evening. Humphrey would be chafing at the separation, however he'd soon invent an excuse to leave his family.

She didn't respond at first. Then, forcing a smile, agreed. "I suppose we are all a little distracted. Events have not run their usual course, have they, Humphrey?"

His expression was quizzical. They never referred to his mistress, even obliquely, so he chose to discount any possibility of a reference to Lizzy Hazlett, saying instead, "Yes, and he doesn't disappoint, does he?"

Sybil concurred without hesitation. "He is as charming as he is handsome. And he's kind, too, Humphrey. Surprisingly kind for a young man so used to having the ladies presumably throw themselves at him. I think he's had a harder life than we'd imagine."

"Now you're going overboard, my dear. I merely was comparing him with ghastly Edgar, who might have stood in his shoes had he not come out so badly at Corunna."

"I doubt he would, the way Araminta's looking at Stephen."

Humphrey's mouth twitched. "No, I doubt Araminta would have looked at Edgar with quite such soulful eyes."

He studied the pair. Araminta looked dazzling in her white muslin gown with its green sash and matching emerald earrings. Her dark, glossy hair had been swept up into a becoming cluster of curls that fell from a topknot.

She looked very innocent and very desirable, surely a heady mix, thought Sybil, wondering what elusive qualities enticed a man. Certainly Sybil had never possessed the right ones. In all her thirty-seven years no man had ever looked at her twice.

Humphrey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "But she'd have been standing there with exactly the same intentions had it been her cousin Edgar. We both know that."

Was that admiration? Sybil tilted her head. "Are you suggesting that Araminta's ambition is greater than her discernment?"

Humphrey chuckled. "That's exactly what I'm suggesting. I say ‘good on her' for exercising all her wiles if that avenue will bring her happiness. Life would be a misery if we simply accepted our lot."

Sybil nearly spilled her drink. With a suspicious look at her husband's empty glass, which the footman was currently refilling, she murmured, "You sometimes surprise me, Humphrey, with your profound comments."

"Do I, my dear?"

He glanced at Sybil, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. A spasm of some tiny fondness for him jerk to life deep within her.

Sharply truncated when he said, still kindly, "As a boy my pater thought I'd surely grow out of my adolescent mooning and accept that duty was the only mantra. I was young, lacking experience of myself and of life. I knew no better. If that's what pater believed, then surely it was true."

He sipped his drink, both philosophical and melancholic. "Sadly for both of us, I accepted the pater's edict."

He patted his chest. "For this loyal heart was not made with room for you, Sybil, and for that I've always felt a trifle guilty."

Oh Lord, was she going to cry?

She'd give her all right now to be able to respond, to pour out her desire for a love she was powerless to grasp and perhaps get something in return. Any love. Even an apologetic gesture of friendship. How dried-up, stale and superfluous she'd become. Here was not the place and no doubt Humphrey had chosen to speak here for that reason.

So she was relieved when he broke the mood by saying in an uncharacteristically complimentary tone, "You look mighty fetching, Sybil. I don't know what it is but you're looking finer than I've seen you in a while. What have you done to yourself?"

It certainly wasn't happiness that had improved her appearance. Her spirits were lower than they'd ever been but she realized she was favoring bolder colors and styling. Why? Purely because Stephen Cranborne had complimented her?

She fanned herself at the memory of their encounter that first day. No man other than Humphrey had ever seen her without her clothes.

Stephen should have recoiled with horror from the sight of an old woman's decaying body yet he'd been the opposite of either embarrassed or dismissive. He'd been positively charming.

Recalling this, she raised her eyes just as Stephen glanced over at them. He looked both young and very self-assured as he offered a half bow in acknowledgement, his eyes creasing into a smile, and Sybil, to her astonishment, blushed and was even more embarrassed when Humphrey remarked, "I see you have won the admiration of our guest. He certainly speaks well of you while I, to my shame, just nod my head and agree. I take for granted the good works you do and the excellence with which you run the household, Sybil. I was surprised when Stephen himself observed you were quietly competent and efficient while asking nothing of those around you, as we took a walk the other day."

Pleasure made her sit straighter.

Humphrey put down his drink. "Of course, he has only his dissolute mama with which to compare you. Now, shall we retire and leave the young ones to while away a few more minutes without censorious eyes?"

Sybil rose with him as he added, "You must call Hetty away too. I believe Stephen has something of importance to say to Araminta."

"But it's only been a week."

How could Humphrey know more than she? Besides, it was much too early. The furious beating of her heart and the cocktail of shock, surprise and…yes, resentment, took her by surprise. Her hand was shaking as she put down her glass.

Humphrey looked knowing. "I spoke to Araminta this morning and said she had two choices: to throw herself into her next season and try to snare a duke, which I told her she surely would with her looks and dowry. That would mean she'd be going to London in another month but that if she was prepared to remain a lowly viscountess at The Grange, she'd have to forgo London revels."

"Excuse me, ma'am."

Porter, the butler, stood in the doorway. Sybil raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to go on, wondering what might have happened at such a late hour.

"Well, what is it?"

Humphrey sounded suddenly tired and grumpy. He was like that when he'd had enough of Sybil's company.

"There is a visitor…"

"What do you mean a visitor? At this hour?"

Porter cleared his throat. He shifted his feet and seemed reluctant to speak until Humphrey said even more testily, "You know we don't receive callers at this hour, Porter."

"My lord—"

Porter's Adam's apple leapt up his throat. His complexion had darkened and his eyes darted from master to mistress as if he were unsure what to say, which was quite unlike their implacable retainer of more than twenty years.

"Well, spit it out, Porter!"

Humphrey was clearly losing patience. "Unless old Boney has given his jailers the slip and is advancing over the hill with an army behind him I think we can hear what you have to say if you think it's worth saying."

Still, the butler looked dubious and suddenly rather old and feeble. Which is exactly how Sybil felt when he replied in a quavering voice, "My lord, it's…Master Edgar. First I thought I was seeing a ghost and didn't believe my eyes. But the truth is, Master Edgar is as alive and as well as I ever saw him. And he's waiting to see you."