Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin Book 1)

by Beverley Oakley

  “I did not.” There was a whining quality to his defense before he added, “Anyway, you were hardly about to come up with a solution...so here I am.”

  “No, Humphry! I cannot do it!” She could feel the rising hysteria and tried to rein in her emotion. Humphry did not take kindly to emotional women. He abhorred it when she wept.

  Trembling, she said softly, “For twenty years you’ve condemned me to an emotional wasteland. Then you all but thrust me into the forefront of finding a solution to our problem. Well, what if I did?” She drew a shaky breath. “What if I’ve taken a lover and so can’t abide the idea of being touched by you, in exactly the same way you abhor the idea of touching me because you are, and always have been, in love with Lizzy Hazlett?”

  The silence was telling. She felt him pulling himself upright, the exertion making him wheeze. “What are you saying?” His voice was quiet. Warning.

  She could not back down now. “I’m saying I cannot do this. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.” She was close to tears, thoughts of Stephen’s wickedly loving smile warming her from the depths of her being. “I want you to go. Please. Leave me.”

  She felt the mattress relinquish his weight, heard the outrage in his tone as he said, “I’ll need an explanation in the morning, Sybil.”

  “You’ll get one, Humphry. You’ll hear everything you need to hear, and more. Just know that tonight I cannot bring myself to do what you would have me do. I’m sorry I’m not Lizzy and I’m sorry you made the mistake of listening to your parents twenty years ago, but that is not my fault and I do not believe I should spend my entire life suffering for your lack of forcefulness.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  He went. Without another word he retied his banyan, slipped his feet back into his slippers and departed.

  The click of the door as it closed was the most welcome sound she’d ever heard.

  But then followed the agonizing aftermath. How could she explain without compromising Stephen? How could she make her feelings known in a way that Humphry would respect so she’d not be subjected to a repeat of this ghastly episode?

  Or was she so addle-headed she didn’t understand that the moment Stephen left the Grange, she’d soon revert to her obedient, long-suffering persona and pliantly, albeit with heavy heart, submit to the fate of all women of her station whose marriages were based solely on their requirement to procreate?

  Anguished, she rose to tug close the curtain, which emitted the blinding moonlight, knowing she’d never sleep, even in complete darkness.

  Her fingers gripped the fabric and she closed her eyes, her shoulders sagging. Could Humphry cast her off for this? If not for her adultery then for her refusal to submit to his desire for conjugal rights?

  What did it matter? Her heart ached for Stephen. Oh, to revel in the beat of his bold, youthful heart against her cheek. To be the recipient of his energy, enthusiasm, humor and kindness. He made her feel loved. Respected. Appreciated.

  When she opened her eyes her world was still a haze of misery before her adjusting gaze but then she realized she was staring straight at a tall, youthful form striding out across the lawns. Her body jerked to attention, suddenly alive.

  Stephen was heading toward the lake. She could see its glistening waters just beyond the beech forest.

  Excitement tugged at her. She’d never behaved rashly. She knew she shouldn’t go after him. Not because she feared his response to a foolish old woman flaunting her heart on her sleeve as she chased at his heels.

  There was no doubt in her mind, now, about Stephen’s feelings. He certainly didn’t think that about her.

  It was the vague fear that Humphry, glancing from his bedroom window, might happen to observe Sybil in her nightgown, trailing her lover across the gardens, and so implicate Stephen.

  But Humphry was drink-addled. She could afford to risk it. Snatching her shawl and nearly bursting from excitement and fear, not even bothering to find her slippers, Sybil left the sanctuary of her bedroom and embraced the frightening unknown of the lovers’ dark night.

  She found him when he was deep within the beech forest. He could have taken several paths and Sybil was lucky she chose the right one. For otherwise she might never again have felt his sweet breath upon her cheek followed by the passion of his kiss after he pulled her against him.

  Wordlessly, he cupped the back of her head as he plundered her mouth, his ferocity leaving Sybil in no doubt as to the depth of his desire for her.

  She’d wanted to go to him and seek the comfort of his arms, but the force of his passion quickly elevated her beyond the need for simple comfort.

  “Humphry came. I couldn’t do it. The boathouse is just through the trees,” she gasped between kisses; and still clinging to one another with the passion swirling between them, they stumbled the final few yards, knocking against the beams and posts before tumbling into the curved bow of the boat.

  Bergamot and horses. Essence to imbue her with strength and feed her courage to defy what duty demanded of her in the long years ahead—the sublimation of her soul.

  The scrape of his soft cheek against hers represented his heady combination of youth and power. A young man thrusting defiantly from his cocoon into dangerous realms to claim his prize and to hell with the consequences.

  For Stephen must know, as Sybil knew, that their actions threatened their existence. Humphry had the power to destroy his wife’s reputation in casting her off and to hobble Stephen’s advancement. Stephen’s future depended upon him.

  On soft cushions, with limbs exposed to the hard wood and splinters of oars, benches and crossbeams, they thrashed in each other’s arms, each seeking the very last drop of sustenance from the other. It would be the last time. The last time they would make love and know that in one another’s embrace they could expose everything and be the richer for it.

  There was no time for gentle seduction. Preliminaries were cast aside in their need to take, to give. And for instant gratification. The piercing light of the moon gleamed on exposed flanks and breasts laid bare beneath fabric torn away in haste. A fine lawn garment was shredded so a heated, eager mouth could suckle at Sybil’s breast. Two pairs of hands fumbled to release Stephen from his breeches. In the still night, an owl hooted and the lovers breathed sighs of rapture as they were carried away by their passion.

  Nearby, the gentle waters lapped the side of the boathouse while the wind sighed in the trees, just as Sybil sighed in Stephen’s arms as he found her entrance, slick with wanting, and sheathed himself in her.

  Sighed with the heavenly rapture of being wanted.

  And with the painful, inescapable knowledge that reaching the pinnacle of her desires signaled the very end of them.

  * * * * *

  Crickets thrummed in the reeds and a night hawk called.

  “If your heart wasn’t so noisy the silence would be deafening,” Stephen joked softly.

  Despite herself, Sybil felt the corners of her mouth tug into a smile. A smile for

  Stephen’s attempt at levity in the bleak aftermath of such joy.

  Transitory joy, for before dawn she must drag herself from his arms and return to her gilded prison. Stephen would be a brief flame of happiness she’d forever treasure.

  “Did you hear that?” His breath tickled her ear. She smiled, thinking he referred to his own heart upon which he’d placed her hand. “Voices,” he whispered, tensing.

  She heard them too. A sensuous giggle, a faint hiccup. Female, though not one of her daughters, she noted with relief, relaxing until Edgar’s unmistakable braying cut the air.

  Sybil sat up, staring at Stephen, whose face reflected her own horror at discovery. “Climb in, Lady Julia,” Edgar drawled over the sound of the other boat being dragged from its mooring. “Round two in the rotunda, eh wot?”

  Lady Julia’s drunken giggle issued through the thin walls of the boathouse. “And three and four, my soon-to-be Lordship. You can impress me with your sausage anytime.” She
laughed coarsely and Stephen and Sybil exchanged horrified glances, relieved when the thump of limbs and oars suggested both thought Edgar’s idea a good one.

  “We must go.” It was Sybil who broke the silence with a strained whisper when they gathered that Lady Julia and Edgar had made it to the island. Stephen and Sybil dared not remain where they were.

  Stephen helped her to her feet, towering above her, before bending to drape her shawl about her shoulders, arranging it with tender care. Gently he ran his finger down the side of her face, kissing the path it made, lightly contouring her curves before pressing a final kiss to her collarbone.

  In the moonlight the sincerity of his expression clutched at her heart. “No one has ever been more important to me, Sybil.” His voice was taut with emotion. Full of longing.

  Like Sybil, who put her lips to his warm chest, breathing in the healthy, familiar scent of him. “And no one has ever been as loved as you, Stephen.”

  He helped her out of the boat, holding her hand, leading the way to the entrance. The sounds of grunting and squeals from the rotunda in the middle of the small island made it clear they were unlikely to be observed, so together they took the path that had brought them to the boathouse, silent as they navigated their way deeper into the forest until it was safe to speak.

  But they did not speak. Actions spoke for them. The trailing caress of Sybil’s shawl as it slithered coolly across her chest. Quickly followed by Stephen’s burning kisses as he went to his knees, his hands cupping her breasts as his warm mouth blazed a trail across her belly.

  With her back against the tree trunk, she fisted her hands in his hair as he pleasured her until she was teetering on the edge and moaning his name, begging to feel him inside her.

  One last time. One last time.

  Except it would never be the last time. She would remember and she would treasure this time, and all those others, forever. Again and again.

  Swiftly he rose to his feet, clasping her round her still slender waist to hoist her onto his rigid shaft, its hard, slippery length sliding into her depths while her breath left her in a gasp of pleasure and her heart thundered while her nipples and the whorls of hair at the back of her head seemed conduits of exquisite sensation.

  “Come, my darling, come!” he urged, between a croon and a gasp. “Come!”

  And in that earth-shattering second seemingly between self-destruction and ecstasy, they climaxed simultaneously, their cries of rapture calling to one another as they sank to the damp moss beneath the spreading beech.

  Sybil curled into his side and Stephen cocooned her in his warmth. She felt safe. Happy. Satisfied.

  For now...for a brief moment while she basked in the glory of their oneness. Gently she skimmed the palm of her hand across his belly.

  He broke the silence. “I love you, Sybil.”

  His words spread joy slowly through her veins, gently warming her from within. “I shall always love you, Stephen.”

  “And remember me? Always?”

  Pain seared her. She touched his lips, raised her head and saw that he shared her pain. “I shall carry you in my heart. Forever.”

  “Perhaps you’re carrying a piece of me...in your womb, right now.”

  She nodded slowly. “If I am, it’s not why I have loved you. Given you my body. It came with my heart, you know.”

  “I know.” He smiled, angling his body so he could reach her lips with his. Lingeringly, he kissed her.

  She gave a little sob, drew a breath and said more calmly, “Tomorrow we must say goodbye. Perhaps forever. You have given me more joy in these past few days than I’ve experienced in a lifetime.”

  He acknowledged this, his eyes dark and solemn as he added, “It may not be the last time, Sybil. I can’t leave you, believing it is.”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “You will go to your new life in

  London. Humphry has already shown his support for you. He’s made it clear you will benefit from his patronage. You are young, handsome. You will find love again. You will marry. I must accept that.”

  “No, Sybil. Not when I love you.”

  Sybil smiled. Suddenly he was the ardent young man, showing his immaturity. Or his kindness? “It is what happens. What will happen. It is the way of the world.”

  Through clenched teeth he muttered, “I would marry you, if I could.”

  How world-weary and old she felt when she said, still smiling, “But you cannot. We’ve had our moment. Do not feel guilty when time and distance has muted your memories of me and your heart is engaged by a candidate suitable in years, good nature and rank. I shall always think of you and I shall support your endeavors to the best of my ability— What was that?”

  Tensing, they listened. Silence. Then the sound came again. Beech leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, which carried something else: an intense keening, rising in crescendo.

  “Lady Julia’s love cry?” Stephen grinned but it was not convincing. There’d been something unsettling about the sound. Stephen stiffened, rising quickly as he helped Sybil to her feet. “Someone’s in trouble.” He brushed the leaves from her night rail then took her hand and together they retraced their footsteps toward the lake as the sound grew louder. A shrill cry. Piercing in its pain. It didn’t sound anything like Lady Julia.

  More like a wounded animal. Or a young girl, crying from fear and grief.

  They reached the edge of the lake, gilded with moonlight as it basked in the glow of the full moon.

  “Where is he? I can’t find him. Where is he?”

  Sybil reached her daughter first. “Hetty! What are you doing here? What’s happened?”

  Hetty was staring across the lake. Not at the rotunda where Sybil’s gaze immediately gravitated but at the dark waters between. Then she saw the hull of the rowing boat upturned in the inky depths, illuminated by the moonlight.

  Another shrill cry—not Hetty’s—punctuated the silence, broken by the hoot of an owl and the gentle lapping of the water against the shoreline.

  “Help me!”

  Lady Julia’s wail was drowned by Hetty’s more urgent, “Where is he?” as she stepped forward, up to her knees in water, still dressed in her evening clothes, her hair and eyes wild.

  Stephen had cast off his boots and was already striding in, pushing Hetty gently back toward her mother as he launched in, making for the boat.

  “Edgar’s in the water! Someone’s got to find him!”

  Sybil had to hold Hetty back from diving in after Stephen, soothing her as she noted her wildly shaking body. “He’ll find Edgar.”

  “Save me! I can’t swim!” came Lady Julia’s anguished cry as Stephen reached her.

  Yet there was no triumph in his delivery of her thrashing body back to shore before he turned back. Edgar was missing still.

  Sybil forced her attention to the water-logged young woman at her feet while Hetty kept vigil.

  Instead of comfort she could only mutter, “Quiet, Lady Julia! You are the one who’s been saved!”

  For in the next moment Stephen dragged Edgar’s body from the reeds and placed it, ominously still and pale, beside the thrashing, hysterical Lady Julia.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was Hetty’s sobbing that wakened the house. That and her cries for a stable boy to be roused to fetch Dr. Marsh.

  As if he would be able to do anything.

  “We can’t just leave him here!” Hetty had shrieked before Stephen had torn her away from her cousin’s prone body, half carrying both her and Lady Julia, soaked and now silent with shock, towards to the Grange.

  They’d done everything they could. They’d pounded his chest, Hetty had implored him as she’d shaken him, her hysteria rising, to wake up. But Edgar had gone. He was not coming back.

  They stumbled up the stairs of the portico, hammering on the heavy oak front door, which miraculously opened when Stephen pushed it.

  So much for security.

  A flickering candle carried by a
trembling housemaid was followed by a branch of candles brought by the butler, and then Humphry, his gray hair sticking out from his nightcap, eyes bleary with sleep. Araminta appeared like a wraith by his side, the two of them staring silent, uncomprehending, at the sodden, bedraggled troupe at the bottom of the stairs before Hetty broke away from Stephen, screaming, “Edgar’s by the lake. Fetch Dr. Marsh. He fell in and now he can’t breathe. He wasn’t under the water for long. Not so very long. Someone must summon Dr. Marsh.”

  It was Stephen who had the wits to soothe her while directing one of the servants to the stables. Thomas, the most trustworthy of the stable lads, was to be dispatched to fetch the doctor.

  It was Stephen, also, who pushed Hetty before him toward the study, saying, “We need brandy,” before ordering dry linen and hot drinks to be brought directly.

  “Why was everybody at the lake except me?” Araminta trailed after them, her tone suggesting affront at the implied insult to her rather than concern for Edgar, though she added as an afterthought, “I’m sure if he wasn’t under for long he’ll sleep it off. Dr. Marsh will do something for him. Edgar loves to gammon everyone.”

  Stephen pushed Hetty into a chair, saying to Araminta under his breath, “There’s nothing Dr. Marsh can do for Edgar. Now see your sister drinks this.”

  “Sybil...?” Humphry followed them into the room, removing his nightcap to rake his hands through his thinning hair.

  She turned, tensing for whatever was to come, glad to have Stephen in her sights, admiring his deft handling of the situation while reminding herself that neither through inference nor gesture must she incriminate him. She’d pay twofold for her crimes if it would protect Stephen. She had no idea how Humphry might react to the truth.

  “Yes, Humphry?” She did not look at him, distracted, she knew, absentmindedly covering the front of her torn nightdress with her shawl as she hovered over Hetty, who was still convulsing with sobs.