Sybill

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  “Trevor?”

  Aware she was not seeking compliments on her beauty, he smiled graciously. “It’s a wonderful gown. Mrs. Stoddard has outdone herself.”

  Sybill could not miss the stiff tone. Her smile faded, for she knew what was bothering him. He could not miss the eager expression on Owen’s face. It frightened her. Just when things seemed to be going so perfectly, she did not want to deal with a guardian who planned to make her his wife. Although he had arranged his household so she and Trevor worked together, Sybill was sure Owen would think it disgraceful how often she sought the company of his handsome aide simply to talk. Owen considered Trevor a valuable tool. He would be shocked to learn his ward’s true feelings.

  Knowing her face would betray her disquiet, she spoke of another matter bothering her. “You don’t think it’s too early to stop wearing mourning for my father, do you, Owen? It has been only a few months. I would not want anyone to think I did not honor my father’s memory.”

  “No one would think that of you, my dear.” He took her fingers and drew her closer. When he noticed the shuffling of her feet, he hid his displeasure. Sybill had changed. Her innocence was not as pure. There would be few bold enough to try to woo the lord’s ward. Her father had been indiscriminate in choosing whom he bedded. Sybill would not be the same. He knew, with a secret flush of pleasure, that she would seek a man she could love simply for love’s sake.

  Sybill stared up at the man who held her hand. A shiver raced along her spine. Owen’s smile had turned inward as if amused by his thoughts. That she could not guess what was in his mind reminded her how little she knew this man. “This has been a wondrous day,” she chattered to fill the chasm of quiet. “Did Trevor tell you what he brought to the Cloister for me?”

  Owen was shaken from his satisfied fantasies as she spoke brightly. He looked from her happy face to his estate manager. “Trevor gave you a gift?”

  “Wait here!”

  Pleased with any excuse to avoid Owen’s too eager caresses, she opened the door. From a wooden box, she pulled the squirming, golden mass. Cooing loving words, she walked over to the two men. “See? A puppy.” She was more delighted with her pet than the fine gown, despite the fact that the cost of her dress would equal the price of a hundred puppies. “This is Goldenrod. Isn’t he wonderful?”

  As if in explanation, Trevor added, “It’s one from Mac Beckwith’s litter. Sybill saw it when we rode out that way a while back.”

  “So you bought it for her?”

  Sybill looked up in astonishment at the rancor in the lord’s voice. She was soothed by Trevor’s calming reply. “Not exactly, m’lord. Mac stopped me and told me this puppy was for her. It shocked me when he refused to take a copper for the pup.”

  “Beckwith wanted no money?” Owen picked up his goblet and drained it as his forehead puckered in thought. “That is indeed amazing.”

  “All he would repeat was that she needed this dog.”

  “And I do,” she said firmly. With a laugh, she raised the puppy so its black nose was against hers. “I love you, Goldenrod!”

  Owen smiled stiffly as he placed his wine glass on the desk. “It would seem we are to have a dog in the Cloister. Why don’t you take it outside, Sybill, and introduce it to the gardens?” With a diffident wave of his hand, he ordered, “Go along, Trevor, and help her keep track of the creature.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” He kept his confusion hidden as he motioned for Sybill to lead the way. When she looked back, he could see the same bafflement scoring her forehead. He could not understand why Lord Foxbridge spoke moments ago of making this young woman his bride, but was sending her outside with his assistant. If he wished to court Sybill, Lord Foxbridge should be the one by her side.

  When she started to speak, he shook his head. Silently he told her that there were too many interested in what they did and said. Unlike any time but the first days after his arrival, Foxbridge Cloister was a strange, inhospitable place.

  The sunshine pelted its warmth onto their heads. She bent to put the wobbly legged pup in the grass. When it began to sniff about earnestly, she smiled weakly.

  “You do look lovely, Sybill.”

  She took her eyes from Goldenrod to meet those of the man beside her. “Thank you. I wish Owen wasn’t so impatient to see me done with mourning. I don’t understand. Father was his friend.”

  “Lord Foxbridge prefers things his way.”

  “So I have noticed.” Her fingers brushed nervously against her skirt. “How does he react when someone goes against his edicts?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. No one has during my tenure here.”

  “You have had no disagreements with him?”

  With a laugh, he drew her hand from the embroidery on her overdress and placed it on his arm. “You don’t need to sound so shocked, Sybill. Of course, we have differed over certain matters, but never anything important.” He pointed to the golden flash racing toward the rose bushes. “There goes your ‘creature.’”

  “Owen did not sound too pleased,” she said uneasily.

  “Don’t worry. If you want Goldenrod, he won’t tell you to get rid of him.”

  “Trevor, don’t!”

  “Don’t?” he repeated.

  Pulling her hand away, she lifted her heavy skirts enough to chase after her pet. He did not follow. What she meant was clear. Although Lord Foxbridge had not said anything to her directly, she knew what her guardian planned. He put out his foot to block the puppy, which was speeding away from its mistress. “Got you!” he crowed as he scooped up the panting dog.

  “Thank you,” she breathed as she came to a stop by him. “If I knew he would have come back this way, I wouldn’t have chased him across the garden.”

  From his pocket, Trevor drew a thin strip of leather. Handing her the small animal, he wrapped the thong around Goldenrod’s neck. He secured it carefully, leaving a long piece. “There, Sybill. Now you can hold onto him while he runs about to his heart’s desire.”

  She smiled her gratitude before she put the puppy on the ground again. Although he strained to test his leash, Golden-rod did not seem overly concerned about his limits. “I never had a dog before. I guess I have a lot to learn.” She placed her fingers on the coarse material of his sleeve as she added, “I can’t thank you enough for bringing him here. It was so kind of you.”

  “’Twas Mac who—”

  Softly she interrupted him. “Thank you, Trevor, for Goldenrod. I’m so glad we’ve become friends.”

  “So am I.” He lifted her fingers to his lips. Instantly he knew he had made a dreadful error. Her eyes darkened with fear as she pulled her hand away. Although he was tempted to snatch back her fingers, he said only, “Pardon me, Sybill.”

  Knowing she had to explain, she replied, “I’m confused by how Owen is acting. When you and I were always angry, he seemed interested in us being friends. Now that we no longer are snapping at each other, he doesn’t act pleased. He acts—”

  “I know,” he said comfortingly, but he did not touch her. If he did, she would flee like a frightened sea bird.

  “You know? Has Owen said something?” When he did not answer immediately, she demanded, “Tell me, Trevor! Please!”

  “Not here. Come with me.”

  She tugged on the leash, and Goldenrod followed compliantly. When they were far enough away from the house that their voices could not be overheard by a hidden eavesdropper, Trevor spoke of the conversation he had with Lord Foxbridge.

  “I was afraid of that,” she said sadly. “What can I do, Trevor? I owe him my life. You know what would have happened to me if I had stayed in London.” She shivered. “All those men with their lewd offers invading my home as if they thought they would be welcome. If my father had been alive, he would have …”

  He was surprised by her laugh. “What’s so amusing?”

  “I can’t imagine my father striking anyone. It wasn’t his way to resort to fisticuffs.”

  “Th
at’s a surprise. I would have thought, under the circumstances, that he would be challenged often.”

  “Circumstances?” Sybill’s voice was suddenly sharp with outrage. “Again you are intimating something horrible about my father! Trevor, what—?”

  “Not now,” he urged. “Don’t worry about the past.”

  She sighed as she sank down onto a stone bench which remained cold from the long months of dreary winter. “Sometimes thinking about the past is easier than thinking of the future.”

  “You don’t have to marry Lord Foxbridge or anyone else.”

  “No?” She looked directly at him as he sat next to her. “Owen is my guardian. What he decides I will do, I must do. A woman has few choices in this world.”

  Bending, he scratched the ears of the puppy who leapt against his legs. “Just remember, Sybill. I’m here to help.” He grinned wryly as he glanced up at her while continuing to pet the golden fur. “That may not be much, but it’s all I can offer you.”

  “I appreciate your kindness,” she said in a sad voice. “I just hope Owen can see the truth soon.”

  “That you don’t want to marry him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there someone you left behind in London?”

  Her lips tipped slightly. “You mean a heartbroken suitor? Of course not! Do you think I would be here if there was a man I wanted to marry back there?”

  “If he didn’t know …”

  She laughed with abrupt lightness. “When I find the man I love, I won’t be shy about letting him know I wish to give him my heart. My father pined too many years for my mother. I won’t waste my life grieving for what could have been.”

  Trevor straightened and gazed down into her blue eyes. Again he had to fight the urge to touch her rosy cheeks and stroke the dark silk of her hair. How easy it would be to understand if Lord Foxbridge wanted this pretty woman simply for her beauty and wit! That he hoped to use her solely to rankle his heir would bring the ruin of Sybill’s life. With sincerity, he mused, “He’ll be a lucky man.”

  “I will be the lucky one, Trevor, if that ever comes to be.” All her joy vanished. “I must go inside. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “At dinner,” he agreed.

  Again Sybill tugged on the makeshift leash to urge the puppy to come with her. Trevor did not move as she returned to the Cloister. As the bees buzzed about the blossom-decorated fruit trees not far from him, he wondered if there was any way he could help ease the situation for Sybill. He feared there was none. When Lord Foxbridge was determined to have his way, nobody dared stand in his path. That a petite lass with sparkling, sapphire eyes might resist his edicts would have little effect if he insisted she become his bride.

  Trevor swore a silent oath. He would prevent her from being forced or coerced into becoming Lady Foxbridge. Even as he made himself that promise, he did not pause to think why he felt so strongly about this issue. Some emotions were too dangerous to be acknowledged, even to himself.

  Chapter Five

  “Trevor?”

  He glanced up from his paper-covered desk and lowered his quill. His frown at the interruption became a smile as he saw who stood at the library door. Rising to his feet, he motioned for her to enter.

  Sybill’s eyes admired the fine cut of his doublet. In the past weeks, she had become accustomed to seeing him in peasant-style work clothes of long pantaloons. She realized this was the only time she had seen him in breeches since her arrival. What the occasion might be she could not guess, but that did not keep her from appreciating his fine linen collar decorated with intricate lace. The braid along the front of his doublet matched the decoration on its sleeves.

  Although his clothes were eye-catching, it was the coiled strength of his body that held her attention. All the many rogues who had called at the house on the Strand had paraded before her what they considered their finest attributes. Not one had made any impression other than disgust. Several of the more impudent ones had dared to try to kiss her, but she repulsed their attempts alone or with the help of her staff.

  Helplessly she stared at Trevor. Although he had touched her only to help her onto her horse or when he passed her a plate at supper, she was overwhelmed by his physical presence. It reached out beyond him to lure her closer. She tried to resist it, fearing he did not feel the attraction. Realizing he was waiting patiently for her to speak, she forced her frivolous thoughts aside. Since their ride a month ago, they had established a firm friendship. She did not want to destroy that by acting stupidly.

  She held out a handful of pages. “I have the household accounts from January, Trevor. I’ve been trying to bring everything up-to-date. Forgive me, but I can’t understand some of your entries. If you aren’t too busy, I would appreciate your help.”

  “In deciphering my handwriting?”

  “No, that is fine,” she said hastily. “It is some of the abbreviations you used.”

  He laughed. Although he prided himself on his neat hand and scrupulous records, he knew she would have some trouble with his code. “Come in, Sybill, and I will see what I can do to help.”

  “You aren’t busy?”

  “Yes, but this can wait.” He closed the door. Glancing over her shoulder, he asked, “What is the problem?”

  Although a part of his mind listened to her delicate voice, he was captured by the soft fragrance drifting from her hair as she tilted her head toward him. Her finger moving along the page could not hold his attention as he was lost in her perfume. As dainty as she was, the top of her head barely reached his chin.

  “Trevor, aren’t you listening?”

  Turning halfway, she looked over her shoulder. Her second question died unspoken as she felt the simmering heat of his gaze. As if they were a shield, she lifted the papers between her and the emotions glittering in his eyes. She watched as his hand slowly rose. Her rapid breath roared in her ears, but she could think of nothing but his hand moving toward her.

  As his fingers settled on her cheek, her eyes widened in shock at the tingles exploding outward in a tidal wave of sensation. Stepping back, she bumped into a chair. It rocked, and she reached for it. Instantly all her papers scattered in a storm to the floor.

  She looked into his sternly handsome face. When she saw his smile, she felt the heat of chagrin. Suddenly she laughed. Hiding behind her embarrassment only would show how much he unsettled her.

  “Do you want some help in gathering those?”

  “Yes.” She sighed in exaggerated distress. “It’ll take hours to put them back in order.”

  Trevor shook his head. “It won’t take long. I’ll help you. Seeing as it was my fault.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she reassured him too quickly. By denying her reaction, she could pretend it had not happened. “Simply my own clumsiness.” She knelt and started putting the pages in a neat stack.

  She tried to ignore Trevor’s hands working so close to hers, but remained vigilant that they did not come into contact with hers. When all the papers were in a pile, she reached for them. He handed her the ones he had picked up. As she took them, it was unavoidable. Their hands touched.

  Rapidly she rose to her feet, but he moved in tempo with her, so their eyes remained locked together. Hers continued to follow his as he rose to his full height. A craving urged her to reach out to him, to touch him, to feel his arms around her as too many had longed to do and she had never wanted. Until now.

  She took a half step toward him, then turned toward the desk. Her feet moved at a normal pace, but both were aware of her panicked flight. Placing the pages on the desk, she said, in a constricted voice, “Trevor, the problems come from your accounts. I don’t understand the terms you use.”

  With a sigh, he followed. Drawing up a chair for her, he sat in his own. Although he wished to look into her warm eyes, he forced himself to think of the account ledgers. He answered her questions, allowing the flame within him to flicker to oblivion.

  Sybill concentrated and wr
ote notes to herself on another sheet of paper. Suddenly, in the midst of an explanation, she stood. “Excuse me, Trevor. I—I must leave.”

  “What?” He was on his feet immediately. “Is there a problem?” He searched his mind for what he might have said to bring this sorrow to her face. “Sybill, if I did something wrong—”

  She shook her head, as she smiled weakly. “No, you did nothing wrong.” Her lip wobbled as her eyes filled with aqua tears. “Simply memories.”

  “Did I say something?”

  “No, it is nothing you did.” She owed him an explanation for her queer behavior. Her voice broke as she said, “It is simply that—that—that so many t-t-t-times Father and I—we worked on—on …” She hid her face in her hands.

  Understanding immediately, he put his arm around her quivering shoulders and brought her against him. Her face pressed to his doublet as she sobbed out the sorrow which never lessened. Murmuring useless, trite phrases, he steered her to the windowseat. He sat next to her and drew her close again.

  “Sybill, don’t cry. It won’t change anything.”

  “Forgive me,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I cannot reconcile myself to Father being gone. He was always so full of life. He never gave me any sign there was anything wrong. It seems impossible he could be dead.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” she asked sharply. Her pain honed the edge of her voice. “You hate my father. You have made that clear. I don’t care what you think about Alfred Hampton. He was a wonderful father.”

  He smiled softly as he pushed a tear-dampened lock of hair from her cheek. “I can’t hate a man who has a daughter like you, Sybill. I admit the tales of his lifestyle are hardly laudable.”

  “Tales? What tales? You always allude to some dark, horrible secret, but you never explain. What do you know about Father that I, who lived in his house, do not know?”