Sybille's Lord

by Raven McAllan

  “In a lady’s bedchamber?” Try as he assumed she might to keep her face straight, her lips twitched.

  “Ah well,” he sighed theatrically. “Shall I go downstairs and find a decanter?”

  “Noooo.” Her voice was squeaky. “You can’t do that. Wait one moment. Men.” She shook her head, and got up again.

  Her jack in the box activity was making him dizzy.

  “Can’t cope without a glass in their hand.” She went on, as she walked to the window and lifted the cushions that padded the wooden bench below the casement. “I wonder how the country doesn’t go to rack and ruin.” There was no malice in her words and Thom stifled a laugh. For some reason she seemed to be determined to get a rise from him. She’d got that all right, but probably not the rise she expected. His pego had risen and was demanding to be noticed. Thom lifted his legs. It was not about to get what it wanted. Her derriere faced him, perfectly outlined by the thin layers of silk, which caressed it. His hands itched to aid the material with its efforts.

  “I can easily manage without a glass.”

  “Just as well. Aha.” Sybille straightened up, impatiently pushed the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her plait behind her ears, and waved a dusty bottle in the air. “Dare gave this to me to hide, and I presume he forgot about it. His loss, our gain. Well yours, I’ve never acquired the taste.”

  She stood up and handed the bottle to Thom. He dusted the bottle, and searched in vain for a label. “Smuggled?”

  “Probably. He didn’t say.”

  Thom nodded as he pulled out the cork with his teeth. “Go on with your story. Oh and bring me your tooth mug.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t need a glass. Anyway it holds my toothbrush.”

  “Sybille.” His voice was silky smooth, as he held onto his temper by the finest of threads. “Are you deliberately trying to goad me? Because, believe me you are succeeding. Take out your toothbrush. Rinse the mug if needed, bring it back and hand it to me. Sit down again. And shut up.”

  She opened her mouth several times, but didn’t utter a word. Perhaps his state of mind got through to her, as eventually she nodded and walked into her bathing chamber without speaking. Within seconds she returned and held the pottery mug out to him.

  He admired the elegant lines. “Jones, Watt, Doulton?”

  “Yes why?”

  “No reason. I like Doulton’s work.” Thom poured a generous measure of brandy into the glass and held it to her. She took it without comment and stared at the contents as if were poison.

  “I told you I don’t like brandy.”

  “A pity.” He clinked the bottle on the side of her mug. “Your health?”

  “Pardon?”

  Your health.” Thom indicated her drink and took a generous swallow from the bottle. The warm oaky liquid slid down his throat, like a welcome friend. Still she hadn’t moved. With an exasperated sigh, Thom put down the bottle, and moved closer to Sybille.

  She looked up at him and took a step backward. He watched fascinated as the tiny pulse in her neck beat over fast. This close he could smell the rose scent he‘d noticed in the bathing chamber, and see tiny violet flecks in her blue eyes. Her eyelashes were improbably dark, given her blonde hair, and he gave a passing thought to the notion he wanted to see what color the rest of her hair was.

  Later.

  Thom touched the bottom of her glass with his finger and tilted it until the contents coated her lips. She licked the droplets before they spilled down her chin, and coughed.

  ”Disgusting.”

  “Get to like it, it will be our drink of choice.”

  Chapter Seven

  The brandy stung her throat and made her splutter. “It’s vile.”

  “No it’s not, it’s new. You’ll get used to it. Sip it. Treat it like you would a lover. Let it caress you, warm you.”

  His voice dropped an octave. It sent shivers and tingles through her.

  “Welcome it, embrace it. Love it. Like this.” He drank from the bottle, removed it from his lips and licked them slowly. “Let it kiss you.”

  Was it possible to want more, just from listening to his voice and watching his actions? Sybille wasn’t sure exactly what more she meant, but those pamphlets had hinted. Dare she?

  “I have no lover.”

  “You could have and I don’t mean the brandy.” He moved back to the edge of the bed and sat down again. This time he stretched his legs out in front of him. Once more she saw the interesting bulge in his pantaloons. Was it immoral to itch to discover it, to sculpt its shape with her fingers and commit it to memory, to ponder over later?

  Probably, more’s the pity.

  “You?” She circled her lips with her tongue, deliberately mimicking his earlier action. Her heart beat faster as she waited for his answer.

  He regarded her steadily. “If you become my wife.”

  Damn. “I thought that would make you my husband, not my lover.” She put the brandy to her lips, and let the merest dribble coat her tongue. Like that, it was pleasant. She did it again.

  “The two can be synonymous.”

  “If you say so. However.” She noticed how closely he watched her face, and circled her lips with the tip of her tongue again. Did Thom groan? “Did you say something, my lord?”

  “No, and stop calling me ‘my lord’. You’ve called me Thom before, carry on for God’s sake.” He moved uneasily. “And then tell me about the bloody pearls.”

  She’d forgotten the pearls. How could she when it was the very reason he was here, in her room, in the middle of the night? A scandal waiting to happen.

  “Ah, the pearls.” Sybille sighed. “Well, to go back a few months, I noticed Maman had stopped wearing them.”

  Thom nodded.

  “Of course I asked her why, and she said the string had broken, and she had sent them to Rundle and Bridge to be rethreaded.”

  “That would seem feasible, except then Rundle and Bridge would know they were fake.”

  “I know that, and so I worried. I, oh goodness, this makes me sound so bad.” Sybille put her hands to her heated cheeks and wished she had water to cool them down. Somehow she didn’t think splashing brandy over them would have the same effect. “I feigned illness one evening and searched the jewelry drawers. Of course there were no pearls. So then I worried that maybe Maman didn’t know they were fake, and she had sent them off.” Sybille tried her brandy once more. It was true you did get used to it. In fact, she decided, it was rather pleasant.

  “I doubt that.”

  “Oh so do I. Once I thought about it, I remembered oh, several years earlier when the string went missing, again we were told, it was for them to be restrung. When it came back, I was sure something was different about them. I asked and was told it was because they’d been restrung. But Maman didn’t wear them for several months. Now I think it was so no one would remember them precisely as they had been. I think that was when they were exchanged.”

  “Very probably. So?”

  “So, then that swine Bankfoot approached me one night, with a heinous proposition. He said he had Maman’s pearls and if I wanted them back, I’d…” she shuddered. “Play dice. I swear he cheated. Then when I lost he reneged on our bet, a kiss.” She shuddered. “That would have been bad enough, but I planned to bite him at the same time and blame my innocence. However he changed his tune. Said the pearls were worth more, and if I wanted them back, I’d give myself to him.”

  “What?” Thom’s shout stirred the drapes.

  “Shh!” Sybille looked toward the door.

  “Lud, sorry but this is beyond heinous.” He lowered his voice once more. “The cad.”

  “Cad is mild.”

  “I was trying to protect your young and innocent ears.”

  “Not so innocent after Bankfoot’s suggestions. He gave me until the end of the month to decide what to sacrifice. Me, or my family’s reputation.” Sybille took a larger mouthful of brandy. “It will have to be me.�
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  “Over my dead body,” Thom said grimly. “What makes you so sure he has the pearls?”

  “He said so.”

  “If I said I had the crown jewels because they’ve not been seen for a while, would you believe me?”

  “Of course not, that’s different.” She took another hefty mouthful of brandy, and considered his body. “Nice legs. You fill your pantaloons to perfection. Bankfoot doesn’t. He stuffs them.”

  “Does he now? I wonder how you know that?”

  His valet is my maid’s second cousin three times removed. Or something. He hates him.”

  “Sensible chap. Stop changing the subject. There is no difference at all between my saying I have Prinny’s jewels and Bankfoot stating he has the pearls. However we need to ascertain if he does have them. We will speak to your parents tomorrow.”

  “We can’t. I can’t tell them what I did.”

  True. “I’ll think of something.”

  “You are my hero.” She crossed her eyes to see him better. He was somewhat blurry. “Can a hero be a lover? Or anything else? You know, this does get nicer by the sip.”

  “What?” Two Thoms stared back at her.

  Why did her mind flit from one subject to another like a butterfly on the rose bushes in the garden? It was impossible to concentrate. “The brandy.” She waved her tooth mug. “Why are there two mugs?” Sybille squinted. “And three of you?” If he continued to multiply she’d be in serious trouble. One Thom was enough for any woman.

  “Brandy on an empty stomach makes you bosky. When did you last eat?”

  She considered. “I had a nibble at Almack’s.”

  “Stale cakes do not count. I should have known better.” Thom tried to take hold of her glass. She clutched it to her bosom.

  “Smine. You’ve got the bo…” Sybille hiccupped. “Bo bonnotpal.”

  Thom sighed. “So I have, and you’re going to have a thick head.”

  Sybille grinned. She liked the floaty feeling she experienced. “Got one already Bnankfnut said I had one. Cos he said I had to, to pay my debts. And I said no. Not yet. Afrall, he started it. And he wouldn’t show me the pearls. Do…” Sybille closed her eyes and slumped to one side. “Do…”

  “Do I what?” Thom crouched down next to her. “Sybille, answer me.” He shook her and she moaned.

  “G’way. I’m dreaming. He’s here an…”

  “Sybille. Do I what? Who is here?”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him, myopically. “You are. S’nice. Wanna…”

  She grabbed his lapels, closed her eyes again, and sighed. “S’mine.”

  ****

  Thom considered his position. Compromising was an understatement. Sybille’s grip was like a vise, and it was evident she had no intention of letting go of him. He couldn’t wriggle out of his jacket, but nor could they stay as they were. Apart from anything else his muscles were beginning to protest at the unnatural angle they were forced to endure.

  “Sybille.” He went for a coaxing tone. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”

  She snored. A soft little woofle noise that reminded him of a slumbering child. “Sybille, my sweet, I need you.” Would the endearment and the enticement work? “Let’s go to bed.”

  Heaven help him, this was agony. There was nothing he’d like more.

  She leaned into him and sighed. Thom inched back from the chair, still with her attached like a crab. Luckily she let Thom pull her with him, until he managed to move upward onto his feet and lift her into his arms.

  What now? Thom walked carefully to the bed and pondered his next move. There was no contest. He moved his arms and let go of her.

  Of course it was too much to hope she’d let go of his jacket.

  She bounced on the mattress. He followed her downward and missed her by inches.

  Now what?

  Thom considered their position. There was only one thing he could do, and no doubt there would be hell to pay.

  Chapter Eight

  Why was the band of the Life Guards playing in the Square? So early as well. Shouldn’t they be at Horse Guards Parade? Parading or some such thing?

  Sybille moved her head, opened half an eye and moaned. Someone, she suspected Maybelle, who thought anyone who wasn’t up by ten was a slug-a-bed, had opened the shutters wide enough to lift the darkness to a gloomy half-light. She squinted at the clock on her mantle and groaned. The face wavered and settled. Not only was the hour hand past twelve, but the drums got louder.

  What on earth? Why did her mouth feel like she was six years old, back in Devon and eating dirt? Very cautiously she propped herself up on one elbow, and stopped dead. What was she holding in her other hand? It was an effort to move her head slowly enough not to set the room spinning, but she was proud of her achievement. Sybille wriggled up the bed to rest back on her pillows.

  She was less happy when she unfurled her fingers and looked at what she held.

  A jacket.

  A very handsome dark, midnight blue jacket, made, she thought, by Shultz. Sybille stroked the soft, fine wool. Expensive and, she’d hazard a bet, one a gentleman had to have help to get in and out of. Shultz’s clothes were renowned for their perfect fit.

  Dare used the same tailor. It certainly wasn’t Dare’s jacket though. Dare was slimmer, this was made for a more…she searched her mind for a description, and ended pathetically with less slim. She would have sniggered if she didn’t think it might hurt her head. Vaguely amused by her actions, Sybille lifted the jacket to her face and inhaled the scents of lavender and spice. Alarm bells rang.

  All amusing thoughts left her. Dangling from one buttonhole was a gold fob watch. With a crest engraved on the back. One she recognized.

  Oh lord. What have I done?

  Gradually, the incidents of the night before—or should that be, the early hours—came back to her. A relaxing bath, dressing in her nightrail and robe.

  Good grief, I undressed. Thom in her room, brandy…Sybille ran her tongue over her cracked lips and was convinced she could still taste the oaky-ness. Thom in my room and brandy? Did I tell him?

  She leaned back to consider her predicament and winced. There was a hard lump under her right elbow.

  Sybille pushed her hand under the pillow and withdrew a bottle. A very empty bottle.

  Brandy.

  There was a tap on her door, and Maybelle came in. Sybille thrust the jacket and the bottle under her bedclothes. It would be the scandal of the century if they were noticed. She mentally chastised herself. Of course it wouldn’t because Maybelle was loyal to a fault and wouldn’t tell anyone. But it might well make Sybille fall from her maid’s grace and she didn’t want that. The bottle was cold and the wool warm against her legs. In her wriggle upwards she’d also ruched up her nightrail so it was creased and bundled around her waist. Somehow the jacket covering her skin seemed more wanton than anything she could remember about the previous night’s activities. The bottle she tried to ignore. It conjured up memories she didn’t want to recollect.

  “Ah, you’re awake. I didn’t like to waken you earlier. My Lady said to let you sleep. Are you ready for your bathing water?” Maybelle opened the shutters wide, chattering as she did so.

  Sybille closed her eyes and let the noise wash over her. Was it permissible to say to your old and trusted maid, who you loved, to shut up, go away and let a person die in peace?

  “It is a beautiful morning, and as well as your water, I’ve some toast and chocolate outside, and My Lord Jeavons will call for you in an hour to…” Maybelle continued. She got no further.

  “What?” Sybille opened her eyes and stared at Maybelle’s retreating back. “In an hour? What for?” She pushed the jacket to the bottom of the bed with her hand and then her feet and made a mental note to retrieve it as soon as Maybelle left. By the time Maybelle came back in with a tray, she had her robe over her nightrail and had moved to the table set in front of the window. The light was bright, but as her headach
e was now down to the level of someone walking over her skull and not dancing, she guessed her brandy-induced hangover was receding.

  “There now, you eat this and I’ll get your water ready. His Lordship said it was a drive out. Your green pelisse and the hat with the feather trim? Perfect for a drive and it suits you so nicely.”

  “Yes.” Sybille’s head reeled at the onslaught of information. “But help, if I only have an hour I’d best get moving.” Sybille crammed toast into her mouth and washed it down with chocolate. The taste made her feel nauseous. “Maybelle, I have a tickly throat, could I have some water please?”

  “If you’ve a nasty summer cold coming on I’ll bring you a powder.”

  Sybille smiled and nodded. One of Maybelle’s powders was the last thing she wanted, but if it staved off suspicion she’d take it. “And water. Then we’d better hurry. It wouldn’t do to keep his lordship waiting.”

  “Bless you, he’ll wait,” Maybelle said as she poured water into a goblet. “It does a man good to know the world doesn’t revolve around him.”

  “In the world of the ton, it usually does,” Sybille said dryly.

  ****

  Whatever Maybelle’s ideas on the importance of men were, she still helped Sybille to descend the stairs within five minutes of Thom being announced.

  Thom looked up as Sybille reached the top of the staircase and smiled.

  “Well worth waiting for.”

  “I came almost as soon as I was told you had arrived,” Sybille said, pleased at his comment. She might say she dressed for her own pleasure, no one else, but it would be a lie. To hear him voice his appreciation was a fillip for all her attention to detail.

  He laughed. “The operative word being almost, I presume. Designed to put me in my place?”

  Sybille opened her eyes wide. “Do you need to be, my lord?”

  “Who knows?” He nodded to the doorman and took her arm to assist her down the steps and onto his curricle. “Perhaps you’ll tell me?”

  “Do not fish, my lord.” She waggled her finger at him and he laughed.

  Once more his own personal scent surrounded her and made her tingle deep inside. It was lovely. What an insipid description for something so beautiful. When she had time, she really did need to work out what that feeling meant.