Edgar’s coarse exclamation brought her back to the present. “Gad’s teeth, she’s set upon him! That’s the second one!”
Sybil raised her hand to prevent Hetty rushing from the cluster of comfortable seats around the fire to the scene of action at the far end of the room where the men were gathered, while Araminta said testily, “I can’t imagine why you allowed such a distasteful charade to be played out in the drawing room, Mama.”
Sybil was glad Lady Julia had left pleading a megrim for she was now able to agree, mildly, “Yes, it is quite a charade, Araminta,” not looking at her daughter as she continued with her needlework. “It is not, however, the most outrageous charade being conducted under this roof, I’d like to point out. Look at you and Edgar.”
She raised her head at Araminta’s gasp of outrage.
“Come now, Araminta, you know very well you felt nothing for that cousin of yours, yet you persisted, despite the pain you knew it would bring you both in the future, not to mention the pain suffered by your sister.” She arched an eyebrow, adding with quiet directness, “Why?”
Araminta’s color had grown very high. Her bosom heaved. “How dare you, Mama?” she said under her breath.
Sybil returned her attention to her sewing, aware that Hetty was staring at her, open-mouthed.
“I haven’t dared terribly much over the years,” she admitted. Lord, she thought, she’d been the most undaring, undemanding of wives. What an easy time of it Humphry had had. “I’ve simply allowed things to happen because I thought I had no choice in the matter. I’ve always considered myself the rather ineffectual wife of a rich and influential man; that as a woman I have no say in how my life is directed.”
Araminta and Hetty were looking intently at her. It was rare she had their complete attention. She was not about to squander her opportunity.
“As women it is true we have little influence.” She paused significantly as she locked eyes with them. “But where we are in a position to exercise our rights to do right, it is our duty.”
Araminta leapt in self-righteously. “It was duty that directed me to engage Edgar’s affections. I did it purely for the good of the family.”
“You did it with no thought for the sensibilities of anyone else other than yourself, Araminta. You did it for your own power and ambition.” Sybil’s tone gentled. Araminta was young. She had no idea of the pain she was inflicting but if a few words of caution could redirect her she might in fact find happiness and in doing so leave the way clear for her sister to do the same. “All I’m asking is that you be true to yourself.”
Araminta glared and her nostrils flared. She looked as if she were about to rise out of her chair through an excess of outrage. “Mama. I was prepared to sacrifice everything—my own happiness included—for the sake of this family!”
Sybil held up her hand. “For this family’s sake? Or for your sake? Because of the glory and power you thought it might bring you in years to come? Your motives might have started out well enough but you ignored your heart, Araminta, and you persisted in making Edgar fall in love with you, despite your scorn for him, despite knowing it was going to break your sister’s heart and despite the fact that you harbored feelings for Stephen.”
Araminta’s breathing had become very rapid. Her eyes were like pinpricks of malice. Sybil thought she’d never been as hated in that moment and yet she felt no regret at having spoken so frankly.
Hetty looked distinctly shaken. And tongue-tied.
After a quick glance at the men, busy settling their wager, Araminta leaned forward. “What about you, Mama?” she hissed. “If you believe everything you’ve just said, what does that make you? You don’t love Papa. He certainly doesn’t love you! Yet you live under his roof and spend his money and entertain him and his friends with...cloying civility.” She looked on the verge of tears. “Now you’re to have a baby. You hate Papa! Yet you call me names and accuse me of hooking my claws into a man I don’t love just because it suits me. I think you’ve some hide, accusing me of behaving exactly as you have yourself. You order me to be true to myself. When were you ever true to yourself?”
Sybil stiffened. She hadn’t expected Araminta capable of a defense that would hit home like that but before she could defend herself—if indeed that were even possible— Humphry and Stephen stood before them, their expansive beams proclaiming the fact they’d enjoyed the past half an hour a great deal more than the ladies.
“Sir Archie and young Barston are feeling a little the worse for wear,” Humphry reported under his breath, with a sideways glance at the two men approaching them; as it turned out, to offer their excuses and retire to bed.
Edgar remained staring gloomily at the jars on the table. For the first time Sybil felt a small stab of compassion for the young man. It was not his fault he was stupid, or perhaps even cowardly. He was just a very young man who had not had the advantage of a good example, as evidenced by his dissolute mama and papa. Araminta would have been a disastrous match but if Hetty believed she could make something of him and be happy in the process, Sybil would never stand in the way, and she doubted Humphry would either.
* * * * *
“Victory, my boy!”
Stephen nearly lost his balance, so fiercely did Lord Partington clap him on the shoulder.
“You might be leaving the Grange tomorrow without the grand expectations you harbored when you arrived—and for that there’s none sorrier than I—but at least you leave a thousand pounds richer with a promise from me to put in a good word for you in the Foreign Office.”
Stephen managed to return his smile. There was some small consolation in what His Lordship said but his heart was suddenly as heavy as a stone at the reminder that tomorrow signified a break with all he held dear.
“I’m grateful to you, my lord,” he said, flicking his tongue over dry lips. He’d not drunk much but he was consumed by a sudden desperate desire for the comfort of his bed. Of course, the comfort of Sybil’s arms would be much more agreeable and he’d happily forgo the sleep he craved to enjoy that. He cleared his head of the scandalous thought as, smiling politely, he declined Lord Partington’s offer of another brandy.
A thousand pounds the richer. He felt very much poorer right now. And distinctly green-eyed as he darted a parting glance at his benefactor and wondered if Lord Partington was right now preparing to go to his wife to do his distasteful duty—if Sybil’s assessment of his attitude to conjugal relations was to be believed. God knew how any man could not think himself in alt when enjoying the delectable offerings of the lovely Sybil.
He was glad Lord Partington did not accompany him up the passage though he took his Lordship’s, “I’ll just have one more to fortify myself,” distinctly ill, with its apparent reference to bolstering himself for unwelcome bedroom duties.
In fact, Stephen was still seething when, from behind the curtains in the Long Gallery on his way to bed, Lady Julia suddenly appeared in the halo of light supplied by the candle sconce above her.
“If you’ve lost your way I believe you’ll find your husband’s chamber in that direction,” Stephen said, pointing back the way he’d come, not even hesitating as he passed her.
Of course, Lady Julia was not one to be so easily fobbed off.
“Why, you’re jealous, Stephen!” she crowed, stepping in front of him, arresting his progress with both hands, palm outward, slithering over his shoulders.
Grasping her wrists, he put her away from him and continued walking. She hurried after him and gripped his sleeve, forcing him to halt.
“Stephen, my husband doesn’t know anything. Not about us, at any rate.” Her catlike eyes danced with as much confidence as ever.
“About us?” Stephen invested the phrase with derision as he quirked his eyebrows.
“About the fun we had.” There she was, back in front of him, rubbing her body suggestively against his and although Stephen swallowed past the lump in his throat there was—thank God—no answering lump growin
g in his breeches.
“Go to bed, Lady Julia,” he said, and this time she could not mistake the coldness in his tone or the revulsion in his eye.
She dropped her hands and took a step back, nevertheless still blocking his path, her glare combative. “You’re a coward. You’re afraid of Sir Archie, aren’t you?” she taunted in an undertone. “Suddenly you have no position in life while my husband has everything and you’re jealous.”
Stephen gave a short, strangled laugh. “Jealous? Of your husband?” And there was such scorn in his tone it was little wonder Lady Julia stamped her foot and tossed her head.
He stepped past her, but to his surprise and chagrin she followed him for her parting shot.
“So you want it to end like this, do you? Well, perhaps you’ll be more interested in eight months’ time when the twins are joined in the nursery by their far more handsome sibling who won’t have Sir Archie’s weak chin and sloping shoulders.”
For only a second did Stephen hesitate. Outrage at her insinuation—and his own stupidity at following her into that closet a month ago—made him say over his shoulder, “If your husband is so distasteful, I suggest you cast your wiles at someone more receptive than myself. Like Barston, or that easily led dandiprat young Edgar, who’s still on leading strings. I saw him wandering about in the moonlight looking very forlorn. Or is he not of interest since I doubt he’d show you the sport you’re after?”
Without a backward glance he strode angrily on, almost glad he didn’t have time to dwell on her words, for he was arrested by a hiccupping sound at the far end of the Long Gallery. It came from behind the curtain and Stephen, fueled by the most powerful burst of exultation and desire, pulled it aside, expecting to see Sybil seated on the cushioned window ledge.
Instead Hetty raised her red-rimmed eyes to him.
The tragedy in her doe-brown eyes found their mark.
“Hetty, what is it?” he asked, sitting down beside her and not minding a bit when she rested her head against his shoulder and began a fresh burst of quiet sobbing. He stroked her hair and thought how much she reminded him of her mother, which led to another terrible longing for Sybil, whose room was not too far from here.
“Is it Edgar?” he tried again.
She nodded, raising her head, the bleakness in her eyes an echo of what he felt. “I know I’m young and that heartbreak is something I’ll have to get used to—especially since I don’t have Araminta’s looks.” Her nose was streaming and her face was blotchy.
Stephen handed her a handkerchief. “Hush,” he said, pressing a finger to her lips. “This is not about Araminta. And the fault is definitely not yours. Edgar’s the one who’s allowed his head to be turned by Araminta’s flattery. As you for, Hetty, you’ll be as lovely as your mama someday. I’d guarantee it.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
He smiled at the hope in her voice. “You have wonderful, thick hair, which ripples down your back when it’s loose. Every man loves to run his fingers through that kind of hair.”
She did not seem to take into account the slightly less gentlemanly allusions inherent in the remark. “But Araminta’s is so fine a color and much shinier.”
“And very attractive, no doubt, to a gentleman who likes artifice. You, on the other hand, Hetty, are wonderfully natural.”
“And gauche. Araminta tells me I’m terribly gauche and I’m just lucky I have a decent dowry, else no one would look at me twice.”
“Sisters are not known for being terribly kind or bolstering, I’m told. And it’s true that foolish young men can easily have their heads turned by especially confident young ladies who cast them a lure.” He patted her shoulder. “But fortunately a lot of young men grow up and realize that what is real is what is important. That people like you and your mother are far more desirable for the fact that there is no artifice and that they offer their affections freely and from the heart.”
“I’ve offered Edgar my affections freely and from the heart but he doesn’t want them.” Hetty spoke sadly. “He only wants Araminta, who now doesn’t want him because he mightn’t be heir after Mama has her baby.”
“That’s Edgar’s loss, then.” Stephen smiled. “Remember, Hetty, you haven’t even had your first season. You’ll meet lots of far more agreeable gentlemen than your cousin Edgar.”
Hetty exhaled on another heartfelt sigh. “But I love Edgar.”
“Then tell him.”
“He knows it.”
“Does he?”
Hetty’s eyes widened. “He’d have to be stupid if he didn’t.”
Stephen chose not to address this. Instead, he suggested, “Why not take Edgar aside and tell him, very clearly and precisely, what you feel?”
Hetty’s mouth trembled. “Do you think it might make a difference?”
“It certainly couldn’t hurt.” Stephen patted her knee. “And now it’s time for my bed,” he said, rising. “At least if you talk to Edgar you’ll know you’ve done everything you could.”
Chapter Thirteen
This was worse than her wedding night.
Sybil, frozen beneath the counterpane, lay terrified as she anticipated the quiet opening of the door and the soft tread of slippered feet across the carpet. Ironic that for ten years she’d lain tense and hoping for just this. Now, with Humphry’s visit inevitable in view of their previous encounter, she felt physically ill.
What choice had she but to submit? She was his wife. His wife of twenty years, the mother of four of his children, the only legitimate means by which he could sire an heir.
The wind sighed in the trees, a thin thread of sound. Sybil forced herself to relax. She’d been listening so intently for Humphry she was conscious of the faintest rustle.
It was a clear, still night, the moonlight almost blinding as it thrust through the chink in the curtains.
Dear Lord, give me the fortitude to bear what I must, she prayed silently.
She wondered if her actions these past few days constituted the kind of sinning that would be viewed with opprobrium when she had to account for herself at the Pearly Gates. The fact she’d committed adultery—even if she’d done it for the purest motives, initially, anyway—might not just be regarded in the same light as she viewed it, she realized.
A creaking floorboard. Her body tensed. Her breath caught in her throat and she licked her cracked lips and ran her hands down her body, stiff as a board beneath the sheets. Humphry had enough difficulty summoning sufficient desire to spill his seed in her when she was soft and encouraging and aching with the desire to please him. How would he manage now when he encountered such frigidity, for her every nerve ending recoiled at the mere thought of his touch?
“Are you awake, my dear?” His voice, soft but not imbued with the honeyed suggestion that he was here on a lover’s errand, punctuated the darkness.
“Yes, Humphry.”
So businesslike. She tried to imagine Stephen addressing her like that and could not. Stephen was the lover consummate. Tender, thoughtful, kind and oh, so eager.
Carefully, she breathed past the pain in her chest as she moved into the center of the bed, giving Humphry room to sit on the side. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as, wordlessly, he began untying his banyan. His heavy breathing indicated it had required great exertion to make it to this point.
“No megrim tonight? Lord, Sybil, but it’s come to a pretty pass when you have to tell lies to deflect our headstrong daughter from marrying that dandiprat in such haste.” He grunted as he tossed his banyan aside. “Prodded me into action, though, didn’t it, wot?”
She was unable to share his amusement, instead saying drily, “I’m sorry you find it such a chore, Humphry.”
To her surprise, he chortled and reached out blindly into the darkness to touch her cheek. His stubby forefinger jabbed her eye and she gave a surprised cry of pain.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to start out so ham-fisted.” This was followed by another great sigh and then, “
Well, needs must...”
In the darkness his hand grasped her shoulder, clumsily heading south before gripping her breast. She squealed.
“Come, Sybil, let’s get this over with, shall we? You clearly relish the idea as much as I do.”
Sybil’s mouth dropped open. Had he really said that? With such sarcasm? Her reasonable though far-from-in-love-with-her husband? She couldn’t believe it. Scrambling away from him, she jerked upright in the bed.
He must have realized his error for he said almost sheepishly, “Didn’t mean to sound so ungrateful, Syb. I know you dislike the idea as much as I do but as it was your idea—”
“This was not my idea!” She slithered away from his creeping hands. “No, Humphry, you mistake me. Granted, I agreed an heir was required,” she gasped. “For your sake, Humphry. For the future of this family. So Araminta wouldn’t waste herself. So Hetty might be happy. So you might go to your eternal rest with the comfort of knowing you leave the estate in better hands than Edgar’s.”
She squeezed her eyes shut at the sound of Humphry’s heavy breathing. The smell of him was too intimate. She wasn’t used to it. She was used to bergamot and horses. Of gentle caresses that whipped her body into steadily escalating eddies of desire. Humphry’s stolid determination to “do the deed” seemed wrong and...foul.
She felt rather than saw him digest this. He ran a hand across his forehead. Then let out another gusty sigh.
Quietly, he said, “We are bound by our contract. Our forebears demand it, our descendants will thank us for it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, stop speaking such piffle!” Angrily, Sybil rose up against the headboard. “You hate the idea as much as I do. You were more than happy to see Stephen inherit if it let you off the hook. It’s only because you detest Edgar that you’ve been prompted to come here.” She heaved in a breath, making very sure he was well out of arm’s distance. “Only a week ago you all but suggested you’d be more than happy if I attended to the business without your participation, for who’d be the wiser?”
Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin Book 1) Page 15