# Her Gilded Prison

## Daughters of Sin series (Book 1)

## Beverley Oakley

Copyright © 2018 by Beverley Oakley

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Eivind ~ great friend, husband and so much more.

# Contents

Author's Note

Her Gilded Prison

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Note from the Author

What Happens Next...?

Newsletter

Other books by Beverley Oakley

About the Author

Acknowledgments

# Author's Note

**Her Gilded Prison** is the first book in my intrigue-filled _Daughters of Sin_ Regency romance series. If you love your Regencies with a twist and spiced with scandal, I hope you'll enjoy this exciting family saga.

It features lovely, lonely, Lady Sybil and her two daughters: sweet, innocent Hetty, who is desperate to find the love of her life, and vain and spoiled Araminta, who is determined to marry well. At any cost!

There are five books in the series. The first three can be read as stand-alone stories, however, a central espionage plot—involving two handsome, dangerous gentlemen, and Hetty and Araminta's illegitimate half-sisters—an actress and a governess—runs through all five books.

Scandal, mystery, intrigue and passion are the order of the day! That, and a good dose of vengeance and betrayal with an uplifting happy ending for those who deserve it. Sounds like a Regency-set _Dynasty,_ doesn't it?

That's what I think, anyway, but here are some of the things Kindle Reviewers have to say about **Her Gilded Prison** :

> "The theme was so very clever and so novel."
> 
> "I was kept guessing most of the time and loved it."
> 
> "Oh my! What a great read. The characters were extraordinary and believable. I couldn't put it down."
> 
> "A well written, good read and not your usual Regency romance."
> 
> "An entertaining period romance with a twist."
> 
> "The storyline is almost insane...a great entertaining book."
> 
> **And, about the series:**
> 
> "The best written time pieces I've ever read."
> 
> "Exquisitely written so you'll feel transported to that era. Romance, evil dealings, scandals of all proportions, lies to name a few."
> 
> "...lies, misdeeds, treachery, and romance. What an impressive story! Ms. Oakley has a unique way of telling her stories, bringing unknown heroes/ heroines into the spotlight, as they navigate a world of espionage, and intrigue, all while trying to survive and find their HEA. Magnificent and mesmerizing!"
> 
> "Full of secrets, murders, intrigues and you feel you know the characters and want to strangle some of them, especially Araminta!!! I have since read all in the series and can't wait for Book 5... This is a series I will read again and again."

And, boy, it was a series I loved writing!

> **Below is the order of the books:**

  * _Her Gilded Prison (#1)_
  * _Dangerous Gentlemen (#2)_
  * _The Mysterious Governess (#3)_
  * _Beyond Rubies (#4)_
  * _Lady Unveiled:The Cuckold Conspiracy (#5)_

So please, relax and immerse yourself in the dash and glitter of the Regency era where wheeling and dealing behind fluttering ivory fans at balls and promenades ensures a most **_un_** predictable ending!

I hope you, too, enjoy the _Daughters of Sin_ series!

**_Beverley Oakley_**

# Her Gilded Prison
# Chapter 1

## Monkton ~ June 21

"He's launching in, for God's sake! Look at him!" The Earl of Barston's heir shifted on his knees, his breath hot on Stephen's arm as the three men gazed, rapt, at the amorous adventure playing out on the gossamer web before them.

Warmed by the drawing room fire that crackled merrily a few feet from them, Stephen watched with satisfaction the elaborate arachnid courtship ritual playing out before their eyes, just as he'd foretold.

His host, Sir Archie Ledger, laughed coarsely. "You say he knows his reward is death?"

Stephen nodded, pleased that his boyhood fascination had earned him so much positive attention when he'd simply been glad of a comfortable bed for the night. A friend had warned him against taking up Sir Archie's offer of hospitality but Stephen thought the young baronet a capital fellow.

Sir Archie darted a glance at his wife who sat calmly embroidering at the far end of the drawing room, and lowered his voice. "The Paphian jig of eternal damnation, eh? I reckon that's what I got," he muttered.

It was no secret Sir Archie had been pressured into marriage following an indiscretion with the lovely but sharp-tongued Miss Julia Preston.

Lady Julia—as she now liked to call herself—raised her head at the commotion, her voice cutting crisply into the schoolboy game Stephen was orchestrating. "I say, gentlemen, what's more interesting than paying some attention to the ladies? Mr. Cranborne, I want you to please take a seat by me and tell me all about your new benefactor."

Ignoring her, the three young men huddled closer, eyes still fixed on the spider's web just below the window. "Take cover, gentlemen, here she comes." Sir Archie's tone soured. "No, it's no good. She's found us. Story of my life. Fun's over."

Stephen, still on his knees like the rest of them, blinked to see first Lady Julia's well-turned ankle and then, as she bent down, her lovely face. As her lively green eyes locked with his he wondered at Sir Archie's discontent. She was a diamond of the first water.

"What is so fascinating, gentlemen?" Her intimate murmur sounded as if it were just for him. Her gaze was certainly focused on him as her mouth curved in a secret smile.

Stephen sucked in a breath and found he was quite unable to answer. Since he'd come back from war he was unused to mixing in such elite company, though he remembered frequenting houses like this when he was a boy before his mother's decline.

Just when he assumed she'd solicit her husband for information, she brushed his hand with hers, the smile that was just for him still in place.

Good God, he thought he'd imagined it before. Now, with Sir Archie still on his haunches to her right, reluctantly in the process of rising, Stephen was quite clearly being conveyed a secret message. Lady Julia admired him. He forced himself to breathe evenly as his groin hardened. He could not rise now, for God's sake. He must keep them watching at least a few seconds longer while he remained crouching.

"She's going to devour him." The urgency in his voice had nothing to do with the mating spiders.

"Nothing happening." Archie sounded bored as he groaned and gripped the table edge to heave himself up. Stephen had wondered at a match between the spindly-legged, chinless baronet and the ravishing debutante conducted in such haste the season before. He'd not thought about the lovely Miss Julia again until news spread that the couple had been blessed with twin boys within a barely timely eight months of their nuptials.

Now Lady Julia looked as dewy fresh and desirable as she had when Stephen had admired her in the ballroom as a young man experienced in battle but completely unprepared for London society. His mother had left him little of the vast fortune she'd frittered away through drink and gambling but enough to at least deport himself like the gentleman he'd been born.

He managed. Just.

"No, nothing happening," muttered Barston, also rising unsteadily. "I'll wager a thousand monkeys you're all hot air, Cranborne."

Lady Julia, who'd straightened, bent at the waist to peer again at the scene that had so excited the gentlemen. "Oh, my goodness, the spider jumped!" she squeaked, twisting round so suddenly she tripped over her husband and fell full length upon Stephen.

For a second he just lay beneath her, eyes wide with shock as her soft curves molded his hard—very hard—contours.

"Get up, Julia. Cranborne, do you accept the wager?" Archie, who sounded as if these were everyday occurrences, took his wife's elbow and hauled her to her feet. But not before Julia had slanted a knowing and very provocative look at Stephen.

"What? Er, yes," Stephen mumbled, paying only half a mind. He rarely gambled these days. He had only to recall his wretched, fatherless youth and the antics of his feckless, beloved, wager-mad mama.

"Good fellow!" A hearty handshake followed as Stephen rose. He took refuge behind the back of the Egyptian sofa and forced a strained smile at his hosts.

"I do love an unusual wager." Lady Julia adopted a pose of rare solidarity beside her husband. "So this big, bold, female spider—obviously a prime article in the arachnid world—has just suffered the amorous attentions of her tiny, boring, timid, ineffectual husband?" Her words were heavy with emphasis as she enunciated each one. It was impossible to miss her meaning and Stephen could only wonder that Archie didn't bristle at the obvious allusion to their own marital situation. She stroked Archie's arm while asking Stephen in silky tones, "You're the celebrated man of science in the room, Mr. Cranborne. Please explain in...explicit terms...the courting rituals of the spider world."

Stephen flicked a glance at Archie. Fortunately he appeared to be his usual good-humored self—and just as keen for information as his wife.

He cleared his throat. "The male spider will court the female and...and then after he..."

"Impregnates her?" Lady Julia supplied with an inquiring smile.

"That's correct, yes, the female will devour him." Stephen let out his breath in a low whistle as his erection finally subsided. God, he hoped Archie hadn't noticed. Lady Julia might be a diamond of the first water but she was dangerous and Stephen wasn't in a position to alienate the few advantageous connections he'd made since his unexpected elevation in the world.

"Nonsense!" Archie let out a guffaw. "The male of every species is infinitely superior in every respect and I'll wager the insect world is no exception. Cranborne, if this pretty boy spider is still safely in his love lair, gazing raptly at his lady love in two hours, then I've won the wager."

Stephen quirked an eyebrow, the fog which clouded his brain starting to clear. He'd not realized what he'd agreed to. Honesty and fair play won over though the temptation to take advantage of Sir Archie was great. "I'm happy to call off the wager, old chap. It was foolishly done in the heat of the moment, for one can't bet against the laws of nature. The study of spiders was my childhood hobby. As sure as the sun rises in the east this puny male will have been devoured by his mate by two a.m."

"The wager stands." Archie grinned. "I'm willing to bet that a female is no match for a male—in any arena." He glanced at his wife. "Don't I prove that time and time again, dearest?"

Lady Julia's smile for her husband was limpid but when she slid her eyes across to Stephen he read calculation in their depths. Arousal slammed through him and he lowered his head to hide the guilt that burned his cheeks. If Archie were to intercept the silent messages she was sending him, the young baronet would go wild. Particularly if he knew the effect they were having on Stephen.

Stephen had drunk more than usual yet he was not addle-witted. When he rose from his bow, his three companions were looking at him. He shrugged helplessly. Tomorrow he was to meet Lord Partington, his new benefactor. He wanted to be in top form. On the other hand, he'd need to stay to see his wager translate into a thousand pounds, an enormous sum but one that seemed neither here nor there to Archie.

Archie was now bending over again, peering at the web beneath the table. "Can't say the housemaids are up to snuff in this place but it's good for a lark. Nothing's happening. Reckon the old boy's going to turn tail and run in a sec. Now, 'nother drink, old chap?"

"Thank you," Stephen replied, though his bladder was full to bursting. He moved to the door. "Call of nature," he mumbled. "Please excuse me."

He drew in a lungful of air as he headed up the passageway to the privy. He'd have to return in the next few minutes to keep an eye on his booty though he'd much rather have gone to bed. Still, he couldn't afford to lose the wager. It would be some time before he became the next Viscount Partington and could enjoy the financial benefits that came with the title.

He was just returning, issuing into the corridor, pausing to adjust his breeches, when a whiff of familiar orange-water scent assailed his nostrils.

"Good Lord, I beg your pardon." He stepped back as if stung from the connection of his forehead with Lady Julia's pert breasts as he straightened. Half expecting an outraged slap, he was astonished by the warmth of her expression as she raised her candle.

"You are a very handsome man, Stephen." There was no mistaking the intention, conveyed by the calculating gleam in her eye and husky whisper.

Her delicate fingers curved around his wrist and she gave a gentle tug. Obediently he followed her, assuming she wanted to show him something, though not really knowing what to expect.

And certainly not expecting the door of a small closet to be closed behind him, plunging them into almost total darkness save for the candle she set upon the windowsill.

"Lady Julia—"

His words were cut short by the touch of her lips, soft yet demanding as they covered his half-open mouth. He knew he should resist, and indeed he'd half turned to withdraw from the store room and save them both from temptation.

But then surprise coalesced into desire, fierce and potent as her deft little fingers fumbled with the buttons of his breeches and closed around his pulsing manhood.

"Oh God," he croaked, sucking in a breath when her tongue breached the seam of his lips and her grip upon him tightened. Self restraint was impossible. "Oh God," he rasped again as, this time without hesitation, he responded as she obviously intended he should by touching her, his hands roaming over her pliant, yielding body, all hard angles and soft curves. "What about...your husband—?"

"Too busy watching the spider," she murmured, suckling his lower lip then biting it gently, her gleaming eyes dancing wickedly before him when he blinked open his own lust-dazed lids.

Reality slammed through him.

"My wager," he said, drawing away, quickly. He had go to. This was one bet he could not afford to lose.

"Oh God," he groaned again, glancing down now at the top of her shiny blonde head. She was kneeling, both hands circling his erection, glancing up at him with those knowing eyes full of promise and mischief.

Mesmerized, he watched as she parted her lips, moistening them slowly with the tip of her tongue.

"Do you really want to beat such a hasty retreat, Mr. Cranborne?" Her voice was husky, languid with promise.

He swallowed then made a slightly strangled noise as, slowly, she touched the tip of her tongue to his swollen member. Her eyes glinted, disappearing from view as she dipped her head to the base of his shaft.

"Oh God," he muttered again through clenched teeth. He thought he'd explode, his need for instant sexual gratification now greater than it had ever been with the Spanish whores and French camp followers who'd been his usual sparse bedroom fare until now. Indeed, Stephen Cranborne was rising in the world in all respects.

Never had he ever been so desired. The lovely Lady Julia wanted him.

He closed his eyes and moaned softly as she took him deep into her mouth. There was no need to answer. He was no longer of this world. Nothing mattered except his sensory gratification at the hands of this exquisite woman.

Slowly she slid him deeper until his hilt was buried deep down her throat while her hands played lightly with his balls.

Every nerve ending quivered as she slid him out then in, the friction of each thrust nearly driving him to distraction. He was going to come any second and he'd die of pleasure.

She must have sensed he was on the edge and wanted to prolong their lovemaking, for still gripping him, she rose to her feet so that her head rested just beneath his.

Her arms went around him and she wriggled her body tight and hard against his almost painful erection, whispering, "Lift me onto the table, Mr. Cranborne, and let's see what you're really made of."

He did not need to be invited twice. He hoisted her onto the ledge, then rucked up her skirts, his hands skimming her smooth, shapely thighs. The candle flickered perilously.

"Careful, Mr. Cranborne, or you'll engulf us both in the fires of Hell." She gave a throaty chuckle.

Wasn't that where he was going for taking his fill with another man's wife?

The thought was not enough to stop him. If the exquisite Lady Julia wanted him, he'd take her anywhere.

He stepped back, preparing himself, her parted legs offering a tantalizing view of glistening folds.

And all his for the taking.

"Come, Mr. Cranborne." Her voice was hoarse and rough with desire. "Show me how a real man satisfies a woman. I get little enough pleasure in the marital bed. No, don't be afraid. Archie is already so befuddled he won't know if we've been gone five minutes or an hour."

A flicker of concern over his wager made him hesitate but was banished when her hand closed over him to guide him into her.

The rapture in her expression was too much to resist. She was gorging herself on him and after so many years in hellholes across the continent, fighting for king and country, it was rare to feel such a prize with the ladies.

"Oh...Lord!" he croaked as the tip of his member touched her sex.

"That's right, my lovely," she crooned as her tight opening closed around him. "My, but you're so much bigger than my Archie. Why, I want to eat you all up."

Something in her words sparked a momentary alarm but as she jerked her body forward, plunging him into her hidden depths, her legs closing around his waist, his thoughts were consumed by one thing only.

Release.

It had been a long time since he'd not had to pay a woman for sex. This one wanted him. Lady Julia wanted _him_.

And she had a body to drown in.

Tucking his hands beneath her bottom, he squeezed, pulling her hard against him, as he plunged into her.

"Touch me." Her soft breath against his cheek curdled his soul. What had he been thinking? Only of himself, clearly, for she had done all the taking and he'd been happy to be led. "Yes, oh, yes, there."

With his thumb and forefinger he pleasured her as she requested. No, demanded. Her eyes were glazed and her movements jerky as she threw her head back, offering her body up to him like she was the most exquisite morsel he'd ever had. And she was.

For the first time, Mr. Stephen Cranborne made love as a gentleman of the ton in a poky closet off the corridor of a home grander than he was used to gracing and not as grand as he was about to inherit.

The world was at his fingertips and he'd never felt so on top.

"Oh yes, Mr. Cranborne!" With a cry fit to bring the roof—and Sir Archie's fury—crashing down upon them, Lady Julia convulsed in a final outpouring of pleasure. There was no mistaking the force of her orgasm, which fueled the ferocity of his, the pulsing of her silken canal in which he was so gloriously sheathed, sending the blood roaring to his extremities.

"Oh God, Lady Julia!" he gasped, spilling himself into her, clasping her to him and clinging on for dear life so they didn't both tumble dangerously to the stone-flagged floor.

It's where they ended up, regardless, in a tumble of petticoats and half-buttoned breeches, exhausted, spent and unable to move.

In the silence all he could hear was their ragged breathing. It was a full few minutes before she struggled out from under him to lie against his side and whisper languidly, "Oh, Mr. Cranborne, you are so much more the athlete than my frogspawn, Archie. You can be my houseguest anytime."

Sir Archibald. Stephen froze. Sir Archie was in the next room, or as near as made no difference. How long had they been gone? How long before he'd come searching for his missing wife...who'd disappeared in the wake of his missing houseguest?

"Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Cranborne," she whispered, as if reading his thoughts. "Archie will be snoring by now. He can't stay awake beyond midnight. Not much sport for poor me. Won't you stay another day?" Her tone was cajoling. "Perhaps we could do this again tomorrow."

His pulse skittered like a nervous schoolboy's. He'd like to do it again tomorrow. He'd like to do it again every day. He gazed down at her with desperate fondness. No woman had ever wanted him like Lady Julia. In that moment they were as star-crossed lovers. Impulsively, he said, "You must come away with me."

She cocked her head. "Come away with you? Where to?"

The ludicrousness of his words was brought home to him—he had no home. The army had been home for years. His father had departed this mortal coil when he'd been a boy. His mother had died when he was eighteen. In the time since then he'd drifted, making do on his paltry allowance of four hundred pounds a year. Good fortune had favored him on a few occasions at the horse races but he'd been burned and he'd learned his lesson.

Oh God, his wager!

She must have seen his panic. Leisurely she extended her hand, fondling his balls so that he hardened instantly, despite himself.

He closed his eyes, hardly able to believe that this lovely woman wanted to do this all over again with him.

After years as a young boy spent dodging his mother's creditors while their well-connected friends dwindled, followed by a series of unexceptional liaisons while in the army, Stephen had been conscious of his shaky foothold on society's ladder.

Tonight in the arms of Lady Julia, he'd been admired as a man and embraced by quality. One day he would be a viscount. In two short weeks his world had expanded, offering him unlimited horizons.

In a burst of adolescent daydreaming, he imagined pulling her up in front of him on his white charger as Sir Archie grasped ineffectually for its mane. Stephen the conqueror had claimed Lady Julia as his woman.

He was conscious of her reaching down to adjust her garter.

He glanced at her. She did not wear the love-limpid look he'd expected.

"Let's see what that spider's up to, shall we?" she suggested as she tickled him playfully under the chin. "If you've won the wager, I think I deserve a present, don't you?"

He blinked, his throat dry. This was not how it was supposed to be in the aftermath of grand passion.

"Come, Mr. Cranborne, let me smooth your hair and put you in order. That's right, now... Goodness, we were awfully near the drawing room, I hadn't realized. I hope Archie doesn't mind. You're right—if he suspects he'll be awfully cross with me." She put her finger to her lips. "Our secret, eh, Mr. Cranborne?" Her eyes danced with seductive allure but this time Stephen didn't respond. Couldn't. He had no idea what to think.

Archie turned as Stephen entered the drawing room. "Ah, Cranborne... Sorry, old fellow, but you owe me rather a few monkeys." He beckoned to him from the escritoire. "There's the old chap, still loyally by her side." He pointed. "Admittedly, she tried to best him." There was gloating in his tone. "But he soon had her in order. As I maintained before, the male is the superior species, in every sphere. Ain't that right, Julia?"

"Of course, darling," she replied. " _You_ certainly rein supreme in this household."

From his chair by the fire, the earl of Barston nodded gloomily as he corroborated his host's pronouncement. "Sorry, old chap."

It took a few seconds for the full import of Sir Achie's words to sink into Stephen's fuddled brain. He shook his head as if to clear it, picturing the mismatched spider couple. "But...I've seen it time and again. A male that tiny always becomes prey to its mate. I saw the way she moved. She was preparing to attack just as I was leaving."

"You were gone quite some time," Archie said, pointedly before resuming his mournful expression. "So unless you want to watch the two of them smelling of April and May until the morning..?" He indicated the apparently honeymooning arachnid couple, yawning.

Barston was already snoring gently, his head rising and falling on his chest from each breath.

Lady Julia moved forward to stroke Stephen's arm, murmuring words of comfort. "Poor Mr. Cranborne. Still, you'll probably win that and more as soon as you take up residence with your rich relations. Perhaps you can ask your uncle — or, second cousin, isn't it? — for an advance on your inheritance."

Stephen looked down at her face, pert with bright assurance. His stomach flip-flopped. He truly was all at sea. "I...I don't see what choice I have but to ask Lord Partington," he muttered, assessing the parlous state of his finances. His new coat was, literally, the most he'd outlayed on anything.

Sir Archie raised his tumbler of whisky. "Or perhaps you'll find yourself in parson's mousetrap allied to Lord Partington's lovely daughter, Miss Araminta. She comes with a sizeable dowry. You could be wed before the season's over and then it won't matter how long His Lordship kicks around on this mortal coil."

Lady Julia gave a snide laugh and said under her breath, "Designing little minx, that one." When Stephen turned startled eyes upon her, she added unrepentantly, "Miss Araminta caused quite a scandal last season. Had to be shipped home early, though it's not my place to gossip about what crimes she may or may not have been guilty of."

"Indeed not, my dear," her husband cut in dryly, "in view of your own clever ploy in getting me to the altar."

Lady Julia dismissed this with a toss of her head. "I'd say you are a marked man, Mr. Cranborne. Why, Miss Araminta told me with her own lips that she intends to be mistress of The Grange, the home she grew up in." She laughed, adding, "At the time, her cabbage-headed cousin Edgar was her father's heir, so of course her wish was implicit upon marrying him, and you never met a greater ninnyhammer."

"Oh, Edgar wasn't that bad," drawled Sir Archie. "I won a few wagers against him."

"Edgar was utterly bacon-brained." Lady Julia ruffled her husband's hair. "Do you remember how you gammoned him over that story of your pointer, Benny, darling? You said the dog had disappeared during a shoot but was discovered a year later, turned literally into stone."

Sir Archie sniggered. "Oh yes. I told him the story at my club and he demanded to see the evidence. Said he'd wager two hundred I was lying. It only cost me a few guineas to have a stone mason craft me a reputable copy of Benny, which we positioned by the river." He grinned. "Well, cabbage-headed Edgar said he couldn't refute the evidence when I took him to see it. Paid me on the spot, in fact."

Stephen didn't share in the hilarity at the expense of his poor distant, departed cousin Edgar. He was beginning to suspect he'd been set up the same way.

Lady Julia's laugh seemed to hold an edge to it, her quick glance at him suggesting that indeed he had.

"A good thing for the whole family that poor Edgar took a bullet at Corunna, eh?" she said. "You must be awfully pleased too, Stephen. Otherwise you'd not be next in line for the title and chances are we'd never have had such a jolly time this evening."

Her dancing green eyes searched his, her pretty white teeth bared in a smile.

And Stephen did not respond with the rush of adrenaline to the groin he had earlier in the evening when she'd focused her attentions so singularly upon him.

# Chapter 2

## The Grange, June 22

Sybil, Lady Partington, clasped her hands in her rabbit-fur muff as the congregation filed into their pews.

With her thirty-eighth birthday looming, she felt old as she watched proceedings through clouds of frosted breath. Particularly today. Old and superfluous. A failed wife. A failed mother.

Araminta had been dismissive of her well-meaning attempts to reassure her that the disgrace of her curtailed London season would not dash her chances of a good match. No, Araminta already had her mind made up in that regard. She knew exactly who she was going to marry, and had done since she was twelve.

There'd been an exchange of words before they'd walked to church. Or rather, Araminta had flounced off ahead while good-natured Hetty had stayed back to keep her mother company.

Sybil slanted a sideways look at the two girls now, neatly turned out in the family pew beside her. Araminta looked proud. Expectant. Sybil repressed a sigh. That's all she'd been doing lately. Sighing. But perhaps everything would all turn out for the best.

Beside her, Hetty smiled at several new arrivals.

Nobody noticed her.

On Sybil's other side, her husband made a remark about the floral arrangement. Too flamboyant, he thought.

Sybil nodded distractedly. Nothing seemed to please Humphrey unless he was with his beloved mistress, she thought bitterly, slanting a surreptitious glance across the aisle to see if Mrs. Hazlett and her family had arrived yet.

They had. She snapped her attention back to her neat rabbit-fur muff.

At least Humphrey had pledged to play the dutiful host and mentor when Cousin Stephen arrived.

The heir apparent.

Not that young Mr. Stephen Cranborne's imminent arrival was anything to get excited over. It merely reinforced Sybil's sense of superfluity through her failure to provide Humphrey with an heir. Or rather, a spare, since the death of their darling boy, George, from the measles four years ago.

In those interim four years, Humphrey's nephew Edgar had been next in line. Humphrey had refused to recognize him. Edgar was a clodpoll, he said, and the mere fact he was Humphrey's heir was incentive for Humphrey to live to one hundred so he could outlive his cork-brained nephew.

Sybil supposed the bullet that had knocked poor Edgar out of the succession was rather fortunate for everyone, not least this unknown Mr. Cranborne. But really, it changed nothing for her. She was still the unwanted wife and, as far as Araminta was concerned, the superfluous mother.

Thank goodness Hetty still needed and appreciated her.

A rustle went through the congregation. Sybil opened her hymn book and stared unseeingly at the lines designed to bolster her joy in God's world. Once again she tried telling herself everything would work out. Humphrey would take a liking to young Stephen, young Stephen would be the perfect match for Araminta, and wedding bells would ring out by the end of the year, a lusty son cementing the succession nine months later.

On painful joints, Reverend Bicklefield climbed the steps to the pulpit while old Mrs. Henshaw shuffled in on her handsome nephew's arm. Sybil glanced up at the whiff of camphor and glimpsed the flare of interest Hetty sent the young man from beneath her sandy lashes as she focused attention upon her hymn book. Poor Hetty, for it was Araminta, sitting beside her, that he was looking at.

Araminta. Sybil sighed. Araminta was, without doubt, the most arresting young woman in the region. She'd turn anyone's head, however the man who won her would have a tussle on his hands from the outset. Araminta was only happy when she had her own way.

She wondered what kind of man Mr. Stephen Cranborne was. She knew nothing of him and had had little time to prepare for his arrival.

Reverend Bicklefield cleared his throat and hymn book pages rustled. Glancing at her youngest daughter, Sybil did not miss the smile Hetty flashed at Ned Hazlett in the pew almost directly across from them. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement before his stern young countenance refocused on his own hymn book.

As far as Sybil knew, the young people had never spoken, although they crossed paths each Sunday.

A chill of foreboding made her shiver and she touched her knee to Humphrey's.

Could Hetty...know?

Yet when her husband glanced across at her, she could not put into words her fears.

Ned and his two sisters were Humphrey's children by his mistress Elizabeth Hazlett. That made Ned Hetty's half-brother yet surely Hetty had no idea that the Hazletts, who sat quietly and modestly through Rev. Bicklefield's sermon every Sunday, were her father's "other" family.

Further study of Hetty reassured Sybil, even after Ned, looking up and locking eyes with the girl, grinned self-consciously.

Ned Hazlett would know, of course. Perhaps he was consumed by impotent rage, knowing Hetty and Araminta, his half-sisters, enjoyed an easy, privileged life while he and his sisters, as Lord Partington's sideslips, must navigate a hurdle-strewn path, denied social acceptance. How could he not be outraged if he knew—as he presumably did—the reason he was not Lord Partington's heir?

Sybil sighed again. She'd gladly have given up Humphrey if she'd known what unhappiness would result from their ill-advised union.

She caught young Ned's eyes upon her and quickly looked away. No doubt, his mother would have told him that his father had buckled under family pressure and reneged on his marriage proposal to his mother, Miss Elizabeth Hazlett, a mere solicitor's daughter. When Humphrey had unexpectedly inherited the title days before the secret marriage he'd planned with Lizzy, a severe talking to by his father had led to him marrying the more "suitable" Miss Sybil Green.

That was Humphrey. Easily led.

Easily led, yet stubborn and, in his own way, loyal. Though not towards his wife.

Sybil glanced down at her hymn book then across at her nemesis. Lizzy Hazlett had survived the heartbreak and the betrayal and, twenty years later, was still Humphrey's secret mistress.

Two generations had suffered the unhappy consequences—and always would. It was of no account that Humphrey had regretted his marriage almost immediately, or consolation to Sybil when he'd told her it was not her fault he was unable to show her the husbandly devotion she deserved.

She glanced at her husband's impassive profile. Hard to believe they'd been married so long and produced four children, two of whom had died. Both sons. One stillborn, the other, George, only fourteen. It had been four years since that terrible day but the pain still sliced through her with the rawness of lemon in a fresh cut.

She took a trembling breath as she prepared to expound upon her blessings in song with the rest of the congregation who were getting to their feet.

Despite the fact Humphrey had no heir, he'd not come to her bed for a full three years. And then, only after Sybil had pleaded with him and reminded Humphrey that without a direct heir The Grange and the fortune that went with it would go to his nephew Edgar.

Detested Edgar.

She turned the page of her hymn book, aware of Hetty's concern as Sybil's voice broke. Damn the memories.

Knowing that Stephen Cranborne was due sometime that day had reminded Sybil of Humphrey's eventual reluctant visit to her bedchamber three years after they'd buried George.

What a debacle it had been—Humphrey plied with drink, mumbling that he felt like an adulterer as he tried to coax his unresponsive nether regions to perform.

It didn't work. Nothing did, including Sybil's extensive efforts to entice him with her dubious charms before she'd resorted to some crass pumping of Humphrey's flaccid member.

Oh God, this was not a reflection for church, but the embarrassment of being woken by her husband's drunken snoring just as her maid had come in to draw the curtains still burned.

Sybil glanced at Araminta as they all sat. Perhaps it helped to have no heart, she thought, immediately chastising herself for her uncharitable thoughts. Araminta was still so young. She'd learn.

Besides, Sybil had every comfort she could wish for. Except love. But, wasn't love a necessary comfort? Didn't it feed the soul, nourish the mind?

Humphrey didn't love Sybil but he'd been kind in his way and he'd tried to spare her discomfort. Not pain, for nothing could erase the hopelessness of knowing one would never know the love of a man.

Nor could Sybil hate Lizzy Hazlett although on more than one occasion she'd wished her dead, wondering if perhaps then Humphrey might be able to form for Sybil some small affection.

It had taken many years before Sybil realized Humphrey would never love anyone but Lizzy Hazlett. Perhaps Sybil ought to have admired the solicitor's daughter. After all, Miss Hazlett had eschewed the respectable marriage she might have made and, despite Humphry's betrayal and his promise to make her his wife, she'd become, instead, Humphrey's mistress.

Didn't that suggest true love? It must, for she'd have known that social ostracism was her fate and that her actions condemned her children to the opprobrium meted out to bastards.

Sybil glanced at Ned's two sisters. The older, dark-haired girl was so like Araminta in appearance it made Sybil shiver. Yet perhaps Sybil was the only one to notice, for the girl's serious, almost grim demeanour made her seem a Puritan in contrast with Araminta's flirtatiousness.

The younger Hazlett girl — blond, vivacious and with a roving eye — was much more like Araminta in demeanour but nothing like her in looks.

But both girls were bastards. Unlike their half-sisters, Araminta and Hetty, their marital prospects were bleak.

No, Sybil wasn't the only one to suffer.

A ripple of interest stirred the congregation and Sybil turned her head as the door blew open to admit a new arrival. He was a stranger, she realized, taking in his large bulk. A dark, faceless cut-out against the sun, which lit him from behind.

As he progressed down the aisle, he paused as if suddenly uncertain, and a shaft of sunlight from one of the side stained windows lit up his face.

It was a handsome face, sensitive and finely rendered rather than rugged. Although young, he had creases near his eyes denoting both good humor and experience. Active service perhaps. That turned a boy into a man, and this young man seemed both as his mouth, which had been pressed into a diffident straight line, curved up in recognition upon seeing Humphrey.

She stiffened.

Stephen Cranborne. It could be no other.

The young man bowed, his broad shoulders filling out his sober dark coat nicely; certainly in Araminta's opinion, it would seem. Sybil registered the girl's sudden awareness, the flare in her eye as she locked glances with the stranger, who was now looking directly at them, the first family of the district sitting according to their station in the front pew.

And at the expectation in his eye Sybil's heart began to beat rapidly while her breath caught in her throat. Humphrey was staring, a wary smile of welcome softening his features. It was impossible to determine his thoughts, even though he'd invited the newcomer here.

Stephen Cranborne, Humphrey's heir, had finally arrived, having been summoned from the other side of the country after much searching.

And on first impressions he did not disappoint.

Sybil released her breath in quiet relief. She didn't usually worry about Araminta but this was the young man Araminta had pinned her hopes upon. Araminta would marry Stephen and so remain mistress by proxy of the family estate where she'd grown up and which she would have inherited had she been born a boy.

She'd declared it since her twin George's death and she'd declared it when she'd been hustled home from her first season after the terribly distressing affair that no one spoke of. "If I cannot _be_ Papa's heir I shall _marry_ Papa's heir."

Araminta's famous saying. Everyone knew it.

Now Araminta was staring into the eyes of the most attractive young man Sybil had seen in a while and the look in his was wary, uncertain, and, yes, very interested.

Sybil heaved another sigh of relief.

All would go well now.

The organ ceased, the shuffle of parishioners settling in to listen to another fire-and-brimstone sermon and the church door was again firmly closed.

Sybil returned her attention to the front, following a sidelong glance to gauge Humphrey's reaction.

His expression was inscrutable, as usual. Never once in twenty years had Sybil ever intercepted a look between her husband and Lizzy Hazlett that suggested they spent almost every evening and many nights together.

Lizzy's children were equally well trained.

Sybil lowered her eyes and pretended to pray while she dreamed of sinking into a tub of hot bath suds as soon as they returned. A megrim was coming on and she needed to ease the tension from her limbs. All she'd done since Humphrey had come to her bed three months ago for a repeat performance of the debacle three years after George's death was worry about the future.

# Chapter 3

"My dear Mr. Cranborne, of course it is nonsense for you to put up at _The Wren_." Lord Partington patted him on the arm after they'd dispersed from the church. "Did I not say it in my letter?"

The letter had been such a bombshell Stephen had refused to completely believe its contents until it could be confirmed, in person, by Lord Partington.

Some of the tense, wound-up feelings he'd bottled up inside for the past few weeks relaxed.

Lord Partington hadn't said how long he was to remain his guest and Stephen had wondered if in fact he'd been summoned _on spec_.

Fortunately it seemed he passed muster on first impressions. Lady Partington had been gracious, Lord Partington enthusiastic and judging by the gleam in the lovely, raven-haired Araminta's eye, he could look forward to some mild flirtation.

He forced back an image of Lady Julia, determined to conduct himself with the utmost propriety, saying conversationally as they were borne over the rutted roads in the most comfortable conveyance he'd enjoyed since before his mother died, "I remember meeting you when I was a lad and you were both little girls." He smiled. "And now you are beautiful young women."

Yes, he would conduct himself with propriety but he could afford to flirt. Lord Partington was riding on the box with the coachman and the ladies had made clear their welcome.

Cousin Araminta smiled. "Nor are you the shy young lad I remember who preferred to catch tadpoles rather than play with your cousins, Mr. Cranborne," she said coyly, perhaps for her mother's benefit for her eyes flashed the subtext for which he'd been fishing. "I remember not all our dolls, dressed for the occasion of your visit, could entice you, although we tried to interest you in the elaborate rig-outs of one-eyed Miss Lilly Vanilly and bald Lady Jane Tremain. I hope you will be less interested in tadpoles this visit, Mr. Cranborne. Or should I say Cousin Stephen?"

"Of course you should," Lady Partington interjected. Araminta, beside her, fixed him with her curiously feline smile as she smoothed the folds of her dress. She managed to combine sexual allure with enough girlish innocence to please all parties in the carriage, for clearly her mother was unaware of the lures she was casting.

"I shall try to be less disappointing," he replied. "Ten-year-old boys understand far less than young girls about what's important but now my vocabulary is sufficiently broadened to be able to remark that your eyes are reflected by the color of your gown, whose fashionable name I believe is Pomona green."

With blinding clarity he recalled the candlelight catching the lustrous folds of Lady Julia's Pomona-green gown in their trysting closet and confusion washed over him.

What had she been about? Stephen had left their home rather as a street urchin who'd been invited into the inner sanctum and after supping and being cosseted like a princeling by a lovely queen had been booted out into the night—but with promises of similar delights in a nebulous future.

This feeling was distinctly assuaged by the interest in Cousin Araminta's assessing green eyes. He recalled Lady Julia's remarks about the girl.

Could Araminta really have marked him out?

"Very clever, Cousin Stephen," she murmured. "Where did you learn that, for you have no sisters?"

"I'm not a complete novice when it comes to ladies' attire," he responded.

"Where were you when you got the letter, Mr. Cranborne?"

Although it was the first question Cousin Hetty addressed to him, her mother caged her daughter's hand and murmured, "It is not polite to be so direct, Hetty."

"I'm not embarrassed by directness, Lady Partington," he assured her, transfixed by Miss Araminta's full, enticing mouth rather than her homely sister who was waiting for an answer.

He caught himself up and transferred his attention with difficulty. "To answer your question, Cousin Hetty, I had recently returned from Spain and was staying with an aunt in Dorset."

"You were in Spain?" Hetty's hazel eyes widened and she looked almost pretty with the light burnishing her chestnut-brown hair. "That's where our poor cousin Edgar died of a bullet wound."

She gave a little hiccup of distress and Lady Partington patted her hand, adding by way of explanation, "Hetty was very fond of her cousin Edgar. They were great playmates when they were children. His death came as a shock to everyone."

He registered the curious look in Lady Partington's eyes and the tightness of her mouth and shifted awkwardly.

How did Lady Partington regard the young usurper, Stephen Cranborne, whose arrival reinforced the absence of her beloved late son, George? Of Edgar?

"I am very sorry for your losses, Lady Partington," he murmured, resisting the urge to stroke her lilac-gloved hand. It was true he seemed to respond with instant attraction to women with flashing pomona-green eyes but gentle-natured, doe-eyed women like Lady Partington and her younger daughter appealed to the chivalric part of his nature.

* * *

When the carriage drew up in front of the steps, Lady Partington left the young people chatting on the front portico before departing to ensure Stephen's room had been satisfactorily prepared.

"I'm so sorry to leave you like this but I have the most terrible megrim and Araminta will look after you. The reverend's fiery pronouncements have done nothing to improve my aching head," she'd said by way of parting.

As the front doors closed behind her, Stephen indicated the well-kept grassy slopes and roses bushes. "Perhaps we could take a turn about the garden since the weather has turned so agreeable," he suggested, not being disposed to drawing room chatter when he'd much rather get a sense of the dimensions of his future domain.

He glanced across the verdant green lawn toward the beech woods that bordered the manicured gardens. Shooting parties in August? A spear of anticipation shot through him as the young ladies readily agreed to his suggestion before hurrying upstairs to fetch shawls and change their clothes with the promise to meet him in five minutes.

Stephen wandered out into the center of the lawn and gazed up at the Queen Anne façade of The Grange. How could it be improved? A conservatory? A new wing? Perhaps a tennis court. He'd never imagined being in a position to put his own stamp on things.

Hetty's girlish giggles made him turn and he smiled to see the two young ladies crossing the lawn toward him. Cousin Hetty fairly galloped. Beside her, Cousin Araminta had perfected the regal glide. With her glossy dark hair and her proud eyes she looked like no other member of her family.

Hetty pointed at The Grange. "So, Cousin Stephen, do you like our home?"

Araminta immediately quashed Hetty's high spirits. "Cousin Stephen is surveying the house that will be _his_ after Papa meets his maker." Her look was pert. "Isn't that right, Mr. Cranborne?"

Hetty wasn't the only one whose spirits were quashed. Stephen managed a brittle smile. "You must resent that The Grange passes out of the family because you have no brothers, Cousin Araminta."

"I refuse to resent what I cannot change, Cousin Stephen." Araminta tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Let us walk and I will answer everything I can about our family and the estate."

Gallantly, Stephen offered Hetty his other arm. He'd seen her uncertainty. "It will be many years before you must worry about your home passing to me," he assured them. "Your father is in excellent health and has merely asked me here because he is a wise man who plans ahead."

"What would you like to know, Cousin Stephen?" Araminta reeled him back to her. "No doubt you have questions that must have kept you awake since receiving Papa's letter."

Stephen met her challenging look with a smile. So there was resentment after all. "I had no idea Edgar had died," he said with complete candor. "Not once did it enter my head that I should one day inherit and become the next Viscount Partington."

"Please, don't speak of Edgar again. I can't bear it," said Hetty. "For months I've prayed he'd turn up unexpectedly on our doorstep—"

"Well, that's a nice thing to say to Cousin Stephen," Araminta snapped. Composing her smile, she asked conversationally, "So where did you spend last night, Cousin Stephen?"

After an uncomfortable pause, Stephen replied, "I was the guest of Lady Julia and Sir Archibald." Adjusting his suddenly too-tight high collar, he directed an enquiring look at Araminta, who'd burst into shrill laughter.

" _Lady_ Julia!" She emphasized the title with heavy scorn. "Is that what she's asked you to call her? Why, she's the most designing brownnoser I've ever come across, the daughter of a wool merchant who spared no expense in seeing she was tricked out to make a good catch, though she likes to pretend she's an earl's daughter."

Hetty tugged her sleeve, looking worried as she reminded her sister in an undertone, "Lady Julia—or rather, Lady Ledger—is a friend of Cousin Stephen's."

Araminta tossed her head. "Surely Cousin Stephen is a friend of _Sir Archibald_. Sir Archie and Lady _Julia_ —as she would have us call her—have been married such a short time and only because—" She broke off, clearly reconsidering her words. "Ah well, you're right, Hetty. It's not my place to tell Cousin Stephen what he already knows and what you have no need to know."

As they negotiated a small dip in the path, Stephen was glad that Hetty took umbrage at her condescending tone. He'd very much like to know what he supposedly already knew.

"Why ought I not know the reason they married, Araminta? I shall be coming out in a few months. You're not that ahead of me."

Araminta slanted a sly look at the pair of them. "Miss Julia's eyes are as sharp as her nose and she knows how to sniff out a sure thing. She proved _that_ when she fainted into Lord Clairmont's arms at Hatchard's Bookshop the day after she took up Laetitia Milbank's challenge that she couldn't inveigle herself into his carriage."

"But Lady Julia didn't marry Lord Clairmont." Hetty frowned. "Not that she'd want to. He's in his dotage!"

"Just over forty and definitely in need of a wife, though clearly Miss Julia thought she could do even better than Lord Clairmont after she'd won her wager. Anyway." Araminta rolled her eyes and resumed her tale. "Quite by chance, it seems, Lady Julia was in Hatchard's when Lord Clairmont walked in, whereupon she promptly fainted right into his arms. He had her carried to his carriage whereupon his lady friend's vinaigrette quickly had her up to the mark."

Hetty appeared let down by the story. "So she didn't receive a marriage offer from him, then?"

"No, but that wasn't what the wager was about. It was about money and clearly a stepping stone to more of it. Lady Julia used her trickery to get herself into Lord Milbank's carriage and won her wager, which Miss Laetitia Milbank had to hand over that afternoon when Miss Julia called upon her with two witnesses and, believe me, that was worth a tidy sum."

"How big was the wager?" asked Stephen, feeling distinctly green around the gills.

"It was _big_." Cousin Araminta looked up at him, her eyes gleaming. "Miss Milbank's pearl choker, would you believe? A small fortune, but then Miss Julia will take big risks for big stakes." In an undertone she added, "Word is she took the biggest risk of all to snare Sir Archie but was then awfully miffed to discover his prospects weren't at all as grand as she'd been led to believe."

Stephen cleared his throat. "They appeared a very devoted couple," he lied. He was conscious of the lack of conviction in his tone and not surprised Araminta seized upon it.

"Of course! _Lady_ Julia didn't get where she did without being a consummate actress. Now, Cousin Stephen, I'm glad to note you're nothing like our other cousin, poor Edgar, who was next in line after Papa. You're tall and athletic and very handsome while Edgar was dumpy with sandy hair and freckles and couldn't talk about anything except hunting and shooting. Quite frankly, poor Edgar was a clodpoll." Miss Araminta said it as if it were the last word. She seemed the kind of young lady who liked having the last word on everything.

"How can you say such a thing?" Hetty's expression was murderous.

Stephen could not resist a smile. "Your loyalty is to be commended, Cousin Hetty."

"It wasn't me who said it." Miss Araminta looked smug. "It was Papa, if you must know."

"Papa?"

Stephen patted Hetty's hand, understanding her betrayal amidst the undercurrents. "I'm sure he didn't mean it. I'm sure Edgar was an excellent sort."

"He was my best friend." Hetty looked away, silent as her sister changed the subject, pointing to the house.

"There's Mama's wing, to the right," Araminta said. "Papa's is on the other side. Hetty and I are at the back with no view at all while you will have one of the guest bedrooms that run between them, perhaps even the room the late King George stayed in."

"You are very proud of your home."

"I love it more than anything." This was spoken with quiet fervor.

"The footman is about to take in my trunk." In the distance Stephen saw the carriage that had obviously been dispatched to fetch the last of his belongings draw up in front of the portico. "I have a present for you, ladies, which I would like to give to you now."

They retraced their footsteps to the house, the young ladies gasping with pleasure at the caged canary Stephen presented them with a flourish.

"Does it have a name?" asked Hetty.

"A very grand name," said Stephen. "Lady Zena, in fact. She belonged to my aunt who had to give her away after she took up residence with her daughter who couldn't abide Lady Zena's singing."

"Lady Zena sings?" Hetty's plump face flushed with pleasure.

"Not only that but she'll sit obediently on your wrist and eat breadcrumbs from your hand."

"Really?" Hetty's girlish squeal gratified Stephen in a way he was quite unused to. Genuine girlish enthusiasm was refreshing, he was surprised to find—but Miss Araminta's scorching green-eyed gaze above Hetty's head as the younger sister fiddled with the latch of the birdcage promised so much more.

It was not hard to interpret her meaning. Had she really picked him out?

Heat prickled his skin and he licked his lips. Fixing his attention upon the tiny mole to the right of her mouth, he imagined running his tongue over the contours of her satin-smooth skin. Miss Araminta loved her home and she clearly was not immune to the charms of the newly summoned heir.

If she had picked him out, he could think of a lot worse ways to spend his future than leg-shackled to such a diamond of the first water.

"Oh!" Hetty's shriek punctuated his appreciation of the lovely Araminta, who was returning his look with transparent interest. "The bird! Oh no, she's flown away!"

Hetty leapt to her feet, her mouth open with dismay as they all watched the canary alight upon the ivy-clad windowsill of one of the upper casements. It tilted its little head jauntily and immediately broke into song.

"Careless girl, Hetty!" snapped Araminta. "She'll make a tasty meal for the nighthawks, won't she?"

Her sister began to cry, great, gulping sobs that made her face red and blotchy.

"She'll come to me. Don't cry, Cousin Hetty," Stephen assured her, assessing the distance to the first floor. Grasping the thick ivy, he found a firm foothold and hauled himself up.

"Oh no, Cousin Stephen, you'll hurt yourself."

The fact Hetty was more afraid for his safety than the loss of the canary, which just minutes before had been the greatest tragedy, determined him. He _would_ get the bird back.

Stephen was fit and agile. He'd climbed the Andes like a goat and sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar without even casting up his accounts, so hoisting himself onto a sturdy ivy root, reaching for a secure piece of trellis and hauling himself up one story was no major feat.

"Ooh, careful!" The gasps of both young ladies was balm to his youthful ego.

"Come, my pretty. Come, Lady Zena." Carefully, he extended his hand toward the bird.

After some contemplation, the little bird decided to make him work for his reward. When she hopped onto the sill of the farthest casement windows, Stephen had no choice but to follow.

This involved a heroic full-body thrust followed by a hasty snatch at the stone ledge. With heart hammering and very conscious of his audience below, Stephen hauled himself across the wall, securing one foot on the buttress. Victory was in sight. Lady Zena hadn't moved position for some minutes and soon he'd pop her onto his shoulder and descend to the rapturous cries of the young ladies. It would be a just recompense for what, he realized looking down, was a rather risky ascent after all.

Eyeballing the canary, he whistled softly. She hopped daintily toward him then hopped backward. Clearly she was enjoying the game.

Stephen growled, hoping this dance of seduction was not going to become prolonged.

It was only the merest flash of something in his peripheral vision that made him turn his head slightly to the right. There was certainly no intent to peep through the misted windows. Yet the shock of seeing a shapely pair of thighs connected to a round, ripe naked bottom as its owner bent down to pick up one stocking was completely unexpected.

Sucking in a breath, he put his head closer to the pane, not pausing to consider it an act of prurience. He was simply riveted to the spot by such a tantalising sight, wondering what else the lovely creature had to offer in the way of fleshly delights.

The bird fluttered by his ear but he ignored it. Instead, Stephen squinted to see better. Rising steam indicated a bathtub to the rear of the room from which the lady in question had just risen. In fact, steam still swirled in eddies that partially obscured her until she discarded the linen she'd been using to dry herself.

Vaguely, he was conscious of the young ladies below calling to him but he was rooted to the spot, desperate to see what more this as-yet-unintroduced female had in the way of sensuous charms.

Who could she be? A house guest? A cousin of the family?

He couldn't make out her face, but her light hair rippled to below her waist and her pale limbs, the color of whipped cream, were well turned. He tried to gauge her age for she walked with calm, fluid movements, like one who has grown used to her body without realizing how lovely it is.

"Cousin Stephen! Lady Zena is right by your left hand!" Hetty's voice contained a note of desperation as it floated up to him and Stephen forced himself to acknowledge her—and the bird which hopped away, this time right onto the window ledge in front of him.

It provided him with just the justification he needed to refresh his view of the scene though he made a half-hearted attempt to reach for the canary.

But Lady Zena was the least of his concerns right now. He simply could not pull his gaze away from the woman as she made her way languidly from her bathtub towards the bed. It was a large, intricately carved tester covered in a sumptuous white counterpane, edged with white velvet, and as she lowered herself onto it her lustrous golden tresses swirled about her waist.

Golden tresses!

Last night's breathless, clandestine encounter with Lady Julia in the small closet returned with all the intensity of a full immersion in bilge water. He shuddered and closed his eyes. All day he'd experienced surges of the utmost remorse for his actions for they had certainly not been those of a gentleman.

Because of him, Lady Julia had committed adultery. And, despite Stephen's other self-confessed failings, adultery was one of those sins he most despised having experienced the terrible effects faithlessness had had on his own young life.

What on earth had attracted him to Lady Julia? he wondered, when her behaviour ran so parallel to the behaviour he'd most despised in his mother.

"Cousin Stephen! Lady Zena is right there! Can't you see her?"

It was only when opening his eyes and seeing that the mist had dissipated that Stephen suddenly realised with the most enormous shock the identity of the woman upon whom he was spying.

Surely not?

He shook his head as if to clear it, and looked again.

Dear God, it was true. The naked woman in the bedroom was the quiet, modest woman who'd welcomed him here. He'd barely noticed her in the carriage with her hair covered by a blue silk bonnet and her manner almost deferring to her eldest daughter, who certainly wanted to put herself forward.

This was Lady Partington.

Torn between the desire to scramble away as fast as he could and to strain his eyes for one final look, fascinated desire won out. She was exquisite.

Stephen watched as she flicked aside the curtain of her hair to reach for a stocking, raising her leg to put it on so that he was treated to the most intimate view a newly arrived heir no doubt had ever received of his benefactor's wife, the lady of the manor.

He swallowed. He had to go. Glancing over his shoulder, he met the expectant looks of both his cousins far below him. Sweet innocent girls who held no interest for him.

But this woman, so close through the glass, yet so far away... He turned his head as if for closure, half wanting to see her clothe herself and so firmly put an end to this sensual extravaganza to which she was treating him.

Instead, Lady Partington eased the stocking onto her ankle then, in a seemingly unrelated act Stephen could not at first explain, she hooked her ankle over her knee and placed her head on her thigh. Then she raised her head...

And looked him squarely in the eye.

At first he did not move. He registered the flare of shock in her expression, quickly followed by confusion. She stood up quickly, her hair frothing about her waist, one hand moving to cover the fluff at the juncture of her legs, the other to conceal her full, heavy breasts. From this distance he could see the sheen of moisture from her bath and the faint marks left by pregnancy on her soft and rounded body.

He'd been with women who'd given birth to children but never one who'd shied away from him with such outraged horror.

As was only to be expected. Lady Partington preserved such delicacies for her husband and Stephen was guilty of gross voyeurism. He ought to be ashamed of himself yet he was curiously aroused in a way he'd not expected. Against her vibrant eldest daughter she'd been a soft little pouter pigeon, clucking her welcome. Now she'd stepped into a different league altogether.

Lady Zena chose this moment to hop onto his shoulder and Stephen deemed it timely to beat a rapid retreat. With his heartbeat roaring in his ears, he descended in record time, leaping the last six feet and going over on his ankle, surrounded by the young ladies—Hetty who gripped his arm and Araminta whose regal self-possession was nevertheless disturbed by the violence of his fall.

"Did you hurt yourself, Cousin Stephen?" she cried.

He was about to dismiss their concerns when he checked himself. "I might have twisted my ankle. Perhaps if we retired indoors you'd be so good as to administer a soothing poultice."

Araminta read his meaning at once, offering him her shoulder to lean on, which he made good use of, and the close proximity. She was worldly enough to know he'd hardly make a fuss over a minor injury and she would be flattered that he'd use the opportunity to gain access.

Yet while her perfume teased his senses and her ministering touch was gratifying he could not get out of his mind the lush, ripe nakedness of Lady Partington's unexpectedly desirable body.

Limping into the house, he realized how terribly embarrassing the episode would be for Lady Partington once she understood he was blameless. Hopefully she could dress it up as an amusing anecdote to share with Lord Partington as they cozily discussed the day's events—something Stephen was looking forward to doing with his own wife when the time came.

Simple pleasures.

Lord Partington had done well in his marriage, even if he didn't have a living son. The demure façade presented by Her Ladyship was clearly very different from the reality.

* * *

Sybil didn't know how she had the courage to enter the dining room that evening. Should she tell Humphrey? How would he take the fact that his highly anticipated heir was a peeping Tom? That he had spied on her in her bedroom and leered at her naked. For he hadn't looked away in shame. Oh no, he'd continued to stare right at her.

Her stomach roiled. At his contempt? His disgust? When he addressed her in future he'd think only of her old, ugly body while he pretended the requisite courtesies.

She knew she should face him with regal hauteur but her embarrassment was too acute.

"Mama, come and look at Lady Zena." Hetty leaped to her feet when Sybil entered the drawing room. "Isn't she a darling?" she demanded as she ran across the Wilton carpet to drag Sybil to the corner where Araminta—and, lord forbid—Cousin Stephen were crowded 'round what looked to be a bird's cage.

Sybil could not meet his eye. She should make clear her indignation and outrage but she lacked the courage. Was he embarrassed that he'd been caught peeping? Or did he imagine her such a mouse that she'd say nothing?

Running a hand across her heated brow, Sybil forced herself to attend to Hetty's prattle while acutely conscious of the young man's strong, lithe body only feet from her. Her brain whirled with questions. Why had he spied on her? And—not that it should matter, but...how badly had he been repulsed?

"We were quite certain poor Cousin Stephen was going to break his neck," Araminta said, casting a surprisingly warm glance at the young man. "Then Hetty wanted to run into your room to see if we could help him through the window as it was your sill he was clinging to."

Sybil stiffened. "What did you say, Araminta?"

"Mama, you are so vague," Araminta huffed. "I said that Cousin Stephen rescued Lady Zena, the canary he gave to us this afternoon, after it flew out of its cage and landed on your windowsill."

"He was so daring and insisted the bird would come to him if he could get close enough," said Hetty. "He climbed right up to your bedchamber. I'm surprised you didn't see him."

"But he was in such a hurry to climb down again he twisted his ankle when he landed," said Araminta.

Cousin Stephen cleared his throat. "All's well that ends well and no damage was done, I assure you, Lady Partington."

Oh dear Lord, he was looking directly at her, a faint smile playing about his beautifully formed lips.

What was wrong with her? He certainly didn't look disgusted. In fact...well, the very opposite.

"I hope you didn't object to my surprise, Lady Partington."

"No, I—" Sybil could utter nothing coherent, she was so overcome with confusion. Her embarrassment only increased when Mr. Cranborne added, "I mean, to my giving the girls a bird."

Oh, Lord. Did he imagine she'd misinterpreted him? Well, she had...for just a second. "A bird?" she croaked. "No, of course not. No objections, nothing to object to, that is—is there?"

"I hoped you'd feel that way."

His response was so soothing. Meanwhile she was acting like a flustered peagoose whose feathers were being gently stroked.

With unexpected relief she welcomed Humphrey, who joined them in the drawing room, saying, "I trust you had a pleasant afternoon, Stephen, and that the ladies have entertained you."

"I've been vastly entertained, my lord." The young man bowed, glancing at Sybil as he raised his head. Was he making fun of her? A young man seeing a woman more than ten years older than himself in such a state? No, she was imagining it. He was looking at Araminta beside her. How could she have imagined he'd even bother making fun of a woman old enough to be his mother? Well, nearly old enough.

Smoothly, he continued the conversation he'd obviously had earlier with Humphrey. "I should enjoy joining you for an afternoon ride tomorrow, my lord. Riding is one of the things I like best, in fact."

"Excellent, excellent." There was an encouraging degree of enthusiasm in Humphrey's tone.

Sybil knew how relieved he was that Stephen was so unlike Edgar. Stephen was strong, tall, handsome and apparently capable. Levelheaded and considered. Unlike chuckle-headed, indecisive Edgar.

"Cousin Stephen, there is something I'd like to show you." It was Araminta, using her voice like a lure.

Sybil wondered by what method she'd honed her considerable powers of attraction when her mother had none. Sybil could not even entice her husband into her bed to try for another son.

The young people drifted over to the window seat, Hetty's presence like a gooseberry, it soon became clear.

Humphrey chuckled as he took a seat beside Sybil near the fire. "Araminta is clearly delighted with her cousin."

Sybil smiled. "They look a fine couple. What man would not fall in love with Araminta? Cousin Stephen looks taken with her."

"A good thing since our young lady has her sights set on him. And Araminta always gets what she wants." The warm gaze Humphrey directed at their daughter was some solace. He looked very at home leaning back against the blue silk upholstery and she was struck by how rarely he inhabited this domestic domain, amongst his legitimate family.

Impulsively, Sybil said, "Our daughter is very lovely, Humphrey. You must be proud of her."

She closed her eyes to enjoy the warmth of the fire then opened them again to gaze about the handsomely decorated drawing room with its Chippendale furniture, oil paintings and sumptuous Aubusson carpet. Any mother of two healthy marriageable daughters—who was in good health, herself— would consider it a domestic dream come true.

All that was missing was love.

And respect.

"Proud indeed. Now, about this evening, my dear." He turned the subject and Sybil's heart thudded to the pit of her stomach when he said, "I'll be out late so don't expect me at breakfast."

"But Humphrey, it's Stephen's first night—"

"And he's had a tiring day so will sleep late. We've made arrangements to go riding the day after."

The dinner gong sounded. "Of course, Humphrey," she said, beckoning to the girls then, as the most senior lady, taking Stephen's arm so he could lead her into dinner.

Her spirits were so weighed down she could barely put one leg in front of the other.

"I hope I am not the reason you look so downcast, my lady," she heard Stephen whisper and was surprised at the kindness in his expression. The fine, arched eyebrows that she imagined could deliver such disdain—and surely such a handsome young man delivered that in spade loads—were angled above eyes that were warm with compassion.

Two footmen threw open the double doors and Sybil raised her head like the lady of the manor, which for most of her life made her feel like such a sham.

With surprise, she registered the light touch of Stephen's hand over hers in what seemed almost, though not quite, far too familiar a gesture under the circumstances. "I'm sorry to have discomposed you, Lady Partington. Please don't be angry with me."

Heat rose in her cheeks. "Of course not," she murmured, wondering how anyone could be angry with him as she held his look for just a second. He was lovely.

Araminta obviously thought so too as she waxed lyrical about the original manor house, which had been added to over the centuries, the fine library of books—most of which she intimated she'd read, which was nonsense, of course.

To his credit, Stephen appeared entranced so that by the end of the evening, when the ladies and gentlemen reconvened in the drawing room, Humphrey cornered Sybil in a dark corner and said, "What a satisfactory evening, my dear. Araminta turned on the charm like I've never seen before."

"Then you don't see enough of her." Sybil knew there was no point in shaming him, so she added, "And Stephen appeared taken."

Humphrey dismissed her comment and went on in his usual distracted manner, though to discuss their eldest daughter, which was a change.

Araminta was seated near the fire and had elicited Stephen's help in winding a skein of wool into a ball she could work with. From time to time the rhythm was broken either by the inexperience or deliberate offices of her cousin, and Araminta, with an arch look, would stop her winding to untangle the wool from around his fingers. This obviously involved a degree of surreptitious intimacy, which brought amusement to Humphrey's eyes.

"That girl is tempting fate," he remarked. "Sybil, you'll have to talk to him."

"Me?" The idea of broaching the topic to which he alluded was horrifying at the best of times and now was not the best of times.

Humphrey frowned. "It's hardly something _I_ would discuss with Stephen, my dear. Araminta needs to tread carefully. Have you heard whispers as to why she cut her season short?"

Sybil shook her head.

"Really, Sybil, you have your head in the clouds. Isn't that an essential role of a mother? To have one's ears to the ground for the first sign of trouble?" Irritated perhaps by Sybil's blush of shame more than anything else, he went on, "There are whispers that the only reason young Inglesham's heir shot himself was because Araminta turned him down—"

"But Humphrey, that's perfectly obvious. I knew that."

"If you would let me finish." Humphrey was never angry with her but his regular irritation was a thorn in her flesh. Forcing herself to patiently accept his inevitable censure, Sybil waited.

"Word is that his pockets weren't deep enough for Araminta's ambition." He raised an eyebrow and nodded as if Sybil had already corroborated his horror. "Indeed, word is that Araminta boasted she'd not accept anyone with under a hundred thousand or who wouldn't build her an exact replica of The Grange."

Sybil gasped and would have said something to defend her daughter, whom she knew was probably entirely guilty of such charges, only Humphrey cut her off. "Apparently our daughter had returned to this nonsense of hers about seeing if she couldn't whip Edgar into shape. Edgar! Can you imagine Araminta marrying that dweedlenap? Lord knows I shouldn't speak ill of the dead but I'm glad he—"

"No, Stephen, you mustn't say it."

Humphrey snorted but changed the subject. "It's your duty to warn Stephen to take care. Tell him he must adhere strictly to the gentleman's code. That is, unless he intends to make Araminta an offer sooner rather than later, which may be entirely possible since most men seem unable to resist the girl's charms."

Sybil nodded miserably. "Yes, Humphrey."

"Good." He rose, then, and moved toward the door, saying over his shoulder, "In fact, I've already mentioned you'd like to speak to him on a private matter."

Sybil felt like she was shrivelling up inside in horror at the mere thought of such a thing.

The only person who could possibly know how she felt was Hetty. Plump, ungainly Hetty, who always tried too hard was a younger version of herself, Sybil thought sadly as she studied her youngest child, deep in conversation with Lady Zena. Who else was there to talk to, after all? A great surge of tenderness welled up in her breast as she contemplated Hetty's prospects during her forthcoming debut in just a couple of months.

The girl's dowry was not insignificant. She'd in all likelihood find a husband but it was unlikely to be one who'd offer her his heart with the same enthusiasm he offered her marriage in expectation of the financial rewards that would come his way.

The idea of vibrant, enthusiastic, loving Hetty living a life like hers—a life without love—was almost too hard to bear.

Sybil turned away, afraid of being unmasked in this vulnerable moment. It was time to make her exit and leave the young people to themselves. They were cousins. They should get to know one another.

As she rose to leave, Araminta called from across the room. "Mama, are you going to bed? I forgot to tell you that I saw Mrs. Wilcock in the village today. She asked after you and says Mrs. Hazlett is selling Bunty. You know I've always loved that horse. I thought you could suggest to Papa that he buy her for me."

Clearly misinterpreting Sybil's look, she went on impatiently, "You know who I'm talking about, surely? Mrs. Hazlett with the fine brown hair, who lives in the house closest to the bridge."

Could Araminta really not know?

Sybil damped down her horror. "Why should she want to sell Bunty?" It was a rhetorical question. All Sybil wanted was to make a hasty exit and never have to hear about Mrs. Hazlett ever again.

"She's going away. Mrs. Wilcock said she was suffering fainting and dizzy spells and the only cure for such a malady was nine months' rest."

Sybil fixed Araminta with a beady look. Was her daughter taunting her? Was she saying what Sybil thought she was saying? Surely Araminta was not so naïve?

It appeared she was. Certainly it appeared one could be a minx and a jade without knowing a thing about the realities of life.

Undaunted by her mother's lack of enthusiasm, Araminta went on, "Mrs. Hazlett is going away for nine months, according to Mrs. Wilcock, and taking her eldest daughter with her so they're selling that lovely bay. Do you think if I ask Papa he'll buy it for me?"

"Oh, I'm quite sure he will if it'll benefit Mrs. Hazlett," Sybil said with more venom than was wise. "Good night Cousin Stephen, girls." With a curt nod, she turned on her heel and hurried up the passage.

Mrs. Hazlett's lack of feeling up to the mark was something Sybil could empathize with. Her fainting spells and nausea were another thing altogether. Maladies Sybil herself should be suffering—if only Humphrey would let her.

She cast herself onto the bed as soon as she gained the privacy of her room and began to sob.

Humphrey had deemed an heir from another line of the family preferable to intimacy with Sybil. Not even the familiarity of twenty years could overcome his aversion. She was a repugnant old woman who couldn't even tempt a husband desperate to beget an heir.

Mary came in a few minutes later and helped her mistress out of her clothes and into her nightdress. Though she made soothing noises in response to Sybil's obvious recent tears and told her there'd be better days ahead, she could not understand and Sybil was too proud to make a confidante of anyone, even a trusted retainer who'd been with her for more than a decade.

She was just drifting off to sleep when a cursory knock was followed by the door being pushed open. Araminta drifted across the carpet and sat at her dressing table, looking at her reflection rather than at her mother as she said, "Cousin Stephen is very nice, don't you think? Much nicer than Edgar." She shuddered. "I'd have hated to marry Edgar but now I'll have a dashing husband and still call The Grange home and live here as mistress of the manor. You'd live in the gatehouse once you're a dowager, of course."

Sybil listened to Araminta's excited prattle and through bleary, tear-filled eyes, watched her confident daughter uncoil her hair as she extoled the many virtues of the "next Viscount Partington", who it never occurred to her wouldn't see her as the best candidate for his viscountess.

"Perhaps your Cousin Stephen is already attached, Araminta, dear," Sybil suggested almost diffidently.

Araminta just shrugged her shoulders and replied, "Well, he's not married and that's all that counts."

Finally the girl rose, her sigh of satisfaction suggesting that all was nicely in order in her world, and Sybil heaved a sigh of relief that she'd soon be able to close her eyes on this perfectly awful day.

But Araminta wasn't done yet. "Mama, you will remember to tell Papa he must buy Mrs. Hazlett's mare for me, won't you?"

# Chapter 4

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."

# Chapter 5

"Edgar?" Sybil's hand flew to her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to bring all attention upon this side of the room. "Oh, my dear Lord," she whispered, her head reeling, while Humphrey choked.

He seemed unable to offer Porter any coherent response as to what should be done so Sybil managed, "You'll have to show him in, of course."

For what else was there to do?

The intervening moments before he appeared were like a ghastly nightmare. Suddenly the future of The Grange and its inhabitants seemed like a boat tossed upon stormy seas. Edgar had not the brains to _ever_ know how to run an estate properly or the understanding to treat his position with the care and respect Humphrey showed. Humphrey might not love his wife but he was utterly committed to his duty in ensuring the future of his inheritance.

Footsteps rang out in the corridor. Humphrey looked at Sybil as if to garner courage.

Then the door was flung open and Edgar appeared beside Porter, pushing his way in with the careless familiarity of youth, saying cheerily, "Uncle, Aunt..."

For the moment both Sybil and Humphrey were rendered mute.

Rising from his bow, Edgar's myopic blue eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "You thought I'd copped a bullet and slipped off this mortal coil, didn't you, eh, wot?" His vacuous grin—at least, that's how Sybil had always thought of it—was twisted with pleasure at having "gammoned" them—his favorite term—as he sauntered forward with the unconscious confidence that everyone must be delighted to see him.

"Edgar!" cried Hetty, bursting off the sofa in a cloud of muslin skirts, the ends of her pink silk sash flying behind her as she threw herself into his arms. "We thought you were dead! Why, what a marvelous dream come true to see that you're not!"

Sybil and Humphrey exchanged glances and in that rare moment it was clear that both were of one mind.

Never had such a disastrous day befallen the Grange and its inhabitants.

* * *

A guest room was quickly prepared. Stephen excused himself as discreetly as he could, Araminta leaving five minutes later after an obviously forced greeting with the cousin she'd believed dead. Of course Edgar did not notice. Edgar was only ever conscious of the pleasure people evinced at seeing him, preening at their compliments and laughing at the results of his painful attempts to make others laugh.

Which was why Hetty and he had always been such fast friends. Since they were toddlers of the same age they'd enjoyed silly jokes and antics. The only difference was that Hetty had grown up.

Still, she was clearly just as devoted, Sybil realized with rising desperation as she gazed from her window at the pair the following morning, strolling across the lawns, heads bent, deep in conversation.

And the longer she watched, the more her heart weighed her down like a stone, for there was Araminta coming toward them, smiling as Sybil had never seen her smile at her "detestable" cousin before.

_Surely not_ , she thought. Surely Araminta could never compromise her heart to that extent? Not even to become mistress of The he Grange, when with her beauty a season in London would snare her an elevated match.

Helplessly, Sybil scanned the expansive lawns in search of Stephen. Poor Stephen had nothing, now, when until last night the world had been his oyster.

But Sybil could see no sign of Stephen. No, Araminta was striding purposefully toward her sister and cousin and even from this distance Sybil could see the care with which she plastered on her smile, for indeed, her pleasure in Edgar's company did not come naturally.

She steeled herself for Hetty's inevitable letdown, more conscious of Hetty's reaction than anyone else's, as Araminta insinuated herself into their cozy pairing, taking Edgar's arm and ever so subtly tugging him away from Hetty.

For a moment Edgar and Hetty exchanged looks. Confusion was written on both faces. But too quickly Edgar's attention was fully claimed by Araminta. He laughed at something she said, his fickle nature swayed, as ever, by such a convincing show of interest. Hetty's silent devastation was profound, Sybil could see it, and not for the first time did she rail silently and impotently against the injustice of life. Hetty deserved so much more than she would ever get. For every victor, someone gasped the pain of defeat. In this case Humphrey, Araminta and Edgar had the world at their feet.

And quite literally this was because Sybil, Stephen and Hetty lay there, the vanquished byproducts of their pleasure.

* * *

So, the dream was over.

The morning breeze was chilly as Stephen looked dismally at the grand, squat building before him and contemplated not what might have been, but what lay before him.

Pragmatic by nature, he was glad he'd had only a short time in which to weave the fairy tale shattered by the sudden arrival of Lord Partington's _no-longer-dead_ closest male relative. Even during the first few weeks after he'd received His Lordship's letter, he'd not truly believed in his good fortune.

So really, he tried to console himself, it was only in the week since he'd been at The Grange that he'd begun to harbor the aspirations he now must temper. Not sufficient time to allow his dreams to soar. He'd get used to his new reality and make the most of future opportunities. In the past year he'd learned to live more frugally and the creditors weren't beating at his door.

Remembering his debt to Sir Archie brought his spirits crashing down. Would Lord Partington still be of a mind to assist him? After all, he was nothing but a distant relative now.

He was surprised to see Lord Partington make his ponderous way across the lawn toward him, the large man leaning heavily on his silver-topped cane. A twitch at the curtain in Her Ladyship's boudoir made him look up. Was she watching, and if so, with relief or disappointment? Stephen knew young Edgar had been viewed with disfavor and not considered a suitable candidate to replace his uncle. After what he'd observed last night, Stephen could understand why. The boy was a nod-cock. But a nod-cock who would inherit all this. He'd have money and advisors—if he'd listen to them.

"What are your plans now, Stephen?" Lord Partington's voice was heavy. The exertion of crossing the wide expanse of lawn had taken its toll and he held his hand to his chest. "My heart is murmuring its displeasure," he added. "Never been strong but last night's unpleasant surprise did it no favors."

Stephen stared at Lady Partington's window as he replied, "I'll leave tonight, of course, my lord." He found himself distracted by his thoughts of Her Ladyship's feelings regarding his departure.

Then remembered he had bigger disappointments.

Araminta.

Strange, he'd barely thought about her this morning, or the inevitability of losing her when she'd so nearly become his wife.

"You've had no time to organize where you'll go or what you'll do. You can't possibly leave tonight."

Stephen shifted his gaze to His Lordship's concerned one. "When Edgar learns that I've been here in his stead he'll want me gone yesterday."

"Edgar is not lord of the manor." The viscount did not trouble to hide his scorn. "If I could organize it any other way, he never would be. I'd go to my grave sanguine, at least at this stage, to know you were the one carrying on my legacy." He snorted. "But that buffle-head doesn't know the difference between a feather and a fountain pen."

"Araminta will explain it to him. At least you have that comfort. She's a clever girl." Stephen was surprised he did not suffer the regret he'd have imagined. "Her ambition will ensure Edgar doesn't gamble the estate away."

Lord Partington glowered. "She's throwing herself away. Besides, the boy's in love with Hetty. Always has been. Now Hetty's about to be thrown onto the pyre of my eldest daughter's ambition."

"Championing the love match?" Stephen spoke flippantly.

To his surprise His Lordship responded, carefully, "In my old age, yes." He rubbed his chin. "I'm fond of Hetty. Always have been. Reminds me of my favorite aunt. Dear Aunt Dotty. Completely hopeless romantic, never married. Died last year, but utterly wonderful to me in my mama's absence. Mama was admired by many but she was a terrible parent."

He gave a small laugh. "I'd like to see Hetty marry Edgar if it'd make her happy but of course Araminta won't have it. No, she's determined to marry the heir. You must be disappointed."

Stephen shrugged. "Not as much as I'd expected. In a way it comes as a relief, though I'd have uncomplainingly been led to the altar. Araminta is impressive. We'd have made a good match—her forcefulness and ambition and my contentment to be allied to a beautiful, determined woman who'd allow me my pleasures within reason."

"Not if they ran counter to hers," His Lordship warned.

Stephen shrugged. "Araminta clearly loves The Grange and I think I could spend the bulk of my time in the country if I had an agreeable wife. I like the insects here," he added as an afterthought. "Odd, I know, but I think I'd have been quite content to study them instead of wildly pursuing London revels. I shall be quite the eccentric in a few years."

"Come now. You have more ambition than that. You're a clever man. But Araminta would have demanded you take her to London on her terms. You've been spared that, at least." Lord Partington deliberated before adding, "You'll have to stay another ten days at least."

"Why's that?"

"The house party. It's been arranged. Floppy Ledger's son and some of his cronies will be coming to stay." At Stephen's frown he went on, "To run the spiders, of course. You need to pay your debt or prove it's he who owes you a thousand. Given your knowledge of our arachnid friends I'm looking forward to watching young Ledger hoisted on his own petard." He looked serious. "I want to see you leave here in the best possible position now that you're out on your ear thanks to Edgar's luck in dodging the bullet that should have got him."

* * *

Never had Sybil so desperately desired anyone to extend their visit—a far cry from when Humphrey had first announced his plans to introduce the "new heir".

Stephen had represented her failure. But to be replaced by caper-witted Edgar now threatened the fabric of existence.

And Edgar's greatest crime? He was breaking Hetty's heart.

Sybil was spying on them from the Long Gallery, sitting on the cushioned window seat, pretending to read a book but surreptitiously studying the young people in the distance.

Of course it was wrong, but she was desperate that her youngest daughter find the happiness she so deserved. If only Edgar were stronger and realized Araminta would have him for breakfast. Instead, right there in front of her, Hetty's disillusionment was turning into utter devastation.

The now familiar scenario was being played over again. In the walkway below the Long Gallery Sybil watched Hetty and Edgar gravitate naturally toward one another. She saw the easy pleasure in their greeting and their amiable manner in taking a seat to chat in the arbor between the ornamental pear trees.

She'd not realized she'd exclaimed aloud until Stephen made his presence known.

"Spying, Lady Partington?" He sounded amused, so while she was aware of her blushes she was able to smile back at him.

"A concerned mama will afford herself any opportunity if she's able to justify it as that...rather than prurient interest."

"I think most of us are guilty of both from time to time." He took up position at her left shoulder and together they watched Araminta join her sister and cousin, her smile directed at Edgar.

Hetty, who had until then been the focus of Edgar's animated chatter, turned at her sister's intrusion. Her smile was in place but her worried expression revealed her feelings.

Stephen lowered his head and asked Sybil softly, "Do you think Cousin Hetty understands what's happening?"

Sybil was surprised by his perspicacity and his boldness in articulating such a question. Now, he was going and she was sorry for it, though he'd have no idea just how sorry.

"I'm surprised your comment concerns Hetty when I thought Araminta was the daughter of most interest to you." She raised her eyebrows inquiringly. "Surely you consider yourself a more enticing candidate than her cousin Edgar?"

"Oh, I know I am," he answered with assurance. "I'm sorry to see my inheritance go and if I thought Miss Araminta's ten thousand would make me happy I'd do all I could to persuade her out of her determination to become mistress of The Grange at any cost."

Sybil's heart was already in the process of disintegrating when he added, "She's too young to see that she'll make them all unhappy: Hetty, Edgar and not least, herself. You do know, of course, that there's no way Hetty will win this. Araminta will succeed in wresting Edgar's affections from Hetty with the merest crook of her finger. It's clear Edgar is that kind of man."

Sybil nodded sadly. "Edgar is not very clever and he's terribly susceptible to flattery." She rubbed her eyes. "Araminta will marry Edgar before two months is up, I know it. She was prepared to forgo the season to marry you, Cousin Stephen." She blushed then added, "Perhaps that was premature since you'd not offered. Yet you gave every indication. Are you desperately disappointed?"

He angled his body closer. Very close, she noted, but then he'd always seemed very comfortable with her. "I'm desperately disappointed not to be inheriting all this." He gave an expressive sweep of his arm. "But I'm not desperately disappointed that I'm not marrying Cousin Araminta." He hesitated and Sybil considered what a strong, determined jaw he had in contrast to his sensitive mouth and the depth of feeling in his eyes right now. "I would have, though, and happily enough, if that's what she wanted."

"So your heart is not engaged elsewhere? I was afraid Araminta completely overlooked the possibility, that you had perhaps met a worthy young lady in your travels but decided the benefits of marrying Araminta outweighed those earlier considerations."

"No, no, I'm not the kind to put ambition above the workings of my heart. That said, I've never really been in love, I don't think. Nevertheless, I have admired many women. You included, Lady Partington."

She didn't think she'd been more surprised in her life and was conscious of her virtual squeak as she responded.

It seemed to amuse him and he went on, "You don't, of course, do yourself the justice you deserve. Araminta wouldn't be nearly so desirable if her self-confidence were stripped away. It's poor Hetty's problem. Did you notice how pretty she looked when she was talking to Edgar?"

Sybil nodded sadly and Stephen added with a shrug, "My mother was a confident beauty. More confident, perhaps, than beautiful, but men are drawn to women who believe in themselves."

"You seem older than your years," Sybil murmured. She studied the young man beside her with renewed admiration.

"And you seem younger than yours."

They laughed and Sybil felt she was watching from outside herself as she deliberately placed her hand over Mr. Cranborne's which was resting against the window pane. It was meant to be a gesture of solidarity for the difficult position in which he found himself. "You'll surprise us all. Indeed, Cousin Stephen, I imagine you'll go far. Humphrey will secure you a position in London. He was talking about it—that's if you're interested. I'm sorry I dismissed you as no better than the rest when you first came here."

"Did you?" He turned towards her, his fingers curling around her hand. She hadn't expected that or the frisson of electricity that skimmed up her arm. "Thank you, Lady Partington, for your support. I may need it one day. Indeed, your husband has been good to me. He's having a house party in ten days to invite some people to whom I owe money. He plans to use the occasion to reverse my debt."

She used the excuse of surprise to change the subject as she discreetly she withdrew her hand. "You'll just lose more." Forcing herself to sound censorious she nevertheless acknowledged that he was young and no worse than most men.

"Please don't sound so disappointed in me, my lady."

"Not in you." She floundered. She _was_ disappointed but not for the reasons he surmised. "So, you'll leave in ten days? Perhaps, in the interim, you'll persuade Araminta of your address over Edgar's."

"I doubt I'll do that, and in fact, nor do I want to. The debt, by the way, involves no outlay on my part, for your husband is determined that this will vindicate me and merely settle a score."

At her look of inquiry, he went on, "I was cheated when the outcome of a pair of house spiders' mating ritual was engineered."

This made her blush but she hurried on, "Humphrey is quite the man of science. It would appeal to him to recreate the experiment, if it could be done." Warmly, she added, "I'll keep my eye out for courting house spiders."

Mr. Cranborne moved closer and to her extraordinary surprise put his hands on her cheeks and kissed her forehead. "That would be much appreciated, Lady Partington."

The touch of his lips could be felt long after he'd gone.

She sat, staring at him—stupidly, no doubt—while her heart beat an irregular tattoo.

Was this the way he'd take his leave of a favorite aunt? That must be it, of course.

* * *

It seemed Humphrey shared Sybil's considerable concern over the new situation with regard to their daughters. At any rate, she assumed this must be the reason he joined her for tea several days later. It was a lovely afternoon and she'd had the servants take table and chairs onto the lawn so she could relax beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat and survey the world. Ten minutes later Humphry took the vacant chair opposite hers and began to converse with her quite amiably.

"Where is everybody?" he inquired, stirring the cup of tea she'd poured him.

He'd barely finished the question before they were disturbed by animated voices and the young people rounded the shrubbery, traversing the gravel path that circled the rose bushes about twenty yards away.

Humphrey's gaze narrowed over the top of his tea cup. "Do you think Araminta will succeed in her quest?" He sounded grim.

"She has always been determined to reign over The Grange."

"But at what cost?"

Sybil was surprised at his vehemence. Humphrey never criticized his eldest daughter. Now he was championing his youngest, which was rare.

Humphrey shook his head. "Hetty's worn her heart on her sleeve for years. She pined for Edgar when he went to war and she was still grieving for him when he came home. I saw the joy in her face when he walked through the door, a feeling I can tell you I was far from sharing. Just look at Araminta now. Why, she's shameless."

Araminta had tucked her hand into the crook of Edgar's arm and he was mooning at her like the most devoted acolyte. Behind them trailed Hetty, looking miserable and superfluous.

A flicker of hope ignited in Sybil's heart. Humphrey never spoke so vehemently about anything regarding the family—except when he'd expressed relief at news of Edgar's supposed death. The following day he'd begun his search for Stephen.

"There's nothing we can do, Humphrey," she said patiently, wishing it weren't true.

"I don't know why young Stephen can't satisfy her," he grumbled. "He's dashing and charming and seemed taken with the idea of having Araminta as a tenant for life."

Sybil knew he was well aware of the answer but she replied anyway. "He won't make her mistress of The Grange and nor is he swimming in lard, Humphrey. Araminta is used to getting what she wants and Edgar is easy prey."

Humphrey glowered as he replaced his cup in its saucer with a loud chink. "God help us all, for an unhappy lot we're destined to be."

# Chapter 6

_W hat an unhappy lot we're destined to be._

Sybil couldn't get her husband's words out of her head. She watched the young people disappear into the house. Stephen was nowhere in sight. The knowledge he'd be here a few days more would have been comforting had she thought he had a chance of winning Araminta over.

The sad truth, however, was that Stephen had not enough affection for Araminta to be fired by the chase and Araminta...well, Araminta was determined and stubborn. She wanted to become mistress of The Grange, and that was that. Sybil rather suspected that Araminta liked the idea of being wed to someone weak and pliable like Edgar whom she could thoroughly rule over.

It was also clear that Araminta was succeeding nicely in winning Edgar's heart, which he was now wearing on his sleeve. Throughout dinner his attention skipped to his alluring elder cousin every time she made a remark.

With the eagle eyes of a concerned parent, Sybil did not miss the consequent slump of Hetty's shoulders.

When Araminta voiced a learned opinion on the prime minister, Edgar's echoed, "Yes, dreadful man, Lord Liverpool," would have been comical had it not been indicative of how easily led the boy was. It boded ill for all of them and the future of the estate.

Stephen kept his thoughts to himself. Perhaps he'd schooled his expression so as not to betray the contempt which Sybil saw on her husband's face. Hetty wore a mask of despair. She'd never been able to conceal her feelings and Sybil's heart bled for her youngest. Edgar might not have been the husband she'd have chosen for Hetty but at least they might have made one another happy. Together, Araminta and Edgar would be a disaster.

After dinner the party broke up and the young people went to the billiard room.

Again, Sybil was surprised when Humphrey joined her in the drawing room after he'd had his port and coffee. He'd been a far better companion since Lizzy Hazlett's departure.

It was a bolstering thought.

"Well, my dear, we're living through interesting times," he remarked as he led her to her seat. "My guess is there'll be an announcement before the week."

"My guess is sooner. Oh, Humphrey." Sybil sighed as she sank into her chair and sent him a searching look. "What can we do? I deplore the situation as much as you do. When Stephen first arrived I admit I was angry and upset. Here he was, taking George's place. Now I'm utterly devastated that his position has been usurped." She reflected on how the young heir-in-waiting had conducted himself. With thoughtfulness and dignity, despite what had happened to cause Sybil such embarrassment. She put her hands to her cheeks to ensure there was no betraying warmth there before she added, "At least with Stephen holding the reigns you'd have had the comfort of knowing you left the estate in good hands."

Humphrey hovered by her side. How rarely Sybil enjoyed the attentions of her husband, and how sad that this magnificent room with its intricately worked plaster ceiling and sumptuous furnishings was used so little.

Stephen would have made excellent use of it. He had taste and soul.

And kindness.

She wondered where that thought had come from. And then wondered at Stephen's uncertain destiny. He had taken his change in fortune with remarkable fortitude.

Humphrey began to pace in front of the fire. With a start, Sybil noticed that his shoulders appeared more stooped. Had he grown older without her noticing? Hardly surprising since she saw him so little.

He grunted. "Stephen is so like his father Reginald, my cousin, an excellent man. A little wild in his youth but a good, steady fellow with a clever head on his shoulders. Reginald's biggest mistake was his eye for the ladies." His own glittered when he glanced at Sybil. "The crafty piece he married tricked him into it. Stephen's mother."

At least Sybil was not guilty of such a charge. It was Humphrey who'd tricked her into believing he'd at least try to play the role of husband.

Her husband went on, "I feared Stephen might have taken after her which was behind my initial reluctance to seek him out. However once I met him I realized he'd inherited his father's traits. You're right, he'd have made an excellent job of managing the estate, both in my dotage and when I die."

Moving to the sideboard, he poured them both another drink. "Now, Edgar has returned, threatening to destroy everything my forebears worked so hard to build up. Even with Araminta guiding him, he won't know how to curb his impulses. Indeed, I'm not sure I have that much faith in Araminta's level head. No, it's a disaster all 'round."

"And Hetty," Sybil added sadly. Hetty's bruised and broken heart concerned her as much as the matter of the estate.

"And Hetty. But there you are. There's nothing to be done." He spoke with the finality of one about to excuse himself for the night. In a sudden burst of bravery, Sybil detained him with, "We could try one last time, Humphrey."

His puzzled frown in response to her words and the arm she extended towards him suggested he wasn't sure what she was saying.

She felt herself color up as she whispered, "I'm not too old to have a child, Humphrey. We both know that."

What remained unsaid was that they both knew how difficult it was for Humphrey to do what was necessary. When he began to dissemble Sybil knew the time had come for plain speaking.

Studying the openwork design on her skirts, she said carefully, "The last time we tried, Humphrey—three months ago, as I recall it—you said the fault lay with you and there was little point in trying again. But I can be as patient and forgiving as you like if it'll provide an heir that will remove Edgar. Mrs. Hazlett has gone away to have a baby. No, there's nothing to be said. I know it's scandalous of me to mention it but I have to say my piece if I believe it's for the good of the estate. If Mrs. Hazlett can have your baby, Humphrey, surely you can bring yourself to try..." She swallowed, stared desperately at his closed expression then burst out, "Surely you could try and give me one too."

Clenching her hands, she waited, expectation rising alarmingly within her as her husband stared at her. Nothing was more important to Humphrey than the future of the estate. Surely he could bring himself to sufficiently overcome his aversion toward intimacy with Sybil to at least _try_ for such a practical solution?

The regret in his face was almost more than she could bear. Sybil had been rejected many times in her life but this was the most painful.

Swallowing down her tears, she rose, feeling suddenly like an old woman as she walked towards the Argand lamp. "I will not let you see me cry—again," she whispered as she dimmed the light, unable to face him again as she whispered, "Do I disgust you _so_ much?"

He understood the depth of the pain he inflicted on her. She could hear it in his voice though she still could not look at him. He was not a bad man but in that moment she hated him, a feeling quickly tempered by sorrow. She could never truly hate Humphrey, who now said in a low, almost emotionless voice, "You have never disgusted me, Sybil. Other men have complimented me on my lovely, easy-tempered wife and their admiration has always fuelled _my_ self-disgust, for I'm not insensible to what I've denied you." He sighed and a note of tenderness crept into his tone. "But I cannot bring myself to regard you as other than a companionable helpmate. My affections were engaged before I met you and I find myself utterly unable to perform as a husband to any other than the woman I fell in love with. The fault is not yours. Please, Sybil, don't cry. I can't bear it."

Wearily, she returned to her chair and put her forehead into her hands. Her burst of hopefulness—both that she might provide the longed-for heir and a solution to all their troubles as well as a possibility that she need not always feel so useless—turned to dust. So, that was that. "Then, I'm to grow old, watching Edgar drive the estate into the mire, denied love because of your loyalty to your mistress." She heaved in a breath; almost remained silent, then asked in a low, desperate whisper, "Is that any way to live life, Humphrey?"

Clearly he could take no more such talk for he rose to his feet. On his way to the door, however, he hesitated by the back of her chair as if he might reach out and touch her. He did not but his words were thick with regret. "I'm sorry, Sybil. I wish it were different. I wish you could find happiness in the position to which I condemned you."

She swallowed painfully, glad she could not see him. "I cannot even take a lover, though lord knows I've never been tempted since all I ever wanted was to be a good wife to you."

Upon the threshold, he turned. "If George had not died I'd have had an heir and yes, Sybil, I'd have sanctioned a liaison that would have made you happy. It's what you deserve and I know your loyalty prevents that, just as my loyalty is my own noose. But we cannot change the situation in which we find ourselves." He turned the door knob, adding under his breath, "God knows, I wish we could."

After Humphrey had gone Sybil remained in the dim drawing room. She could hear the laughter of the young people in the next room. Had she ever laughed like that? Had she ever once believed she might find happiness with a man? Of course she had. She'd not loved Humphrey but she'd been told love grew with time; that love was duty's reward. And she'd not been one of those foolish misses longing for romance and believing it a necessary precursor to marriage.

No, Sybil had been far more pragmatic. A dutiful daughter. It was the greatest compliment she'd ever been paid.

She'd been brought up to be hopeful. On the eve of her marriage to Humphrey she'd had the naive belief that through mutual duty, happiness would come to both of them.

A log sputtered in the fireplace sending a shower of tinders onto the hearth. Some sparked upon the Aubusson rug, threatening to singe it if the cinders were not swept up in time.

Perhaps in marriages around the country the husband would have been on hand to attend to the matter.

Instead, Sybil went down upon her knees and attended to the matter herself. Then, like an old woman, she hauled herself to her feet with the help of chair before wending her way through the corridors toward her private apartments.

In the Long Gallery, she stopped by the casement and stared out into the darkness, her candle casting a soft glow over the red plush cushions and the heavy brocade curtains. Along the walls, portraits of Humphrey's proud forebears seemed to glare their disapproval.

What would they make of all this?

Edgar, a simple, stupid boy was to become custodian of the small empire they had built. He would squander it all. Humphrey had acknowledged that. And Edgar would do his worst while breaking her youngest daughter's heart.

Meanwhile, Sybil's own heart was breaking. She had sacrificed happiness to do her duty by the man with whom her parents had contracted her in marriage all those years ago.

And all for nothing, it would now appear.

She turned at the sound of a soft footfall.

"I did not mean to disturb you, Lady Partington."

"Stephen." She forced a smile. For some strange reason it seemed important to make an effort for him.

He stopped a few feet from her. "I thought you were Hetty until I got close up. After watching her this evening, it seemed your youngest needed some comfort." His eyes were kind. "Now I see it's you and, if you don't mind my saying, I think _you_ look a little in need of comfort."

How commendable that he saw beyond the limits of his own disappointments. Nevertheless, she bypassed this as she tried for a flippant note. "So you thought I was Hetty until my haggard visage came into the light."

"I don't know why you disparage yourself, Lady Partington." There was both amusement and censure in his look. "When you are really quite lovely."

"Quite lovely!" She'd not meant to exclaim it as if she wished for confirmation or to hear his words again.

"It would appear you are not in the habit of receiving compliments."

"A woman of my age no longer receives compliments, Stephen." She put her hand to her heart, which was doing silly palpitations, and smoothed her dress. "Nor did I receive them when I was younger."

"Lord Partington married a beautiful woman and I've heard him compliment his daughters. Both of them. Perhaps you misinterpret his veiled form of flattery."

"I do not think the mistake is mine." Best to change the subject. She tried for briskness but the weight of her troubles could not be disguised. She sighed. "You're correct in surmising the state of poor Hetty's heart. She is bereft and I don't know what to do."

She was keenly aware of Stephen's nearness. He'd closed the distance between them. She put her hand to her face, hoping he'd not notice her heightened color. He'd scorn her if he knew what his close proximity did to her. An old woman. He must think of her as he would his mother.

"I wish I could help, Lady Partington." He shrugged, transferring his gaze from the severe visage of Araminta's paternal grandmother to Sybil's own. "Araminta is the most determined young lady I've met but as I've said before, I have no wish to change her mind."

"I wish you did." Sybil's tone was bleak. She suspected her life would be a great deal easier if she could settle her eldest daughter quickly and respectably. Araminta's beauty and headstrong nature had the potential to become a combustible combination.

But then, did she _really_ want Araminta allied to Stephen?

He quirked an eyebrow. "Why would you wish to promote a match between your eldest daughter and a penniless cousin? I have nothing to recommend me."

"Except a handsome face and a kind heart." Impulsively she put out her hand and touched his arm. "I did not properly appreciate you when you first arrived. I'm sorry." To her confusion he closed his hands around her wrist. Startled, she realised he stood so close she could feel his heat. And was aware of the scent of him: a mixture of bergamot—perhaps the soap he used. Or was it hair oil?—leather and brandy. Instantly she berated herself for delving so deeply into its components. It suggested far too great an interest.

"I know." He grinned down at her, she was still seated demurely on the windowsill but feeling more at sea than she could remember. "Does it take a lot to persuade you out of your prejudices, Lady Partington? You were wrong about me and you are wrong in your self-assessment, though it seems I cannot persuade you otherwise." While he spoke his thumb caressed the underneath of her wrist. It seemed he'd not noticed. Perhaps he was used to addressing desirable women in intimate situations like this. Perhaps he truly did think _her_ desirable. Hardly likely. The dim light had caused him to imagine her a generation younger.

"I've been made very welcome since I've come here. I only wish there was something I could do to help the family."

_Something I could do to help the family._

A thought that had lain repressed and dormant burst inside her head. He was voicing his desire to find a solution. She'd been mulling over solutions, Humphrey having dismissed her most practical and surely the simplest. Stephen was charming and handsome, the heir Humphrey had wished for. That is, if he could not bring himself to sire his own heir. And Stephen did not find Sybil repugnant.

In the instant before her careful self-censoring shutter closed upon her lips, brazen courage forced itself out of her depths. She whispered, "But there is."

She checked herself. Dear Lord, had she really uttered those words?

She must have for his head was tilted and his expression was one of inquiry.

She hesitated. No, she dare not say the words that trembled on her tongue, ready to spill out and brand her a faithless harlot; albeit a loyal wife.

One who now trembled with the brazenness of what she'd nearly proposed. Or did her sense of desperation stem from something quite different?

"You were about to say something, I believe, Lady Partington." His tone was measured. There was nothing to suggest he had any inkling of what she'd nearly said.

And yet his eyes danced with subtext. A suggestive smile tugged at his lips.

"It was nothing."

He nodded and she rose and half turned to look through the window, keenly conscious of him so close, now unable to look at him.

"So you are and Lord Partington have accepted that Edgar will be next to assume the role of custodian of all this."

"I don't think _accepted_ describes our feelings at all!" she burst out with rare energy, turning to find him regarding her with amusement.

Her shoulders slumped. "Resigned ourselves, perhaps."

"To the fact you are no longer able to provide his Lordship with another heir." Now, there was no amusement in his tone. The moment for playful suggestiveness had passed as he misinterpreted her meaning.

Fury, disappointment...a myriad of emotions coursed through her. She pressed her lips together but the words would not remain unsaid. "I could if only Humphrey—." A sinful admission no faithful wife should utter. But surely a faithful wife would do whatever was within her power to protect her husband's legacy?

She slanted a look at him and, seeing his frown of enquiry, went on in a rush before she could lose her nerve, "It's true, the only way to prevent Edgar from becoming the next heir is if I were to provide one." She flicked her tongue over dry lips. "We all know what a disaster having Edgar holding the reins would be."

Stephen nodded. He took a step closer, putting out a hand to tuck an escaped tendril of hair from behind her ear. Such an intimate gesture.

She froze, staring at him as he met her look, his eyes blazing with something she must be misinterpreting for if she'd had any experience of looking at desire, this would surely be it. Suddenly there seemed not enough air for the two of them. She put her hand to her throat and sucked in a breath, saying in a whisper, "If I am carrying the possible next heir, Araminta will relinquish Edgar and Hetty will be happy." Her heart thundered in her ears as she extended her arms towards him in her agitation. "If I am carrying the next heir the future of The Grange will be secure." She swallowed painfully, hesitated then burst out, "Will you help me, Stephen?"

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry—hysterically, of course—at the look on his face.

Dropping her hands, she stepped back quickly, "I have embarrassed you. I apologize. It is late and I do not know what I'm saying."

His hand shot out and he grasped her wrist, pulling her to him within the arc of his arm, cupping her face and lowering his head to within inches of hers, as if to study her better. To her astonishment, he smiled. Then, tilting his head, he asked in a slow, suggestive, sinful drawl, "Is that a proposition?"

Embarrassment washed over her, replaced by relief that he'd repeated the question, giving her the opportunity to withdraw with dignity. Thank God for his clear thinking, for she had never spoken more rashly in her life. Propositioning a younger man? What must he think of her?

Yet when she tried to snatch away her hand and draw away, muttering that she had no idea what had come over her, he would not relinquish her. A potent cocktail of mortification and fear churned in Sybil's belly, not eased when Stephen said softly, tugging her still closer and ignoring her babbled refutation, "If that is a proposition then the pleasure of it alone would be most enticing."

Sybil's upper teeth bit down hard upon her trembling lower lip. No, this was wrong. She wasn't even sure how she'd reached this point but it seemed he sensed she'd lost courage, for suddenly he was all tenderness, even though he did not release her. Gently, he put his finger to her lips and said, "With all due respect, Lady Partington, I was led to believe you were unable to provide His Lordship with an heir. It is of course the reason, I surmised, that I was invited here."

Sybil swayed, her eyes fluttering closed for a second as the blood rushed from her head to feel Stephen's arms about her shoulders, keeping her upright. Her world was tilting on its axis and there was a roaring in her ears as as she forced out the words, "Humphrey has kept a mistress since before we were married." She gathered her wits and straightened, staring at the stony faces of the forebears of the man whose family she had married into. All those portraits bearing Humphrey's traits. How ironic that history would judge _her_ for failing the continuation of the family dynasty. "Together he and I have had four children but when we tried for another child after George died, Humphrey was unable to...to..." She shrugged, unable to finish. Misery and shame washed over her. "This afternoon I begged him to try with me again." She looked down at her trembling hands, clasped across her stomach, conscious of the pity that must be so apparent on Stephen's face. Yet, when she did venture a glance at him his eyes crinkled with kindness, it seemed, before he nodded, slowly, for her to go on.

"He was very kind and apologetic," she murmured, "but made it clear it was quite out of the question. It seems the idea of being intimate with me is clearly so distasteful—"

She broke off as she felt Stephen's breath stir the hair at her temples. Gripping the tasseled edging of the green velvet curtains that swathed the window, she could barely believe what she was hearing.

"The idea of being... _intimate_ with you, Lady Partington is the very antithesis of distasteful." There was clear enjoyment in the way in which he relished the words. Even more so in the heavy emphasis of his next question. Raising one finely chiselled eyebrow above his fine gray eyes, he went on, "If that is indeed what you were suggesting?"

She could not break the lengthening silence.

He was giving her the opportunity to retract her proposition while making clear he liked the idea.

_Fire and brimstone_ , thought Sybil, feeling consumed by it as she closed her eyes, while at the same time the heady thrum of need and want pulsed through her. What did she have to lose? Nothing, surely? And everything to gain...if she only had the courage to follow through. She gripped the curtain tighter as a maelstrom of emotions swept through her, chief among them: hope.

Stephen offered her hope. Hope for the future. Her future, the _family's_ future.

She opened her eyes when Stephen cleared his throat. She was conscious of the warmth emanating from him. Once again, the scent of bergamot and horses assailed her nostrils; a pleasant, manly scent she recognized with a rush of familiarity from the occasion he'd comforted her over Lizzy Hazlett's mare.

He showed no trace of embarrassment and seemed only to want to clarify the matter. "So if your hopes for entering into this unusual coupling are realized, have you thought how you might explain an apparently immaculate conception to your husband?" He seemed both amused and concerned.

Sybil shook her head and avoided his eye, now wishing she could turn back the clock. How could she have been so bold? Nevertheless, she said truthfully, "I believe Humphrey would prefer anything rather than hand the reins to Edgar." She smiled grimly. "Anything, that is, except do his duty with me."

She'd barely finished before Stephen had both her hands in one of his large ones and the other clasped round her waist. Highly irregular yet the most exciting compromising situation she'd ever been in.

"I can see you wavering, Lady Partington, so am spurred on to encourage you not to lose heart." She saw the excited anticipation swirling in the depths of his warm gray eyes; warmer and more encouraging, even, than hitherto. Sybil could not believe it. He actually looked as if he'd been promised the greatest of gifts. "I believe it is an excellent idea, and I accept with the greatest delight—on one condition."

It was hard to breathe. She winced from the pain of her fingernails digging into her palms and her heart thumped even harder as she wondered why she didn't cast everything to the wind and simply take to her heels like a coward. Instead she whispered, "What is your condition?" as his face filled her vision and his gently curved lips drew nearer.

"That you regard this...solution...as more than just a conscious act of duty."

An act of duty. That's exactly what she'd intended it.

A tremor ran through her as she closed her eyes, relishing the light caress of his hand over her hair. Her body tingled with expectation; so that she could fully pledge her commitment when he added, brushing her lips with his fingertips, "And that you respond to me accordingly."

# Chapter 7

Stephen followed her into her bedchamber before she could change her mind. She was sweet and shy and his desire was raging. Lady Partington was no innocent debutante playing coquetry with no real knowledge of the consequences. He'd had plenty of those. They were diverting cameos played out in a public place and while he'd enjoyed these flirtations, this was the real thing. His breathing was labored, his erection painful.

In front of him, the hesitancy in Lady Partington's step suggested she was reconsidering but Stephen guided her forward with one hand gently on her rear; a pert, charming rear, he decided.

At the door, she turned. She looked so desperately concerned when she stammered, "I don't make a habit of inviting young men into my boudoir," that he nearly laughed.

Instead he simply smiled and touched his lips to her brow. "If I thought you did, Lady Partington, I wouldn't be as excited as I am." He closed the door behind them then led her gently but firmly toward the four-poster. "Now unless you've changed your mind about providing a solution that will make your husband and ultimately both your daughters happy, let us proceed."

Her maid had already prepared her for sleep and a candle on a low table added to the glow of the one she held.

He was conscious of his voice, intimate and full of promise—and hopefully of reassurance—when he murmured, "It sounds like you've had a lonely time of it in this room. Unlikely we'll be disturbed, eh?"

He was glad she kept her head held high rather than slumping from the inference of her husband's lack of interest. It affirmed the impression he had of her, that she was no frigid matron; that beneath her delicate, vulnerable exterior there flowered a woman with all the yearnings and hopes that might be brought to the fore with the right handling.

Stephen might be young and he was well aware he could be brash but he was sensitive, too. An interest in nature—animals and insects—had given him an insight into the cause and effect of certain behaviours. He knew that, when frightened, his horses and dogs responded better to soothing words than barked orders and the whip.

If he'd not studied women with the same dedication that he'd studied arachnids, that was because he'd not had to. Women seemed to find him attractive.

But now, strangely, he was fired up as he never had been before by the challenge of nurturing the suppressed passions of this lovely, undemanding woman with the beautiful soul and kind and deserving nature.

With brittle pride, Lady Partington stared at him, one hand clinging to the carved bed post, the other nervously smoothing her silk skirts. "Humphrey has visited me less than half a dozen times in this room during twenty years of marriage. No, we will not be disturbed."

She bent to blow out one candle, turned to regard him with a long, considering look, then seemed to banish all indecision. Nothing in her gestures now suggested this was anything other than a purely practical solution to the collective family's problems as she made to undress.

"Please turn your back, Stephen. Oh!"

She had obviously not expected to find him standing so close. Or to be taken in his arms. He was disappointed she didn't go limp but he did manage to chase some of the steel from her spine as he gently massaged the nape of her neck. Still, he wanted her to throw herself into the pleasure of it. This would be no fun at all if he was unable to bring her to rapture at his touch.

"No, don't blow out the other candle," he protested mildly, arresting her hand, which he placed on his heart. "Do you feel it racing?" He'd thought to place it further down to reassure her that he truly found her desirable, however he feared she might find that too confronting.

"But, I—"

He removed the candlestick from her grasp and set it on the table, aware she was shivering when he slipped his hands beneath the silk of her shawl to hold her.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he drew her onto his lap.

"Put your arms around me," he instructed softly, tucking her head against the hollow of his neck. "Now," he murmured, "you didn't answer my question." Again, he took one of her hands and rested it against his heart while he stroked the nape of her neck. "Do you feel how fast it beats?"

She glanced up at him, then dropped her gaze as if she couldn't bear to face him. "Anticipation for what is about to happen will affect any man like that—except my husband," she whispered.

"Your husband clearly has no discernment." Lowering his face, he touched his lips to hers, then drew back, surprised. He'd not expected the frisson of sensation that fizzed through him. He hardened even more while his anticipation notched up several levels. Lord, she truly was desirable. Much more than he'd thought, even when he'd accepted her proposition with such alacrity.

She did not respond. That is, while she seemed to offer herself pliantly, obediently enough, her lips did not part with passion and she did not cleave to him. He thought quickly. In order to make this an encounter to remember he needed to fuel her with the same desire, he felt otherwise it was worth nothing. While his skin burned and his body roared with sensation when she touched his cheek, she seemed to feel nothing.

Rising quickly, he scooped her up and gently lay her upon the mattress. Obediently, she'd kicked off her slippers and now she lay on her back in her simple gown, the swell of her breasts a tantalising marker of the delights that were in store.

Yes, delights that he was determined she'd enjoy equally as much as he.

When she sat up suddenly, saying almost briskly, "Please don't trouble yourself with all this, Stephen. I'm very capable of undressing myself," he gripped her wrist and then was startled by the sudden confusion, almost fearful look she sent at him.

"Grand seductions do not include desirable women undressing _themselves_ ," he told her sternly but with a smile tugging at his lips as he allowed her to rise to her feet. The bed would still be there but she needed to be drawn there at her own pace. "Surely you know that!"

"Oh..." Uncertainly, she turned and let him unbutton the back of her dress, her self consciousness clearly growing by the second as he peeled off her evening gown, watching it pool sensuously about her ankles before he turned her to face him. He contemplated her with genuine curiosity and warring desire.

"You really are not used to this are you, Lady Partington? Well, now I'm going to have to ask you to help me. Please extend your right leg and point your toe. I'm going to remove your stockings."

"I'm perfectly capable of doing that—"

"I've no doubt you are but you surely aren't going to spoil my fun, are you?"

She stared down at him, looking fragile and innocent in her thin chemise beneath her short stays, while he, still fully clothed and kneeling at her feet, smiled at her doubt and confusion as he slowly contoured the arch of her foot.

He chuckled at her gasp when he kissed her instep but his amusement turned to heightened desire when he turned his attentions a little higher. Clearly, Lady Partington wasn't used to feeling a man's tongue exploring the contours of her shapely thighs, cooling the sensitive skin behind one knee in an attempt to elicit at least a sigh of pleasure.

He rose slowly, contemplating his next move. She wasn't throwing herself into this with the abandonment exhibited by all the other women in his life, he thought, and then was ashamed at the reminder of some less than noble encounters. Most notably, Lady Julia's seduction. Though, to be fair, it was she who'd seduced him. Stephen had gone over that evening enough times to have convinced himself he would never have even dreamed of intimate relations with another man's wife had he not been bosky and tricked.

Yet, excuses aside, what he had done had been wrong. And he had to atone.

Though, agreeing to Lady Partington's request was hardly atonement. It was pure, undiluted pleasure.

"Back to bed, I think," he whispered, scooping her up once more to set her upon the counterpane before caging her with his body, gently kissing her throat, her collarbone and finally, once more, her lips. Tentatively she kissed him back but she still held herself aloof, as if terrified of succumbing to the base, elemental desire that was fast beginning to consume him.

His enjoyment grew. The seduction of a sweet, shy older woman who needed to be taught that love at any age was worth celebrating was more exciting than any previous hot and sweaty encounters where enthusiasm was high from the outset.

Her skin was smooth and dewy, her breasts full and firm beneath the sheer fabric that clothed her.

Studying her with fascinated lust, he slowly loosened the laces of her short stays, then untied her lace-edged chemise and slipped his hand beneath the fabric. Her faint exhalation of surprise echoed his as he closed his hand over one of her glorious breasts. He began to massage the small peak until it hardened. He himself was so hard it was almost painful.

"Please, Stephen, you need not go to so much trouble."

He stilled. "You're not enjoying it?"

"Too much, but you are not obliged to pretend for my benefit." Her words sounded as if they were forced from her, her eyes closed as if she could not look at him.

Guilt? _Was_ she frigid? He didn't think she was.

She whispered, "All I ask is that you join me beneath the sheets and we get this over with."

Offended, he climbed off the bed and stood, tidying his rumpled garments. "So this really is just duty for you?" He knew he sounded like an injured schoolboy but he couldn't help himself.

"Stephen, you don't understand—"

"I understand very well. You want me to give you a child but you want nothing more from me." Breathing heavily, he promised, "If I am required to...perform without us both gaining any pleasure from the bargain then I withdraw my services."

"I am more than ten years older than you and...certainly no beauty."

"Not a beauty?" He sat heavily on the bed and looked at her. In the candlelight her eyes looked luminous with fear and his anger and hurt suddenly dissipated. He reached for her hand. "You've been conditioned to believe it. And by whom? Your husband, who's never looked at any woman save his mistress. No doubt Araminta has picked up her father's contemptuous attitude. The little jade thinks she's too pretty by half, and I'll admit she has spirit you'll never have—a most engaging if infuriating commodity—but your looks are far more pleasing to me than her smug self-assurance." At her shock he went on, "Now, I'm tired of trying to make it clear to you that I've been dreaming wicked, carnal dreams since I unwittingly spied on you through the casement. By God, you were a luscious sight and I want to enjoy you now."

At her tremulous smile he laughed and threw himself onto her, demanding, "Now kiss me back or I refuse to partake in this bedroom sport."

* * *

After that it was easy. Sybil's reserve had never been so fully withdrawn within such a short time. No one had ever tried to cajole her into anything beyond the dry, formal relations that were the preserve of the drawing room and which, in her case with her husband, persisted so very rarely into her bedchamber.

She'd been married at seventeen during her first season. There'd been no flirtatious encounters with potential suitors beforehand. Humphrey had proposed and that had been that. He'd been handsome and charming and he'd easily won her heart. During their six-week bridal tour in Cornwall he'd visited her once a week, performed the marriage act efficiently and in silence, and while her heart had reached out to him her body had been left cold by the experience. He'd not touched, kissed or caressed her. Ever.

Only as she grew older did she realize there was more to the act itself. Other women occasionally offered some oblique reference to what went on in the bedroom which sometimes caused others in company might blush or titter. Sybil had no idea what they were talking about although they reinforced the suspicion that this "something more" she craved from Humphrey was a physical manifestation of the affection a loving husband had for his wife.

It took her many years to resign herself to the fact that Humphrey felt no physical attraction toward her and that as it would not be forthcoming from her husband she'd have to live without it.

Now, when she'd made her suggestion to Stephen on the wildest of impulses, she'd been determined to treat it in the same manner Humphrey had gone about his bedroom encounters. It was the end result that was important, not the process and she was just a foolish old woman if she thought it could be otherwise.

Yet slowly, with the sweep of Stephen's hands over sensitive places, a well-placed kiss, and yes, Stephen's increasingly believable show of genuine pleasure in her body, Sybil was finally losing her reserve.

In the shadows of her bedroom, as Stephen's hand skimmed the line of her body from breast to hip, she allowed herself a tiny sigh of pleasure.

"My first victory," he murmured against her lips, contouring her bottom and squeezing her against him. Against his jutting erection.

She jerked back as if stung but he just laughed and pulled her over, closer against him, whispering, "Desire is nothing to be afraid of, Sybil. Don't you feel it too?"

And she did. In every nerve ending, in every secret place where pleasure had lain dormant her body was reveling in the slow but steady re-emergence of new life. It fed into her veins, sending out signals to her brain to relax, just relax and enjoy what this handsome young man was offering her, which was so much more than she'd asked for.

They hadn't made it under the covers. Sybil had planned for all the mechanics to take place in darkness and under the sheets; so when he reached down and grasped the hem of her chemise, she gasped. He raised his arm, tugging the light linen shift with it, exposing her knees.

"Please don't," she begged. "I don't want you to see me."

As an older woman she at least knew how to articulate her preferences once matters had been set in motion. She remembered that as a new bride she'd been mute with the terror of it all: the quick fumbling, Humphrey's knee between her legs and the sharp thrust of his manhood into her unprepared entrance. Each time, she'd had to brace herself for the cruel irony of receiving him in this most intimate manner, knowing how much he resented her for requiring him under the terms of their marriage contract to perform.

A more congenial familiarity with one another had only been established after George had been born some years into their marriage. With the required heir, thankfully in robust health, finally installed in the nursery, Humphrey had fulfilled his dynastic requirements and no longer had to force himself to perform the despised act with Sybil.

"I've already seen you," Stephen argued as he gently tugged her chemise up past her thighs. His face gleamed. She saw that he meant what he said. "You're beautiful. That's why I want a closer look. Now assist me, please. Raise your arms."

And lie before him, naked? With the candle guttering behind her?

Resigned, she closed her eyes, her own desire fast evaporating. What she had to offer could not stand up to scrutiny. Humphrey had made his offer on the barest acquaintance and look how disappointed he'd been when forced to become intimate.

She was not prepared for Stephen's enthusiasm. "Oh, you are delectable, Lady Partington," he sighed, cutting short his praise with an almost boyish gorging upon her right breast.

"What are you doing?" she squeaked.

Breasts were not for suckling by grown men. Surely this was not...right. Yet with his warm mouth closed over her nipple, desire was suddenly in the ascendant. It swamped her, embarrassed her with the flow of moisture between her legs and she shifted awkwardly, remembering that she'd felt like this once before and that it had embarrassed her then, this manifestation of her own prurience, for respectable women didn't lose control of their bodily juices.

As she glanced down she intercepted the wicked look in his eye. She realized that he'd assumed control. He'd not stop and explain every clever trick.

It was then she decided to throw self-control to the wind. He was clearly enjoying himself, so why shouldn't she? Within reason. She could do this. Enjoy herself, for it was the letting go that was so hard. She must simply close her eyes and give herself up to physical abandonment, let him dictate the pace and procedure. He knew what he was doing. He was the expert and neither was expecting each other's hearts. She ought to be used to the sexual act when no deep emotion was involved.

And yet the sensations that ravaged her almost virgin-like body when his hot, devouring mouth licked and suckled, and when he skimmed his hand up her thighs, were devastating.

She tried not to waste her breath gasping with embarrassment or objecting when his thumb and forefinger found the juncture between her legs and began to massage that damp, highly sensitized and most intimate of places. This was obviously what he meant by giving and receiving pleasure. He certainly seemed to enjoy her responses when she squirmed and moaned softly.

"Now I have you where I want you, Lady Partington. Completely naked and completely mine." The devilish glint in his eye was gratifying in the extreme, as was the enormous length of his shaft when he finally divested himself of his clothes and once more caged her with his lean, handsome body.

This was male perfection like she'd not witnessed at close quarters. Ever.

She even found herself grinning back. An extreme paradox, for she was the last person she'd ever imagine participating in such wickedness—and enjoying it so much.

"Your wish is my command." His lips grazed her neck, his hand toying with her nipple, leaving her with an empty, deeply unsatisfied feeling in her lower belly when it fell away to stroke her belly.

When she hitched her hips he gave a low chuckle of understanding but growled, "Not yet, my beauty. There is a great deal more pleasure to be had before I do the business, if I might speak so plainly."

Sybil was glad the bedcovers had already been turned back by her maid, for when without warning he slid down the bed and ran his tongue the length of her entrance, she shrieked with horror and drew the covers over the sight. This was not right.

And yet the wicked sensations were like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

"Mama..."

Heady desire turned instantly to horror at the sound of Araminta's voice, filtering in through the doorway with the light of the candle she held. Sybil froze and held her breath as she silently demanded her breathing become more regular.

_Araminta._ She'd never thought...

Araminta placed her candle onto her mother's dressing table at the far end of the room and lowered herself onto the stool.

"You didn't knock!" It was all Sybil could say. Thank God Stephen was beneath the covers, albeit also between her legs.

The heavy carved post of the bed and three yards of floor space diluted visuals. Fortunately, Araminta didn't seem particularly concerned about her mother, who knew that her complete nakedness, including lack of nightcap, and disordered hair, might ring alarm bells. That is, if Araminta were not so self-absorbed.

"I was afraid you wouldn't hear," Araminta excused herself. With a sigh she added, "Oh Mama, I _do_ so want to marry Stephen."

"What!" It was a croak at best. Sybil registered Stephen's horror too, somewhere in the darkness beneath the bed covers and yes, between Araminta's own mother's legs.

"Yet how can I, now that Edgar has returned and is heir? Stephen is handsome and charming and he makes my heart beat faster and I know he is madly in love with me." She gave another gusty sigh. "But with Edgar alive, Stephen has nothing. Does he, Mama?" She spoke as if desperate for her mother to refute it.

"I...I don't know very much about Stephen's situation, my dear." Sybil shifted, careful to keep the sheet up around her neck—and not to smother Stephen. Lord, she'd never felt so desperately cornered. "Araminta, it's very late. Perhaps we should have this talk in the morning."

"Mama, what do _you_ think about Stephen?" Araminta clearly considered her mother's desire to talk in the morning of no account.

"What do I think of him?" It was all Sybil could do just to repeat the sentence. She didn't know if she could possibly answer it in such a situation.

"Yes, what do you really think about him? Do you think he's handsome?"

"Yes, he's very handsome, Araminta, but—"

"And do you think he'd make a good husband?"

Sybil swallowed. "I think he's a very kind man. I didn't think that at first. I thought he was young and callow and very much like so many other young blades who like to sow their wild oats and behave badly."

"So you don't think he's the kind of young man to sow his wild oats and behave badly? I _think_ I know what you mean."

Sow his wild oats? Isn't that what he was doing right now? At Sybil's behest? Right here in Sybil's bedchamber? Oh Lord, she had to get Araminta out of here.

"I think Stephen understands matters more than you think, Araminta. He knows you won't—can't—marry him now that Edgar has returned."

"Do you think he will forgive me?" Araminta sniffed. "After all, I've broken his heart, Mama. He barely caught my eye this afternoon and I was all but begging him to understand that we must be forever rent asunder by the tragedy of this altered situation."

"The tragedy being that Edgar survived that bullet after all." Sybil's tone was dry. She was fast losing patience.

Of course, Araminta had never understood irony. Now she said, dolefully, "I daresay Edgar's the only one who's really pleased about the situation but the rest of us must make the best of it. I tried to explain that to Hetty but she refused to speak to me. She's being awfully churlish. Please will you talk to her, Mama, and tell her not to be so selfish?"

A muffled, choking noise emanated from beneath the covers. Araminta looked up, her brow wrinkled, and Sybil coughed violently. "It's late, Araminta, and I was in a deep sleep. We can take a stroll in the morning and talk about it then, if you like."

Araminta rose with obvious reluctance. "I've promised to meet Edgar for a walk around the park in the morning." She narrowed her eyes at her mother. "It looks like you've had a nightmare, Mama. Your eyes are quite wild and your face is all flushed. You really look quite gruesome. Shall I wake Mary and have her make you up a cordial?"

"No, Araminta!"

Araminta shrugged. "Just as well, I daresay. Mary gets quite crotchety when she's disturbed in the middle of the night." She picked up her candlestick and moved to the door. "Good night, Mama," she said.

"Good night, Araminta."

The moment the door closed behind her, Stephen's head emerged. Sybil put her hands to her flaming cheeks. So she looked gruesome? And poor Stephen had been stuck under the covers in close quarters with her nether regions for nigh on five minutes. He'd not be able to get away fast enough.

"Oh Lord, Sybil, she's a minx sent to try you." He drew in a deep lungful of air, gasping between laughter. "And this has only confirmed what a lucky escape I've had." He collapsed on his back beside Sybil and rested his hand companionably on her stomach. "You handled that consummately." He rolled over onto his side. "And now that I'm quite confident she won't return, I think it's time to proceed. Where were we?"

Sybil hadn't thought she could possibly return to the intimacy that preceded Araminta's visit. She'd not thought Stephen would have the stomach for it either. Didn't it reinforce what pure folly it was?

Stephen, however, seemed to regard the disturbance as hilarious and even more so when Sybil began to rise, feeling hot and flushed and increasingly distressed. At first he didn't notice but as she reached for her shawl, he leapt after her and grasped her by the shoulders.

The shawl slithered to the floor. Her heart followed. Araminta's criticism had cut deep.

"What's wrong?" He wasn't laughing now. He really didn't know and yet he really wanted to know.

She glanced away from his hard, young body, gleaming and desirable in the candlelight. He was unaware of his magnificence.

"I hardly imagine you'd want to continue this farce with a gruesome-looking old hag like myself with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. You don't strike me as _that_ charitable, Stephen."

"Good Lord, that little piece knows where to strike, doesn't she? You mean you really believed her?"

_I'm not going to snivel_ , thought Sybil, clenching her fists and tensing as he wrapped his arms about her and held her tight.

After a moment he put her away from him, tipping up her chin with his forefinger so that he could observe her better. Slowly he traced the outline of her lips. Sensation roared through her and she closed her eyes.

"That's better," he murmured, scooping her up once more and depositing her on the bed. "You're beautiful and I intend to make sure you know it before tonight is over. Now, make room for me. Ah, that's right."

Gently he eased her thighs apart. She felt the probing tip of his member and suddenly she was very afraid.

Soon he'd fill her with himself but the sheathing would change her in ways she could never have imagined. She foresaw this and stiffened with the knowledge of how much her actions ran counter to the natural order of things.

And yet did they?

Stephen was looking down at her. In the depths of his eyes she saw the effort his self-restraint cost him, followed by the curve of his smile as he whispered, suddenly relaxing beside her, "I think we're going just a little too quickly, Lady Partington. This one's for you."

Then his clever, deft fingers were coaxing her into sensations she'd never experienced, filling her mind with soaring hopes and her body with rapture as he stroked the slick nub of her desire.

Heat prickled the back of her neck and her scalp, sensation journeyed to her nerve endings and she closed her eyes against the kaleidoscope of color that filled her vision.

His words were soothing and tender as he softly encouraged her to do nothing more than enjoy what he could do for her.

What no one had ever done for her.

She swallowed and drew in a staccato breath as the tension rose within her, both terrifying and exhilarating and hitherto completely unknown.

Stephen kissed her—on her lips, nose, eyelids and brow—as his sensitive fingers continued to stimulate her. When she opened her eyes briefly his smile was warm before he touched his lips to hers, tracing the seam with the tip of his tongue. With a shuddering sigh she surrendered to the next wave of pleasure that engulfed her. Her body had been taken to a higher plane, dragging her mind with it, and awareness coalesced as, with mind and body finally as one, she prepared for the inevitable launch into the abyss.

"Surrender to it." The warmth of Stephen's breath seeped through her, giving her courage and permission to do just that and her body moaned its delight as it opened itself up to the first man who'd ever wanted to give it pleasure.

As she lay gasping in the aftermath, cradled against Stephen's warm, hard body, she realized that he truly had meant what he said. This had all been for her.

She opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her. "I can send you on another journey like that one, Lady Partington," he whispered, playing with her nipple, sending messages directly to her groin. "And this time go along for the ride, but if you want to change your mind, I must remind you it's your last chance. If you beget a child you'll have your husband to answer to and your actions will change the course of the succession. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that? I'm in it for the pleasure only, Lady Partington. _I've_ got nothing to lose."

She swallowed, wriggled a little against his straining member and in that faintest of movement sealed the fates of all of them.

* * *

Stephen chuckled and got down to business. She was all soft curves, a disarming mixture of naivety and wisdom. She knew so much more of the world than he, of the disappointments and the cruelties people inflicted on one another, yet he could show her how much pure lust and unadulterated enthusiasm could go towards salving those wounds.

In mere weeks he'd be back to wooing innocent virgins with handsome dowries.

Twined in the arms of sweet Lady Partington was novelty like he'd not known. Pure, unadulterated fun—or rather pure adultery, he supposed—like he'd not expected when he'd responded to her extraordinary proposition.

Once she'd cast aside her inhibitions and accepted responsibility for her actions she burst out of her chrysalis with the abandon of a butterfly joyfully taking flight.

Oh, he was going to enjoy taking her on the flight of her life.

Every thrust brought an increase in the breathiness of her response, the breadth of her smile, the unequivocal enjoyment she took in accepting all of him. He was not used to such unfettered delight. The gratification alone spurred him on.

He loved the way her breasts quivered and her cheeks went pink. Her glorious hair was spread out over her pillow like a shawl of the finest fiber and her skin was surprisingly soft and satiny. It was as if her enforced all-but-virginity had preserved her in some odd way. And yet as he rolled her nipple on his tongue and again massaged the slick nub of her sex, he seemed to be bringing her to life from the inside. Her eyes grew brighter and her translucent skin flushed to a deep, rich glow. He thought he'd never seen a more beautiful woman and his desire, which had been borne of pleasure alone, took on a new dimension.

This was not going to be the last time he made love to sweet, adorable, luscious Lady Partington.

# Chapter 8

Humphrey looked up over the newspaper, across the breakfast table, a strange gleam in his eye.

When he said nothing, Sybil shifted in her seat, telling herself yet again that he'd not suspect and even if he did, she had nothing to be ashamed of. Not with regard to Humphrey, nor Stephen nor even herself. No, she would not draw him out. Always she had played the dutiful wife, asking him if everything was to his liking. Now he could just read his newspaper or get up and leave without a word if he chose—for he often did that, so consumed was he with thoughts of his absent true love, no doubt.

Perversely, Humphrey didn't seem to like Sybil's silence. He dropped his paper and peered closely over it until she asked, almost crossly, looking up from her smoked haddock, "Well, Humphrey, have I a fishbone sticking out of my nostril?"

She was irritated with him for disturbing her delicious reminiscing of last night. No, she didn't feel guilty. She would not.

"My dear, you look..." He struggled to articulate the sentiment. "You look different, somehow."

"Really." She would not blush and she'd pretend disinterest. Strange how that seemed to inspire him to speak words she'd never expected to hear.

"You have a glow about you. Really, you look quite lovely this morning."

She dropped her knife and fork abruptly. "Why, Humphrey, I don't think you've ever said anything so nice to me in your whole life."

Emotions roiled in her stomach. Somehow it seemed wrong to be confronted with the first suggestion of admiration from her husband after her night spent with another man.

Immediately he raised his newspaper so she couldn't see him, muttering something incomprehensible about how she must be losing her memory for that could not possibly be true.

After a moment of contemplative silence, he sighed, put down the news sheet and faced her once more across the table. "Edgar came to see me last night."

"Oh, Humphrey." The sigh took all her energy with her. She hadn't expected this so soon.

He nodded, corroborating though she'd said nothing to indicate her feelings on the matter. They were both very much in accord with regard to an alliance between Edgar and Araminta, she was glad to note by the gloominess of his expression.

"I tried to put the boy off. After all, that's all he is. A boy. What's more, I've heard a few disturbing whispers about his conduct on and off the battlefield." He cleared his throat, hesitated, then said in a rush, "More than whispers, in fact. Sybil, I'm ashamed to call him my nephew. He was not distinguished by bravery. He disappeared, seemingly having died a hero, but he did not. No, Sybil, he did not."

Sybil's mouth dropped open. Humphrey's eyes bored into hers. He waited for the maid to refresh the tea and leave the room then said in a low voice, "Apparently the matter has been hushed up—seemingly for my benefit, or so it's been suggested."

When he seemed unable to go on, Sybil prompted in a whisper, "You mean...he deserted? Was _that_ the reason for his disappearance? Is that how he was lost in battle?"

The horror of it was stark in Humphrey's bleak expression. He gave the smallest nod of acknowledgement and his eyes shifted to the doorway before returning gravely to her. "There was talk about a court martial. Indeed, that may have come to pass had not an old friend of mine been on the committee deciding Edgar's fate." His shoulders slumped and he muttered with curled lip, "I would to God that justice had been done, for I take no pleasure in seeing The Grange go to a coward. A coward that, it would seem, has all the credentials for winning my daughter."

"We can't let it happen, Humphrey." Sybil had never been more fired with the rightness of her decision to secure the succession with someone other than Edgar.

His look was hopeless. "What choice do we have?"

Later that morning, when Humphrey declined Hetty's suggestion of a walk with the excuse that he had an important appointment he could not put off, Sybil did not experience the usual jab of pain. The fact that he was going to see his "other family", which suggested Lizzy Hazlett was back in town, seemed unimportant. No, Sybil had at last found a diversion that meant her lonely heart no longer relied on Humphrey.

* * *

With the weather so glorious a picnic was planned in the small rotunda perched on a hill surrounded by a small lake about half a mile away from The Grange. On a clear day, from the bedroom windows of the south wing, the lake could be spied invitingly in the distance, at the bottom of the sweeping lawns and just before the beech wood.

Servants were sent ahead while the picnic party had arranged to take a meandering walk through the wood.

Araminta and Edgar led the way. Araminta carried herself proudly, as if aware of her magnetism. Edgar, from the rear, looked at pains to engage her in what, doubtless, he considered light and sophisticated banter.

Sybil, who'd hung back so she could observe the young people, watched with a surge of warmth as Stephen offered Hetty his arm, telling her brightly that she was "looking charming". Poor Hetty. Even Sybil knew her daughter was going through her least charming phase although she had every hope that once Hetty had lost some of the generous flesh that coated her young body and gained in confidence she might yet be considered charming.

_I must teach her how to graciously accept a compliment_ , Sybil thought, listening to her daughter's stammered response, before realizing that she was, in fact, watching a younger version of herself.

They had been following a well-worn bridle path when the road came into view for a short while. In the distance a carriage approached, on its way toward the village. It was a hired post chaise therefore excited little interest until Hetty cried, "Why, isn't that Papa?"

Sybil glanced up in time to see three occupants in the dim interior. The older male was indistinct as he quickly turned his face the opposite direction as they passed. The two young ladies she recognized from church though she'd never met Lizzy Hazlett's daughters and it had been some time since she'd seen them this close. The younger girl stared, open-mouthed at them, brushing back her rippling fair tresses which were loose beneath her bonnet. She truly was a beauty, Sybil noted with a stab of pain.

The elder sister's look was disdainful which made her look even more astonishingly like Araminta although Sybil had seen the strong resemblance every Sunday in church for years.

She held her breath in case someone else remarked upon it, turning her head to follow the carriage and noting that there was a mournfulness, too, in the elder girl's large and luminous eyes compared with Araminta's whose sparkled with devilry.

Yes, _sad eyes_ , thought Sybil before remembering that this girl had nothing like as much to be sad about as Sybil's daughters, whose father neglected them in favor of his base-born brood.

Sybil was unable to tear her gaze away from the disappearing carriage, relieved that no further comments were passed after Araminta declared that it could not have been their papa else he'd have stopped.

"Don't let him break your heart, Lady Partington."

Stephen's warm breath on her neck sent her heartbeat skittering. He'd dropped back and his head was bent to her ear. The others were ahead, sauntering with careless abandon, Edgar expounding upon some theory that had the attention of his cousins.

Sybil turned and intercepted Stephen's interested gaze. His mouth curved suggestively. "What's good for the goose is good for the gander, eh?" When she didn't reply, his expression sobered and he touched her arm. It was the briefest of caresses for he was obviously careful not to excite attention but it was enough to make Sybil conscious of the power he had over her. The breath caught in her throat while heat stung her cheeks.

"You're very lovely when you don't know what to say." He grinned, matching his pace with hers and staring straight ahead at the backs of the young people some distance ahead of them as he went on conversationally, "You were certainly very lovely last night. I enjoyed myself immensely and if it helps you solve your problems I'm more than happy to offer myself up on the altar of your need any time." His voice gentled. "No, I'm not mocking you, my lady. I understand more than you think. Your husband has never given you the love and attention you deserve. It _was_ Lord Partington in that carriage, wasn't it?"

Sybil nodded. She blinked back tears while her throat ached from the effort of keeping a check on her feelings. "I enjoyed last night too," she said. "But you'll be gone in a week. It's too dangerous to repeat—"

"Hush."

She caught her breath once more at the light touch of his hand upon her lower back. Sensation speared through her belly as he slid it lower to lightly cup her bottom.

"A week can be a long time when one is careful to make use of every opportunity."

She twisted her neck and caught his wicked glance trained upon her breasts.

Immediately he raised his head, took a few strides and called ahead, "How far to our destination?"

"Perhaps twenty minutes," Araminta called back, breaking her conversation with Edgar in order to glance over her shoulder. With a provocative look at Stephen she curved her lips into her most seductive smile. "After such a distance we'll need to be well fortified when we reach the lake."

"I certainly intend to be," Stephen murmured into Sybil's ear, sliding his hand around her right buttock as Araminta turned back to Edgar. "I intend to take you into the forest, my lovely Lady Sybil, and find some delightful little dell so that you can have your wicked way with me. I'd wager you've never rutted under a clear blue sky or a canopy of trees, have you?"

Sybil blushed, but whether that was because of his coarse language or the sudden desire that slammed through her, she couldn't say. His hand was now rubbing itself insinuatingly up and down the valley between her buttocks. Heat rose between her legs, and at the same time she longed for the adventure he promised, she also shied away from it.

"I hope there will be strawberries and cream," Stephen called out to the others ahead.

He grinned as Hetty's chirpy, "I picked them myself this morning," rang back.

Touching his lips to Sybil's earlobe he said, "Hmm, not as tempting as you, Lady Partington. Goodness, you look...skeptical?"

Before she could respond he'd taken her by the wrist and whisked her off the path and in amongst the trees.

"Gracious, Stephen, what are you doing? You can't possibly mean—"

Her shock was cut short by his mouth upon hers as he pushed her up against the trunk of a very broad elm. But her objection died in her throat as his tongue parted her lips and his knee parted her legs. Sensation quickly engulfed her as his erection, large and insistent, pressed against her stomach.

They were shrouded by foliage, a little uphill from where they could see the party wending their way farther down the path.

He dragged his mouth away from hers long enough to say, "They won't miss us for just two minutes and you're the first to agree we must make hay while the sun shines."

Already he'd hiked her skirts up about her waist while she was fumbling with his breeches, excitement roaring in her ears and fizzing through her veins. She thought she'd die of it, for never had she been so gratuitously wicked or risked so much.

Sybil wasn't fuelled by a desire for revenge against the husband who had passed them by in a carriage that contained his two illegitimate daughters. She was merely drunk on the extraordinary notion that not only was pleasure like a drug when it was mutual, and the fact she'd never been happier.

So, by God it was worth the risk, she decided as she inserted her hand through the opening of his breeches and grasped his member, hot and heavy.

He exhaled on a small sigh, his own hands busy, turning her so that she faced away from him, bracing her with her two palms above her head, the bark rough against her sensitive skin adding another layer of sensation.

"Oh," she gasped, as he stroked a finger along her slick entrance before positioning himself. She tensed, readying herself at the tentative touch of the tip of his member against her highly sensitized skin before thrusting out her bottom to impale herself.

The suddenness took him by surprise and he gasped, his fingers working all the harder to bring her to a rapid climax that would coincide with his.

He filled her completely, his thrusts deep and even, his breathing increasingly rapid as he rested his chin upon her shoulder and his pleasure took over. Yet still he pleasured her and Sybil felt again the extraordinary sensation of rising to a higher plane, and yet higher, until suddenly the earth seemed to stand still before she shattered around him.

He collapsed against her and for a couple of futile seconds she clung to the tree in a vain attempt to stop them both from sliding down the rough bark into a heap at the base.

Laughing when they did this, nevertheless, he raised his head from her stomach and gave her a smacking great kiss when she was least expecting it.

"Lord, that was good," he declared, tidying himself, and her. "And the others won't even miss us." He extended his hand and pulled her up. "Was that good for you, Lady Partington?"

Sybil couldn't help herself. She giggled. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself so much, Stephen. For what it's worth, I did too. Your enthusiasm is worthy of the most ardent schoolboy."

To his credit he didn't pout, nor did he release her hand. Instead, he scratched his chin and regarded her quizzically. "No one has ever likened my prowess in any arena to that of a schoolboy." He grinned and she knew he was making a poor attempt at a joke when he said, "The jades and misses I've made up to have been infinitely more complimentary than that." He took her hand and led her back to the path.

"And no doubt there were many."

He looked contemplative. "Not so many, actually. And none of them virgin misses which is what you remind me of with your sweet vulnerability and genuine enthusiasm—as if you've just been initiated into a great surprise." He turned to rake an appreciative look the length of her as they returned to the path. "You should be exceedingly flattered, Lady Partington. I find you and your lovely creamy body far more exciting than any of the ladies I've known in the biblical sense."

"I'm not sure if that really is particularly flattering, Stephen."

"Well, you're not setting out your wiles to entrap me. You've offered me a proposition—which is entirely to my benefit —and we're cramming as much fun into the next few days as we can. I can't remember ever having had such a jolly good time."

She walked beside him, enjoying his complete honesty, happier and more carefree than she could remember. "I certainly never have, either."

Stephen squeezed her hand as he glanced down at her. "Six more days, Lady Partington. Six more days," he reminded her. "You're more daring than you look, I'll grant you that. Let's make the most of it and see how daring you really _can_ be."

* * *

Luncheon was an interesting affair. They ate 'round a table already laid for them in the center of the circular rotunda, its elevated position affording them a glorious view of the lake and far distant fields surrounding The Grange, with the boathouse and beech forest a short distance across the glittering water.

After lunch, they rowed back to the jetty, which extended in front of the boathouse, and while the others amused themselves Sybil relaxed in a cane chair Stephen had positioned near the shore. As she watched the servants tidy away their recent meal, transporting the empty plates into the second boat still moored at the base of the rotunda, she could hear every word of the young people, who pretended to fish from the jetty. Edgar considered himself an expert on the sport and he graciously assisted Hetty and Araminta with their lines.

Even from a distance he looked ridiculous as he officiously demonstrated the most rudimentary process, taking every opportunity to push his ungainly body closer to Araminta. Once, Sybil caught a glimpse of Araminta's face as his arm brushed the length of hers. A spasm of the utmost distaste marred her pretty features as she turned away so he could not see. Clearly her aversion ran deep, which Sybil could well understand. The more _she_ observed her nephew the more she disliked him.

_I mustn't think so badly of him_ , she thought. Nor, she thought, of Araminta, whose behavior hardly reflected well on her. Perhaps in her own naïve way, Araminta too was acting for the greater good of the estate. Perhaps it wasn't all motivated by self-interest.

She heard Edgar remonstrate with his youngest cousin. "No, no, Hetty, you mustn't jiggle it around so much. You'll scare the fish. You need to entice them." He slid his eyes across to Araminta and his hand brushed across hers as he took Hetty's stick in demonstration. "You must learn the art of subtlety, Hetty. Araminta is the queen of subtlety, eh, coz?"

Araminta looked a little startled at this before her smile took on the usual cloying cheerfulness, entirely forced, which she reserved for Edgar's inane remarks.

"Araminta knows exactly what she wants and what's good for her but does she show it? Oh no. Ladies who can demonstrate subtlety will get further in life. _You_ wear your heart on your sleeve, Hetty, but you must learn the art of subtlety. None of this jiggling about trying to get instant results. It don't work, you know, old girl."

By now Sybil's maternal instincts were on full alert. She bent forward, poised between giving Edgar a well-targeted setdown but also wanting to know how her girls responded.

Araminta's cool, "Edgar's right, dear," was not what she wanted to hear though it was sadly predictable. "You're so transparent and that's not at all the right way to win over the gentlemen. Is it, Edgar?" Hetty's trembling lip and blanching of color was, however, like a red rag to a bull.

Stephen, just returning from a solitary ramble in the woods, heard the end of this exchange. He put out an arm to stop Sybil from launching forward to intervene.

"Allow me, Lady Partington." He arched an eyebrow. "Edgar has just stymied my grand opportunities for the station in life to which I'd aspired but he lacks the charm I have with the ladies, I think you'll agree."

"You think highly of yourself, Stephen, my love," she murmured. "However I give you leave to turn on the charm for my daughters. I trust you provided I can see you."

He'd already taken a step forward. At this he swung round, his eyes suddenly dark and instantly Sybil regretted the remark.

"Do you really think I might abuse my position should my charm win over hearts?" He lowered his head, gripping both arms of Sybile's chair for support as he put his face close to hers. "Do you really think me so careless of the feelings of others that as long as I am pleasured and gratified they don't matter?"

His words found their mark. Sybile's breath left her in a whoosh. She opened her mouth to speak but had to try several times before the words came. "I'm sorry, Stephen." She cupped his face in an entreaty for forgiveness. "I spoke carelessly. I did not mean to insinuate I don't trust you. For I do. It's just—"

"Just what?" He straightened, clearly not prepared to let it go.

Desperation warred within her. She struggled to answer. "You're a handsome young man with youth and virility in your favor and natural urges for beautiful women to love and admire you." Sybil shrugged, palms outward as she appealed to him for understanding. "You have an old woman to admire you. One with two fresh young daughters, the eldest of whom is clearly in love with you and who turns every head whenever she walks into a room, and the youngest who dotes on you like...I hope...a brother."

"Like a brother, yes. Hetty is sweet but as you know completely no threat to you, Lady Partington, and Araminta, while she is one of the most exquisite creatures I'll admit I've met, is also the most designing debutante I've ever come across and I consider myself to have had a lucky escape. You, on the other hand, Lady Partington, are in a completely different league. You're a grown woman with nothing missing. You have wisdom and beauty and kindness, a potent combination." He leaned over her and for a moment Sybil thought he was going to risk the unthinkable: a kiss when they were not ten yards from the other young people. Though whether this was as unthinkable as what they'd just engaged in was a moot point.

Then he rose to his full height, his indignation not fully erased. "I might be a young man aware of his attraction and equally attracted to attractive women but please credit me with integrity."

Turning on his heel, he marched down the river bank, clearing his voice so that the girls raised their faces in welcome. Edgar was not so forthcoming.

"Hetty, if fishing is not as exciting as Edgar and Araminta clearly find it, perhaps you'd like to walk with me along the riverbank?" He enjoyed the pink rush to her cheeks and the way she held her hands together to stop them trembling. Yes, he did have a way with the ladies, even when he had no prospects with which to entice them. At least he could be assured he was desired for his natural assets rather than his pocketbook, however the thought of what he was going to do when the week was over was depressing at best.

And although he managed to appear lighthearted he was still wounded by Lady Partington's words. He was not the base Johnny-take-all she had suggested though he had enough understanding to accept that a woman unsure of herself was far more likely to strike out like that.

With exaggerated gallantry he offered Hetty his arm. "Let us tiptoe through the daffodils—or find some equally pleasurable equivalent," he suggested, causing her to titter and, he was rather pleased to notice, Araminta to twist her neck around with a look of unmistakable envy.

Edgar grumbled that she must pay attention and Lady Partington smiled with such genuine pleasure that Stephen felt ridiculously gratified.

# Chapter 9

The next two days passed in a rapturous blur of lust and rutting. Lady Partington had risen to the challenge in seeking out novelty and he'd risen to the challenge with her. In the butler's pantry while ostensibly seeking a particular vintage when the servants were at church, Stephen had taken her from behind. In the tower room, while the young people were playing croquet, Sybil had waved to them while Stephen, lying on the floor, had wickedly pleasured her before pulling her down and impaling her upon his never-flagging member.

She was as insatiable as he and he gloried in her abandonment and in her sweet, moist, pliant body. Her face haunted his dreams, taking precedence over all the women he'd ever known, including of course that jade Lady Julia, with whom he'd fancied himself passionately in love for five minutes. He wasn't sure how he'd regard her when she and her husband attended Lord and Lady Partington's house party at the Grange in a few days' time.

No, Lady Partington was the most sensuous, beguiling, intriguing piece of womanhood he'd met in his twenty-four years and he didn't want to think about when it ended. His life beyond the following Sunday was a lonely void.

"My Sybil." Alone, in the beech wood he whispered her name, dropping her title like a lover, wishing she were with him.

Right now, though, Lady Partington was entertaining the vicar who'd come to tea and Stephen had found an excuse to avoid both Araminta's and Hetty's separate requests for his company.

Owing to the heat, he'd stripped off in a secluded leafy arbor, taken a plunge in the river and now lay on his back, eyes closed, enjoying the heat of the sun on his naked skin. Enjoying, too, recreating the sensation of Sybil's ministrations as he grasped his own member and played it like a fine instrument—though not with the finesse she'd perfected.

"Yes, that's right, my beauty, just like that," he murmured, reveling in the buildup of tension within him, remembering the damp mud beneath him and Sybil's own dampness as she'd sheathed herself upon him when they'd made love here the day before.

"Oh yes...yes!" With a final jerk he came, opening his eyes to see the spray of ejaculate raining down upon his stomach. He groaned, closing his eyes. No point in thinking beyond the next few days when his life would be a barren wasteland once more, and this his only relied-upon means of gratification.

For it would be hard to return to meaningless sex after sex with Sybil, though a man had his needs, he supposed.

He deeply regretted having to leave The Grange. It wasn't just losing out on a title and the money that went with it. He'd lived without that for as long as he could remember and he'd made do, having a jolly enough time along the way.

As the damp earth turned his warm skin chilly, mournfulness impregnated his soul. In two days' time there would be no Sybil to tumble and make love to, to laugh with and make him feel like a naughty schoolboy and the world's greatest lover in equal measure.

"Cousin Stephen?"

A rustle in the bushes and Araminta's familiar girlish accents sent shock and horror rocketing through him.

"Er, just a moment, if you please..." He leapt to his feet and grabbed his clothes, nearly overbalancing in his haste to don his shirt and breeches.

Never one to wait, Araminta sidled into view before he was finished. "Did you enjoy your swim, Cousin Stephen?"

Her look was far too knowing to put him at ease and he blurted out, "Forgive me, Cousin Araminta! You caught me unawares. I was swimming—"

"Oh, you were doing more than swimming, Cousin Stephen." She'd stepped up close. Too close.

He took a step back, swallowed and pretended ignorance. "Nearly time for tea," he said, fumbling for his timepiece, which he remembered he'd left beside his bed.

"Cousin Stephen!"

Shocked by the insistency in her voice and the firmness of her hand upon his sleeve, he looked down. He didn't want to hear what she had to say.

She sighed, toying with the loose material of his unbuttoned shirt as she prevaricated with artful coquetry. "You know I don't love Edgar." She raised limpid eyes to his, as if appealing for understanding. For something more from him than he could give her, but he could not step away. She was clinging to him.

"You must know my feelings for you," she went on.

Her lips glistened, moist and inviting. Except that he didn't find them inviting at all. Not even when she gripped his arm tighter and added as she raised herself on tiptoe and tilted up her chin, "I saw what you were doing. I'm not so innocent, though it's not a thing a man wants to hear. That is, a man intending to take one as his bride, but you're not intending that, Cousin Stephen." She sighed again and said with commendable emotion, "I do so wish Cousin Edgar had died after all. You can't imagine how much I wish that so I didn't have to marry him but was free to marry you instead."

Stephen shrugged. "No one's forcing you to do anything." He felt quite unaffected by her machinations. All he wanted to do was return to The Grange and see Sybil's face light up as he entered the room. His mind took it to the next step. They'd find some excuse to leave—either separately or together—and then they'd throw themselves into and onto each other. That's all that mattered. Sybil.

"It's my duty toward Papa." For once she looked deadly earnest. So much so that he actually believed she was sincere in considering it her duty to her father to marry her bottle-headed cousin.

"Papa once said to me, years ago, that I'd have made a fine master of The Grange. Even better than poor George. Now that Edgar is going to inherit, I will at least be able to keep Edgar's foolishness in check and be the mother of the next viscount, even if I can't actually be lord of the manor, so to speak, in my own right. Do you see?"

"Your loyalty to your father is commendable." Stephen tried to disentangle her hand from his wrist but was unsuccessful. Her gaze grew more wistful, her grip more urgent. A little light filtered through the tree canopy, dappling the earth, but it was far too secluded and dim a location for Stephen's comfort. He tried to take another step away but she held him fast.

"Cousin Stephen, I told you, I am not the innocent you think me."

He resisted the urge to cut her off and say he didn't think her an innocent at all.

"You may have heard rumors about the reason I had to cut short my season. Have you?"

"I believe a...young gentleman inflicted some damage to himself."

"My suitor, Cousin Stephen. A worthy enough gentleman. Indeed, he was most insistent that I become his wife. That is, after..." She blushed and Stephen thought it was genuine. After all, regardless of what she'd done, she _was_ an innocent by most standards.

"We went for a carriage ride. I was without a chaperone and he became quite amorous. Indeed, I myself got carried away and..." She shrugged. "Suffice to say I realized I may well be ruined and he was determined that I must become his bride. But time passed, I realized I wasn't quite as ruined as I'd feared and the idea of spending the rest of my life leg-shackled to the gentleman was not my idea of happiness. Only, when I told him so in the nicest possible terms he took offense and...blew his brains out."

She brandished a tiny square of muslin and dabbed her eyes. "Oh, Cousin Stephen, I've studied you so often when you haven't noticed, and my heart has cried out for you."

Suddenly her arms were around him and she was pressing her small, fragrant body against his mostly naked one, her face upturned, her lips slightly parted in open invitation.

Coolly, he said, "I will not snatch clandestine kisses, Miss Araminta, when you are all but betrothed to another man."

"Another man who means nothing to me." She pulled his head down, murmuring against his lips, "When my soul craves you, Cousin Stephen. You can have it all: my heart, my soul, my body. All Edgar will have is a marriage contract and a wife in name only."

Sickened by her naïve ramblings, Stephen was in the act of drawing back and telling her in no uncertain terms what he felt about her words, when a scandalized voice broke in.

"Araminta? Stephen?"

He turned to find Sybil's shocked eyes upon them. Not only shocked but hurt too.

Araminta looked down at her feet. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came.

_Oh God_ , thought Stephen, he was going to have to find an excuse for this one, alone. Araminta would think he was defending her but Stephen was devastated by what his real lover, whose good opinion meant everything, would assume was the greatest betrayal. And, indeed, it would have been if there'd been a grain of truth in what she believed she'd seen. "Lady Partington, it is not the way it appears."

She drew herself up to her full height. "Araminta," she said, coldly, not looking at her daughter. "You may go now."

Dismissed, Araminta hurried out of the clearing and Stephen watched her head toward The Grange while he waited to defend Lady Partington's natural charges.

_Better to meet this head-on_ , he thought. Sighing, he took her hands and lowered his face, speaking only when he was assured Araminta was out of hearing. "Araminta found me after I'd been swimming." He indicated his dishevelment. "It obviously aroused some latent feeling for me as she's just professed her preference for me as her husband while still steadfastly maintaining her intention to marry her cousin Edgar."

He waited, the growing silence reinforcing how desperately he needed Sybil's understanding. God, if she sent him packing it would mean yesterday was the last occasion he'd glory in her luscious body and rest his head against her beautiful, pillowy breasts. Quite frankly, he couldn't bear it.

For a long moment she allowed him to hold her hands in his. He hadn't realized how soft they were. Soft and girlish. Like the rest of her. In the shade of the forest glade he could see no sign of crease or mark to indicate her real age. She was lovely, truly lovely with an inner depth he'd never found in all the women of his intimate acquaintance. She could laugh with him as if they were of the same generation, make fun of him yet still fill him with the sense that his physical strength and sexual prowess were important to her but that there was more about him she valued.

"Araminta was spying on you?" It was a whisper. Questioning, rather than accusing...he hoped.

He wanted to see her smile, not look at him with such suspicion, as if he were Beezlebub himself, slyly seducing her daughter behind her back. Lady Partington was a queen among women and he wanted—no, needed—her high regard.

But Sybil didn't smile. "Araminta told you she _loves_ you?"

Stephen nodded, not sure why her mouth was trembling until, withdrawing her hands from his grasp to cup her cheeks she cried, "In that case what we are doing is outrageous. If Araminta _truly_ loves you we must do all in our power to persuade her to give up this foolish notion of marrying Edgar merely to become mistress of this pile of old stones."

Abruptly she turned on her heel, ignoring his pleas to return, not even raising her hand to acknowledge them.

Stephen stood in the glade, wretched, and watched her proud, stiff exit, desperately hoping it was not forever.

* * *

During dinner Sybil watched Araminta with covert suspicion. There was a hectic flush to the girl's cheeks and she seemed to have lost her appetite. Of course, Humphrey would not notice that the servants removed her untouched plate after each course. But a mother deeply concerned with the happiness of her daughter would.

And clearly Araminta was...well, as wretched as _she_ was.

She glanced at Edgar, who sat between Araminta and Hetty, attacking his beef with gusto, talking about his hunting exploits with his mouth full, raking his hands through his curly hair and thrusting out his chest. Not long out of the army, he was already growing stout, taking all he could get without any real appreciation for it—the food, drink, women, attention...as if it were his due.

On the opposite side of the table sat Stephen, well built, handsome, kind and capable. Deserving. So far he'd said nothing the entire meal.

Humphrey, misinterpreting Stephen's silence perhaps for preoccupation with his uncertain prospects following the house party that would signal his departure, said, "I've contacts in the Foreign Office, Stephen, which might be useful. You're a bright young man. If you could distinguish yourself there—" He gave a forced laugh. "Find evidence to call that traitor Sir Aubrey Banks to account before he tries his charms on my girls when they go to London."

"You're very kind, my lord. I shall leave you a forwarding address."

His words sent a pain like a lance through Sybil's heart. Suddenly it all seemed so final. The image of Araminta locked in his embrace caused another wave of anguish. She shifted in her seat, her hands going to the napkin that slid from her lap. Surreptitiously she contoured her belly. What if Stephen had already planted the seed that would oust Edgar from his position, yet what if Araminta, in relinquishing Edgar, left Edgar free for Hetty?

Oh God. She licked dry lips. It was still possible that Hetty might make a match with Edgar, whom she truly loved. And if Sybil _were_ with child, she'd have then denied Hetty the chance to become mistress of The Grange. Instead, Hetty would be living with Edgar in decidedly more modest lodgings.

"My dear, are you all right?"

It was unusual for Humphrey to be so solicitous. She raised her anguished eyes to his and nodded. He really had been much kinder to her lately. More thoughtful.

He reached across to pat her hand and she froze. Humphrey never touched her. Never engaged in physical affection of any sort. His mistress had been gone a few days, perhaps? She'd not been in the carriage at any rate and Sybil had been under the impression she'd left the village when her pregnancy had become advanced, and only returned for the occasional night. To see Humphrey.

But that had not been for a while, obviously. A sickening thought occurred to her. Perhaps Humphrey would, in fact, come to Sybil's room that night. Or the next. Perhaps abstinence and the absence of his mistress had persuaded him that he really could transcend his aversion for physical relations with his wife in order to sire the next heir.

The rightful heir.

Everyone was looking at her. Curious, concerned, confused by her odd behavior. Sybil generally smiled through any pain.

"I...I'm afraid I'm not feeling myself," she said, preparing for the first time in her life to quit her position as mistress of the dinner table pleading ill health when the truth was, not for the first time, dismay, anxiety and the deepest unhappiness.

"Don't go yet, Mama." It was Araminta, putting down her knife and fork and looking at her with an expression of odd defiance and sudden determination.

A ghastly premonition visited Sybil. She caught her breath.

Araminta squared her shoulders and looked around the table, her gestures indicating that what she was about to say was of the greatest importance. Sybil didn't miss the almost petulant tilt to her chin as her gaze rested briefly on Stephen.

"Mama...Papa...everyone—"

Unable to bear what she was about to hear, Sybil drew in her breath in an audible gasp, drawing attention away from Araminta, her mind racing but not fast enough to keep up with her mouth. For the words spilled out before she had time to process the good sense in saying, "The reason I am feeling unwell is..." She gulped in air and tried a new tack. "Doctor Marsh was here this morning and I am very happy to announce, everyone, that he has confirmed what I have long suspected. I am to have a child."

Her announcement was greeted by stunned silence. This was not a simple instance of the patter of tiny feet a few months hence. This had ramifications for everyone. Oh, she knew it very well.

Which was why everyone was lost for words except Hetty who did not factor in ramifications in her simple pleasure at what most people would consider a joyous occasion.

"Oh Mama, so that's why you're not yourself! I've been watching you all through dinner." If Hetty thought it a most singularly odd manner for her mother to drop such a bombshell she did not say it.

Gathering her wits, Sybil forced a smile at Araminta. "I'm sorry to cut you off like that, Araminta, dear. What was it you were going to tell us?"

She noticed that Edgar had gone white around the gills and that his grasping fingers were rejected by Araminta, who all but croaked, "It was nothing, Mama." She looked for a moment as if she were about to be ill. "Congratulations to you and Papa on this...astonishing news."

* * *

Sybil excused herself as quickly as she could and was not surprised to be visited by her husband in her private sitting room a short while later, his expression unreadable, though his voice shook.

"You are with child, Sybil?" His shadow appeared long and ominous, draped over the counterpane and up the wall as he stood over her while she reclined upon the chaise longue, a flannel across her brow, which her maid had dampened for her.

Wearily Sybil raised her hand to prevent him saying anything more. "Humphrey, I'm sorry for lying. Dr. Marsh didn't visit but I simply had to say something to stop Araminta blurting out in front of everyone that she and Edgar were betrothed."

She had her eyes closed and when the silence continued, opened them, shocked as Humphrey let out the first genuine guffaw she'd heard since they'd been married.

"Oh, my dear girl," he laughed, wiping the tears from his eyes as he lowered himself beside her, putting his arm about her. "That was inspired! Did you see Edgar's expression? Oh, Lord, what a picture! Young Stephen dealt with the hobbling of his ambition with a great deal more dignity than _that_ young ninnyhammer. Hoisted on his own petard, eh wot? If what you said were true it'd be rusticating in the Cotswolds for young Edgar, who's no doubt been rubbing his hands the past four years at the thought of taking on all this." He made a sweeping gesture before hugging Sybil again.

Sybil, acutely aware of the rare sensation of Humphrey's arm about her, held her breath, hoping to ward off the plethora of extraordinary mixed feelings that consumed her in this unprecedented moment of comradeship with her husband of twenty years.

Was that desire for him that churned in her lower belly? She intercepted his familiar, uncomplicated smile.

No. It was hard to desire a man who'd shackled her to an emotional wasteland for all her adult life.

But there was gratitude for his kindness and pride in having impressed him.

_Kindness?_ She nearly choked on the bile of injured self-respect. She was a grown woman, not a fawning puppy dog who'd do anything for a kind word from her master.

Tempering her thoughts, she acknowledged her duty. He was her husband, she was fond of him, she'd actively tried to entice him into her bed for years. Now it appeared that tonight's charade had made him more conscious than he'd ever been of the need for an heir to displace Edgar. Furthermore, with Lizzy Hazlett gone more than a week, it was possible he mightn't find the idea of conjugal relations with Sybil quite as unpalatable as before.

The trouble was...

_The trouble was..._

She put a hand to her heart and closed her eyes upon the image of Stephen gazing into her eyes, pushing back the distinctive, light-brown cowlick she loved to twine around her finger.

Oh God, what had she done?

The sound of footsteps in the passage caused Humphrey to rise.

"Enjoy your rest, my dear." His expression was enigmatic and he grasped her shoulder and gave it a squeeze, his eyes glowing with hidden meaning as he added, "Your inspiration has filled me with inspiration of my own, my love. And pushed me into a greater understanding of my duty."

# Chapter 10

_Y our inspiration has filled me with inspiration of my own, my love. And pushed me into a greater understanding of my duty._

Sybil lay silent and tortured in the darkness of her lonely bedchamber. Humphrey had visited her here on the rarest of occasions. This was the scene of her greatest humiliations. Never more acutely did she understand her failure as a wife than beneath the covers of the large, empty bed that cocooned her restless body.

Now she was in her night rail and ready for bed.

But not ready for what the night might bring.

When the discreet scratching at the door was followed by the spill of light across the carpet, she turned on her side to face the opposite wall, trembling with a despairing resignation that was almost painful.

Light footsteps sounded. She squeezed shut her eyes and fisted her hands as the mattress dipped. This was followed by the touch of a hand, light and tentative.

_Not_ belonging to Humphrey. She exhaled on a sudden gasp of surprise and...reprieve. Sybil would know Stephen if she were bound and blindfolded. The gentle pressure of his lover's touch and the bergamot and equine smell of his strong young body never failed to thrill and delight her.

"My lady, I know you're angry with me but hear me out before you send me away."

"Stephen! You mustn't be here!" Sybil jerked into a sitting position as he reached for her hand. He'd placed his candle on the chest of drawers and in the glow he looked earnest and desperately young.

Her heart beat erratically and despite herself she returned the squeeze of his hand, even though she knew how important it was to discourage him.

"I'm not angry, Stephen." She wasn't, either. Just filled with a deep sadness that everything they'd shared had been reduced to dust by the latest developments. She'd joined herself with Stephen through duty. Now she must rend herself asunder—and apart from him—through duty. She put her lips to his palm as she reassured him with desperate earnestness, "Stephen, you must know that I believe everything you said about you and Araminta. Nor am I jealous." She lowered her eyes and added painfully, "Though I wish I were twenty years younger and free to marry—like her."

"For then you'd marry me!" In a burst of feeling, Stephen leaned over the bed and swept her her into his arms.

Despite the answering passion in her breast, Sybil held him at bay, unclasping his hands, which bound her tightly to his chest, but holding them bound in hers as she gently chafed them, staring into his confused and troubled eyes.

In the tense silence, he shook his head and Sybil longed to smooth away his troubled frown as he asked slowly, staring deeply into her eyes, "If you're not angry with me then what must I do to convince you that what we have together is pure and good and right?" He cupped her right cheek, and stroked her brow, his expression quizzical. "I feel nothing for Araminta. I've told you more than once I would not marry her, even if she has no mind to wed Edgar following your decidedly extraordinary announcement. But Sybil, now that you've said you're with child, it's..." He checked himself, his smile growing slowly as if he were only realising, now, the answer to what troubled him. "It's your duty to follow through." His eagerness grew as he stroked her arms, her breast. He cupped her face and brought his own close. "Sybil, I have two more days here. We must make the most of every opportunity." Then, as if realising that perhaps this made him sound more like a schoolboy capitalising on opportunity rather than a man in love, added, "We must find _whatever_ opportunity we have to be together, not just now but in the future."

She let him touch her, allowed him to whip up the deepest passions only he could evoke, knowing she should push him away. But the warmth of his caring touch was so welcome after so many cold, loveless years. She acknowledged her love for him was forbidden—and certainly of very limited duration—but surely she could bask in his fleeting caress for just these five minutes?

Closing her eyes, trembling at the feel of his lips on hers, she wondered how he would think of her when the time came for him to return to his old way of life; to make his own way in the world, surrounded by fresh, beautiful young women. Would he be horrified by what they'd done? She doubted he'd be indiscreet regarding their affair. There was that comfort, at least. Stephen had integrity and was certainly too fond of her and aware of the potential danger of a misplaced remark that might cause harm to her reputation. No, he was simply a young man enjoying the novelty of an older woman who, for her own reasons, had offered him unfettered access to her body—for what that was worth.

Finally, with an effort that tested the utmost limits of her self-control, she pushed him away and sat up. "Stephen, we cannot do this anymore."

Oh God, how she hated the finality of those words. His disappointment as his hands dropped away cut deep. Of course he was disappointed. What libidinous young man wouldn't be disappointed at the withdrawal of sexual relations?

Forcing herself to sound strong as she tidied her hair and clothes, staring at the green patterned wall paper rather than at his face, she said, "Humphrey's interest appears to have been aroused once more by the prospect of siring his own heir."

Stephen's expression, when she turned to face him, was a picture of horror. Well, he _seemed_ genuinely disappointed and that was some comfort, she tried to console herself.

She swallowed and twisted the fabric of her skirts about her fingers, awkwardly. "You're a wonderful lover, Stephen. You've been very kind—"

"Kind!" The explosiveness of his words suggested she'd just delivered the greatest of insults.

He drew her up upon her feet and suddenly she was once more pinioned against his chest, his mouth working in anger—for she could feel it against her cheek, which was pressed beneath his chin—as he ground out, "Kindness had nothing to do with everything we've had together. Sybil! Don't you understand? I want you. _You!_ I'm not here because of some perverse pleasure in siring the next heir to this...this pile of stones. Not because of the free sex. I'm here because of you! I love _you_ , Sybil. I don't love anyone else. I've never loved anyone else like I love you. You made me realise that." His voice trembled and his words came out low and tortured against her cheek. "I want _only_ you."

Despite the comfort of such sentiments, she tensed as he stroked her breast, unleashing once again the carnal desires she thought she'd successfully reined in. The carnal desires she dared not act upon. Hot wanting curdled in her lower belly and she squirmed at the rush of moisture between her legs.

"And _you_ want _me_ ," he whispered, his mouth barely moving against hers. "Otherwise your body would not respond to me like this."

She moved into him, despite herself. "Humphrey will visit me tonight."

Stephen registered her words in silence, still gently cradling her breast.

Slowly, thoughtfully, he conceded, "I known it's Humphrey's right to sire his own heir, of course." He hesitated, drew in a labored breath, then added, "But if he refuses to give you what is _your_ right...if he cannot take the trouble to bring _you_ pleasure in the process, then I can do _that_ very nicely." He kissed her earlobe, his fingers plucking at the ribbon that tied her night rail as his voice gained force. "Without putting you in any danger of conceiving a child." He paused, adding in a tone both proud and vulnerable, "Unless you wish to end... _everything_...now."

"Stephen, I—" Her sentence was truncated on a groan as Stephen's hand skimmed her inner thigh.

"So you _do_ want me."

She almost laughed in a burst of abandoned joy at his near-adolescent satisfaction as he dipped his fingers into her moisture, withdrawing them and presenting them to her in the glow of the candlelight as if it were proof.

His grin broadened, he drew himself up like a proud young buck. Then, whisking her onto his lap, he slid a finger inside her once more and began to massage the slick nub of her sex.

"Stephen, please!" she gasped, jerking at the wicked sensations.

His mouth was on her earlobe, his breath warm as he kissed her, sending spirals of desire skimming through her nerve endings. She clutched at him, even as she wanted to push him away. Needed to.

"Please?" he echoed, almost wickedly as he pulled briefly away from the kiss. "You want more? I _knew_ I could make you want me."

"That's never been in any doubt," she gasped as she arched against him, her breath shortening as she fisted her hands in his light curls.

"And this is to show how much I want you to _really_ want me." It came out as a strangled whisper. "Even if now is the last time we're ever alone."

She felt his departure from her side like a terrible loss before she was gently pushed back upon the bed, his fingers skimming her thighs as he rucked up her nightdress.

Though she couldn't see him, his face, which had been by her earlobe, was now between her legs, his mouth burning her flesh as he trailed hot kisses upward. Higher, he went while she squirmed in both pleasure and alarm. She must stop him. She must. The sensations were too wicked, the tension within her building dangerously. This clandestine meeting with Stephen should have afforded her the opportunity to assert control.

To put a stop to the dangerous currents that threatened to rip her from her safe albeit passionless existence.

Instead, something inside her burst into renewed life as his tongue flicked across her entrance and his fingers intensified their rhythmic pleasuring. Electricity shot to her extremities, her whole body snapping into tense awareness.

"Stephen, I—"

He ignored her strangled gasp. She tried again, the words truncated on a feeble croak while his sighs of pleasure as he feasted on her mingled with her short, sharp, increasingly desperate breaths.

She gasped again, a deeper, more desperate sound. And bucked again as his tongue swept her, explored her, penetrated her, his concentration focused only on pleasuring her.

"Stephen—" She barely knew what she meant to say. Her control was slipping, even as she uttered his name. The pressure was almost too great to bear. Painful. She was connected to safety by the merest thread. She fought to reel herself in. Fought to regain her equilibrium. "Oh Stephen!"

Again he ignored her, the final sweep of his tongue her undoing.

Sensation exploded within her, violent pleasure swamping her in waves so intense it was all she could do to stop herself from crying out as her body convulsed in great shudders that rocked her to the core.

To the depths of her soul.

She realized she must have been beyond rational thought, beyond consciousness of the present, for the sound of her name penetrated as if he'd been saying it for some time.

"Sybil? Sybil?" He was lying beside her, still fully clad in his evening clothes, his cheek against hers as he stroked her face. "Did you enjoy that?" he whispered, twisting his head.

Weakly, she nodded, and he grinned, nibbling her earlobe. "If I'm not needed to sire an heir I hope you'll call on me for my services in this department any time you wish, Lady Partington."

"Oh Stephen..." She laughed softly, feeling the tears gather behind her eyes. "You are wicked. See what you have reduced me to? I can barely move. What will I do when you are gone?"

"Find ways and means so we can meet, of course," he said, as if he really believed it.

She rose up on her elbows and gently kissed him.

He was lovely and considerate and she'd never felt so desirable and appreciated.

But she was conscious of the time. The lack of time.

Humphrey had indicated he was ready to sire an heir. As his viscountess her most important role was to provide him with one. Her only role. It was why she'd lived with him for twenty years. Their marriage contract stipulated that in return for his protection and the lavish comforts he provided, she must be his vessel. If she reneged she was less than nothing. If she refused Humphrey she risked losing everything.

It was the tread of footsteps in the passageway and the sound of her husband clearing his throat that provided the impetus for what she could not do alone.

They registered it at the same time, jerking apart.

"Pretend you're asleep," Stephen whispered, hastily pulling the covers up over her. "I'll leave through the window."

"No, it's too dangerous," she hissed but with a final kiss he was gone and she was left with the terror that if she had to live with the life of her young lover on her conscience then her own life was worth less than nothing.

The door opened. There was more noisy, self-conscious throat clearing. She smelled....

Whisky.

"Ah, you're awake, Sybil." Swaying, Humphrey indicated the candle on the drawers as he placed his own next to it and removed his banyan as if this were his everyday ritual. His breathing was labored and she recoiled from the strong spirits on his breath.

"It's not often you visit me, Humphrey," Sybil remarked, hoping her voice did not betray the fierce hammering of her heart. She concentrated on his large feet, which he was heaving onto the bed after the rest of him.

He grunted. "Tonight brought home how foolish I've been to allow my natural disinclination to prevent me from doing my duty."

She twisted her face to look at him. Good God, he was smiling at her as if he didn't realize how wounding his words were. _Natural disinclination?_ Why, this was the most callous rebuttal of, not just her major role but her worth as a woman.

"You were very clever to play for time, Sybil." He chuckled as he settled in beside her. His words were slightly slurred. "Now that Edgar is proving worse than we'd feared, I saw that whatever it cost me, I had to do my duty...get you with child." A spasm crossed his face. "And there's only one man who can do that."

The touch of his hairy ankle against her leg made her jerk away. _Whatever it cost me?_ he'd said. What about what it cost her?

She'd always been a good wife. A loyal wife but what about her loyalties to her own heart? To the man who valued her? Her young lover. Did they really count for nothing?

Humphrey raised one eyebrow as he obviously registered her less than enthusiastic welcome. "Should I kiss you first?" he asked. He looked almost revolted by the idea. "To help you relax?"

Sybil raised her chin, inching every piece of herself away from even the warmth of his large body. "Actually, Humphrey, tonight is not a good night for you to visit." She was careful not to betray her rising fury. "I'm sorry if you've had to ply yourself with whisky just to make the idea of venturing in here even possible. The fact is, I have the most terrible megrim."

He digested this in silence. Then, grumbling, heaved himself out of bed and put on his banyan, swaying almost dangerously and looking decidedly displeased. "Well, that's grand timing. After all, it was you who suggested—"

"I suggested that unless you were content for Edgar to succeed you one of us had better do something about it," Sybil cut him off. "However tonight is simply not convenient."

If he hadn't been foxed he might have questioned her unprecedented response, the crispness of her tone, her clear aversion to him. The fact that she would even reject him.

He stumbled as he gave the final, almost indignant tug to secure the tie of his banyan and it occurred to Sybil he may well not have been able to perform in any case. But the thought was too repugnant to dwell upon and she simply lay back on her pillows and nodded politely as he grunted his intention to depart.

The moment he was gone Sybil flew to the window.

_Dear God, thank you for sparing Stephen_ , she whispered silently when she saw no sign of his broken body on the gravel far below.

She strained for a glimpse of him, anxiously scanning the broad expanse of lawn that disappeared towards the woods with the lake beyond, and her breath left her in a low, relieved sigh.

Right now nothing else was more important than ensuring no harm came to Stephen. She owed him everything. She put her hand to her chest where long-latent feelings of joy and hope had been brought to life. It was the greatest gift she'd ever been given.

* * *

The following day Sybil attended to her duties as lady of the manor, with her brain barely engaged on issuing orders for the rooms for tomorrow night's guests to be made ready.

Humphrey made his usual appearance at breakfast. Usual in that he'd been there every morning since his mistress had departed. He seemed unperturbed by the previous night's exchange, merely nodding to her over his news sheet. Sybil's heart weighed her down like a heavy stone.

"Young lady's here to see you, my lord."

Humphrey raised his eyebrows at the message brought by Mary but Sybil did not miss the almost clandestine look in her direction before he replied, "Tell her I'll see her in the drawing room." He hesitated, adding to Sybil, "You must have more of the bacon, dear. It's very good."

Sybil was not going to be fobbed off like that but she waited a moment before making her own appearance in the drawing room two minutes later.

She was just in time to hear her husband say under his breath, "You know it was wrong of you to show your face here, Larissa, but I shall come." At her arrival the pair drew quickly apart.

He glanced at Sybil. "Miss...Miss Laurence is asking if I'd be patron of the new school in the village and I've agreed."

Sybil nodded at the large-eyed creature who'd stared at them from the passing carriage on the way to their picnic spot a few days ago.

"A new school? What a novel idea." Sybil smiled, inviting the young lady to sit, but Miss Laurence declined after a fleeting look at Humphrey.

Her father.

Sybil watched the exchange. Anguish clawed at her and she longed to inform Humphrey that she knew exactly who Miss Laurence was.

The girl was looking at her with interest. There was boldness, even dislike in those enormous green eyes of hers. Sybil felt like shouting, _Yes, look around you! Look all you like! You think_ you're _the one who's been hard done by through my husband's philandering?_

Instead she merely inclined her head, saying softly, "I should like to be informed of its progress...Miss _Laurence_."

Humphrey hadn't even dared use her real name. Hazlett!

When she overheard Mary and Betty whispering in the cold room that Mrs. Hazlett had been seen in town disguised beneath a heavy veil and with her belly nearly as large as her brazenness, Sybil had to swallow down her rage and use every ounce of her inconsistent willpower to remain silent.

* * *

Later that day, Stephen intercepted Sybil near the wall of the vegetable garden a little distance from the house. She looked upset.

One of the maids was scraping out a saucepan of gruel for the chickens so he beckoned Sybil to follow him a short distance away and out of sight.

Although he had no claim on her, rage needled him at the thought of the previous night's activities once he'd departed through the window.

Roughly, he asked, "Tell me—" but she cut him off and her look was so sorrowful it took all his willpower not to seize her to his chest and be damned with the danger of exposure.

"Humphrey was inebriated." She turned her head away and bent to examine the curled frond of one of Humphrey's hothouse specimens. "Nothing happened." Changing the subject, she added as she straightened, "Humphrey's 'other' daughter has just visited."

He assumed a sympathetic expression but was overjoyed at the knowledge that Humphrey hadn't laid a finger on her. "Sybil, your husband has sired three side-slips with his mistress. You owe him nothing. Certainly not your loyalty." With a surreptitious look over his shoulder, he ran his hands quickly over her curves. God, he loved her body. He couldn't wait to have her naked and all his again. "Come into the beech wood with me."

She shook her head. "Do not forget I am lady of the manor. I have a great deal to organize before tomorrow."

"If you're worried about conceiving I've already shown—"

"Stephen...no!" She sounded stricken.

"You didn't enjoy last night? You want nothing more to do with me?" Now he was the one stricken.

"Stephen, I'm consumed by you," she whispered, gripping the lapels of his coat. "It terrifies me but our arrangement was because of my husband's apparent...aversion. If his enthusiasm to at least try has returned I'm in no position to refuse him." A look of utter desolation crossed her face. "And... I cannot be sharing my bed with two men. I just can't."

"You may already be with child," he reminded her as jealousy speared him.

She closed her eyes. "Or I may not. Oh, Stephen." Her voice hitched. "I'm duty-bound to my husband."

"You owe him nothing after the way he's treated you." He knew the defense was lame. That the law was on Lord Partington's side and Sybil spoke the truth. But he couldn't accept that he was losing her so soon.

At the sound of servants approaching, Sybil put out her hand to squeeze his shoulder as if that might comfort him. "I hate it as much as you," she said. "However we must part now. I fear for you in case suspicion is even raised."

"For _me_?" He gripped her wrists and put his lips to her palms, even though the voices were getting close. "Do not worry about the risks I take. I'm wild for you, Sybil," he whispered between kisses. "I'd take any risk to be with you. We have two nights to be together. Let me be with you one more time? _Please_ , my love?"

Closing her eyes, she wilted against him. "We dare not, Stephen. The risks are too great and...and..."

Miserably he finished for her, "And your husband has first claim on you." He took a deep breath and tilted up her chin. He couldn't believe this was the end. It was too soon. For a long moment he gazed into her serene, blue-gray eyes. Her face was the sweetest he'd ever seen. Goodness was reflected in her deeply sympathetic expression. She'd be beautiful forever.

_Beautiful in a timeless way, beautiful in her heart._

"Sybil, after I go away, regardless of whether you are with child, will you have me back? Can I see you again?" He swallowed past the lump in his throat. In all the wild and wanton escapades he'd enjoyed he'd never felt such craving; never felt the desire to give more than he received, or the all-consuming, almost helpless yearning to be everything to his true love. Yes, Sybil was his true love. The difference in their ages was nothing. He realised he didn't want a young woman of appropriate status and, yes, age, if it meant he couldn't have Sybil. Having tasted the fruits of a deeply satisfying union with a woman who gave him so much more than physical pleasure, he no longer had any heart for participating in the marriage mart when he returned to London, as soon he must. "I need you." He looked at her helplessly. "I want to be with you. Now. Tomorrow. You think I don't know my own heart, but I do. And I want you now, and forever. Sybil, you make me the best I've ever been."

* * *

Sybil stared at his departing back, barely attending to the scullery maid's deferential greeting. Her heart, which had weighed her down so heavy just moments before, was lighter though sorrow lurked in its depths.

For the first time in her life she felt like more than just a woman fulfilling her prescribed role.

For the first time in her life she felt truly loved.

# Chapter 11

Humphrey had made various veiled remarks alluding to his reasons for inviting the unknown Sir Archie and his wife to The Grange. Something about "putting the boot on the other foot".

Whatever this really meant, Sybil's role was to attend to the practicalities of having three houseguests. There was much work to do, such as organizing rooms to be made up, consulting with Cook to decide upon the menu, and the butler with regard to spirits and wine. Humphrey was so rarely at The Grange she'd taken on most of the roles normally undertaken by the master of the house. When he did instruct her to organise a weekend house party she generally assumed there was some business matter at the heart of it. Humphrey was not naturally gregarious and had few true friends.

However, he did understand the importance of keeping in tune with various important personages and nurturing connections. Sybil had wondered if this Sir Archie might have an influential position in the City that could in turn assist Stephen. He'd hinted at investigating options for Stephen in the Foreign Office.

But as she worked and her mind wandered, she realised the reasons for the weekend's visit had not been fully explained and nor did it really matter.

All that mattered was that Stephen was leaving The Grange immediately afterwards and, once he was gone, her life would return to the barren wasteland it had been for nearly twenty years.

It was while selecting some hothouse flowers in the conservatory that she spied Stephen through the glass. He was near the gardener's hut, amidst a collection of jars.

With a quick glance about to ensure no one was about, Sybil picked up her muslin skirts and hurried round the back of the house, excited and nervous.

"Good lord, Stephen, you look like you're participating in the black arts. All these spiders? Is this for tomorrow night? Is Sir Archie a collector, too? Humphrey mentioned something about your fascination for the insect realm. But these spiders. Are they really...necessary?"

He regarded her seriously as he looked up from dropping a spider into a jar. A number of tall, glass jars were lined up on a long tabletop, each containing a single black spider.

"Yes," he said simply, and for a moment it looked as if he were about to reach over from the other side of the table and take her hand.

Instead, he glanced up at the sky. It was overcast and there was a heaviness about the air.

A heaviness in the atmosphere between them.

Sybil's heart felt as if it weighed double as she regarded the lovely man before her. He looked tired and handsome in a stark, ascetic way, very different to the carefree young Stephen Cranborne Sybil was used to dealing with.

Stephen's normally mobile expression was grim. The habitual pleasant smile that played about his lips, affording him that charming, genial air that made him so attractive to Sybil—to women in general—was nowhere in evidence.

When he locked glances with Sybil, there was a desperate, hunted look in his eye which was borne out in his voice as he muttered, "God Sybil, I hate the idea of leaving you." He drew in a breath. "It's strange...but when I first learned I was Lord Partington's new heir, I was excited only for what that meant in terms of elevating myself in the world." He closed his eyes briefly, then refocused them on Sybil with an intensity that made her heart shift dangerously. More so when he added, "Only after I met you did I discover what I really had to lose."

The shrubs afforded privacy. Sybil glanced longingly at them. Stephen had proved himself a young man of passion and spontaneity but he was being careful today. Or had he accepted Sybil's earlier rejection of his idea to slip away to the beech wood as affirmation that their affair was at an end?

Suddenly she wished she had it within her to boldly initiate something more between them. To leave it like this made her feel so...hollow.

"Let me introduce you. To the spiders," he said after a long silence. He sounded reserved. As if he were reluctant to acknowledge what had been between them or to let her closer and pain speared her. He cleared his voice, his tone now business-like. "In this jar we have Lady Julia. See how large and glossy and self-satisfied she looks? She's a prime article and she'll gobble up her prey in a heartbeat, believe me."

Sybil laughed uncertainly as she leaned closer, struck by foreboding, suddenly. "It sounds as if you're well acquainted with Lady Julia." She peered into the jar. "She clearly doesn't like the look of me. Look how she's reared up and bared her fangs."

When she glanced at Stephen and saw the set rigidity of his mouth, her instincts went onto high alert. _Lady Julia? Was there more meaning to this?_ Before she could say anything, he went on.

"Ah, she's jealous of you. She sees how it is. That I have eyes only for lovely Lady Sybil and that no one else will do. Beware of Lady Julia. She will strike when you least expect it and her bite is lethal." He moved over to the next jar while Sybil decided she'd keep an extra vigilant eye on this Lady Julia now that she'd reassessed her opinion of her being a placid, homely baronet's wife.

"Now here is Irresistible Araminta. She is quite innocent by Lady Julia's standards but don't be deceived. Her bite is just as lethal. She just hasn't learned the art of sizing up her quarry. She makes mistakes. The gentleman spider who courts her may or may not come off second best. Lady Julia, on the other hand, is used to being victorious."

Sybil looked longingly at Stephen's strong, gentle hands and wished they clasped hers rather than the glass jar containing Irresistible Araminta.

"Ah, look!" His lips quirked as he held up another jar. "This is Miss Hetty. See how shyly she meets our eye? She's not one to fear. She'll not devour the man who wins her, like her bold sisters. We shall not put her forward in this contest for she's too sweet to make a meal of anyone."

"So you and Sir Archie's great interest in spiders is behind this house party?" Sybil queried. "You and Sir Archie both share a passion for spiders? Humphrey mentioned something about a wager?"

Sybil tried to gauge from his response what might be involved. To see if this was more than just about the wager involving some house spiders she'd learned about.

In an unrelated conversation, Stephen had told her of the female spider's propensity to devour the male after he'd impregnated her, adding that only males of unusually large size lived to tell the tale. He enjoyed telling her interesting facts about the world of nature, and Sybil enjoyed listening.

Now, he bit his lip, took an audible breath, and said, "I behaved foolishly while Sir Archie's guest." Indicating the spiders with a sweep of his arm, he went on, "I was enticed into making a rather large bet—yes, your husband knows about it and it's through his backing that this event involving Sir Archibald and Lady Banks is taking place."

"Oh Stephen, I'm sorry." Sybil reached for his hand across the table but he closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.

"I don't deserve your sympathy," he muttered. "I was in my cups and I wagered what I did not have to lose. My behaviour was deplorable and all I can say to excuse it is that hope—and admiration—went to my head." He raised the glass jar he was holding and stared at the spider within? _Lady Julia?_ "Having been convinced the puny male would not survive the night with his much larger female consort I was reluctantly persuaded to bet a thousand pounds." He sighed heavily. "I lost the wager but I suspect I was the victim of a...a hoax. And so does Sir Humphrey. He's as determined as I am to restore justice."

Tentatively, Sybil asked, "Are you looking forward to this weekend?" She paused. "To seeing Lady Julia again?"

"God, no!" With unexpected force, Stephen set down the glass jar. "I wonder if they even know what this is about, they are such a smug pair. They probably assume this is a sign they are coming up in the world."

"But they will when they see the candidates you've gathered for a repeat of the wager. Well, it shall be interesting. Now tell me, is there a Lady Sybil?" she asked to change the subject, for Stephen was looking distinctly downcast and Sybil did not want to press him on what, exactly, had occurred at Archibald Ledger's home.

He gave her an assessing look. "I'm not sure." He moved down the line of jars and looked into the next one then shook his head. "No, this one's deadly." At the final jar, he lifted his head, saying uncertainly, "This one could perhaps be a Lady Sybil."

Sybil moved closer. She caught the warmth of his expression and the irregular beating of her heart picked up speed, even though he made no attempt to close the distance between them.

Then he smiled and after holding her gaze for several long seconds, reached for her hand across the table and brought it to his lips for a brief kiss.

Sybil had to force the words and her voice was unsteady as she whispered, "Why?"

He lowered his face a fraction, moved around to be close to her, and whispered back, "She's loyal and she'll do anything to achieve what she thinks is right." His lips were so close to hers. So close. His eyes bored into her face as he went on in a murmur, "Even if it means hurting those she loves."

Sybil breathed through the tightness of her chest. Trembling, desperate he'd follow up the kiss on the back of her hand with more, knowing she must not succumb if he did, she asked upon a thread of sound, "Do you think she will be victorious?"

Stephen studied the spider. Then her. "Victorious in what? Happiness? Are spiders ever truly happy?" Amusement crossed his features and he gave her hand a squeeze. "I think she's set herself up for failure. Even in the best of situations she can't succeed." He drew in a deep breath. "But she can be happier than she is. She will of course have to submit to the male. That is her duty. It is the law of nature that she must procreate. Nature is depending upon her." He held her gaze. "But she has choices."

Sybil made a derisive noise, which he silenced when he touched his forefinger to her lips.

"She is desirable." He put his head closer and she closed her eyes, reveling in the warmth of his breath on her cheek. His words were like a caress. "So very desirable. She has suitors vying for her favors but she holds the trump card."

Unconsciously, she leaned into him as he said softly, "The card of choice. She is in a position to choose the mate to sire her offspring..." His voice trailed off in a whisper full of desperate-making suggestiveness. "And who's to know?"

Sybil swallowed. Then she gathered her wits and forced herself to smile, breaking the spell. "Poor, conflicted spider. If she is _loyal_ there is only one choice to make." She shrugged. "But I fear she is a foolish spider. I fear she has allowed her heart to get involved." She bit her lip. "Doing the inevitable will be difficult."

Stephen regarded her a long moment. Then he shrugged, also, releasing her hand. "So she plays the loyalty card." He became brisk. "Well, it had to end. You told me that. I just didn't want to believe you."

"Stephen, when you go to London, it's inevitable—"

"That I find someone else? Someone younger?" He shook his head and touched his heart, his flash of anger turning to sorrow. "No, Sybil," he murmured, "age has nothing to do with what happens here."

* * *

He slept badly that night.

Impotent rage made him thrash on his mattress as he attempted to conquer the demons that plagued him. Namely Lord Partington, to whom he owed a great debt of gratitude for staging the show that would see Sir Archie and Lady Julia given some of their own medicine. Furthermore, for welcoming him as the next heir before reluctantly conceding his patronage would have to take another form following the advent of Edgar.

When he awoke, he felt as if he'd been running all night from the hounds of hell. Emerging from his bedchamber, he cast around for Sybil, desperate to rest his eyes upon her, for that's what it would be—a peaceful release as he allowed his gaze to dwell on something good and wholesome and real.

A search of the gardens did not yield her so he went to his lair behind the conservatory, where he'd dubiously held out just a little hope of finding _her_ looking for him. Instead, he found her undeserving husband.

His Lordship thought it a great joke and chortled when he saw the specimens Stephen had collected. "Oh, my lad, you're thorough. I like you far more than I thought I would and I only wish I were handing over the reins to you instead of that sapskull nephew of mine." Then obviously remembering the phantom child Dr. Marsh had erroneously confirmed, he added, "Of course, Edgar's nose is greatly out of joint. He's barely addressed any of us since the news Lady Partington is expecting but it's early days yet." He sighed, looking gloomy and Stephen felt the bristles on the back of his neck rise.

Was Lord Partington dwelling on what he considered an unpleasant duty when he visited Sybil tonight? The thought of the two of them fumbling and grunting—well, Lord Partington, at any rate—on the marital bed made him sick to the stomach. A bitter irony that the act was so distasteful to each of them though sanctioned by the Church, whereas the same act between Sybil and Stephen, who felt so deeply for each other, was a sin.

"Still, there may not be another child and if Edgar inherits, I fear for the future of this place."

Together they turned their attention from the gardens to the fine old house where Stephen had just spent the happiest days of his life and which contained the woman who had had the most influence over him. The woman he loved.

"The ladies will miss you. Lady Partington in particular. I think she has quite a soft spot for you."

Stephen searched for any sign of a double entendre and was satisfied. Daringly, he said, "She has been very good to me. I was eighteen when I went to war. By the time I returned, both my parents were dead and my income was low, just like the standards I accepted for myself. Lady Partington has reminded me how important it is to...aim high."

Low standards. Yes indeed! He was visited by an image of Lady Julia's sharp-eyed, speculative look as she took him in her mouth in the little pantry at her home. It made him squirm, but not so the memory of Lady Sybil spread-eagle beneath him, her sweet smile lighting up her face as she offered her luscious body to him. That had been real.

His heart felt heavy in his chest just thinking of what he could now never have but he wanted to talk of her, even if it was to her husband. "Lady Partington is a good woman who clearly loves The Grange. A wonderful model for her daughters to follow." He slanted a look at his cousin. "She is both dignified and dutiful."

Lord Partington made a dismissive sound. "We must all do our duty."

"And she is beautiful too."

Lord Partington narrowed his eyes. "Your mother was a beauty!" he exclaimed, insinuating that his own wife was not.

"As is Lady Partington," Stephen declared, quashing the urge to call out this man. Instead he damped down the anger, squared his shoulders and channeled his energy into more positive action. Pointing to the spiders, he said, "I must take these to the house."

But the house offered him nothing, now. The title and estate had always seemed too good to be true. Ephemeral. Finding love with Sybil had been real _and_ true.

But now there was to be no more Sybil to caress. Only a vacuous weekend of dodging the gambits of the conniving Lady Julia.

A taunting reminder of his misspent youth. A reminder that since coming to The Grange he'd raised his standards.

Never again would Stephen be the callow young blade he'd once fashioned himself.

# Chapter 12

Lady Julia greeted him with unsurprising coquetry as her husband handed her out of her carriage. Stephen was part of the welcome party at the bottom of the steps to the house, in company with Hetty, Araminta and Edgar, whose eyes nearly popped out of his head as the vision of loveliness offered him her hand to kiss. He brightened for the first time in two days.

"The heir to The Grange himself," she tittered, cradling her hand as if to revere the spot he'd kissed before turning to Stephen. "Poor Mr. Cranborne," she said with mock sympathy. "What will you do now?"

Stephen contemplated her question without correcting her assumption that Edgar's position was as rock solid as before. "I have no money, of course." He smiled. "Perhaps I shall have to resort to lightening the load of those who do...return to my old gambling days though I'd sworn off wagers following one I had no right to lose."

She cast an edgy little smile at the group in general before following the lady of the manor up the steps and into the enormous flagstone hallway, clinging to her husband's arm. Sir Archie had so far evaded Stephen's eye but was voluble in his brief private conversation with Lord Partington by the carriage. Stephen wasn't sure what the exact wording of his cousin's invitation to Sir Archie had been though he knew Lord Partington had hinted that it was connected with Sir Archie's recent position in the Foreign Office.

"Mary will show you to your room, Lady Julia," said Sybil, handing her guest over to the maid, following the requisite courtesies. "We will be waiting for you in the drawing room when you're ready."

It was clear Sir Archie and Lady Julia were not used to being entertained in such grand style. Their eyes darted to every fine accoutrement and Stephen harked back to their modest country manor, which he'd thought so fine.

He glanced at Lady Julia with her razor sharp prettiness, her pert nose and plump lips he'd once plundered—and the thought made him ill as he watched her surreptitiously run her hand over the plush upholstery of the fashionable Egyptian sofa upon which she sat, as if to assess its worth.

No doubt she imagined a thousand pounds was nothing to Stephen with such relatives. It's why Sir Archie and Lady Julia had entertained him, of course. Money. Or lack of it. They were punting on the River Tick and they saw him as fair game. He should have realized it when Lady Julia took him into the pantry with such determination upon such flimsy acquaintanceship.

It was why she tried her luck again when she accosted him in the passageway as the party broke up to dress for dinner. He mightn't be in line to inherit now but he was close enough and certainly plump enough in the pocket with possible connections her husband could trade upon. And he'd proved very easy to win over once before, hadn't he?

"Have you missed me?" she purred, taking his arm as they rounded the corner into the older part of the house. Disused closets and bedrooms abounded, he realised fearfully.

But now, he was repulsed by her and the idea of trading in any form of passion unless it was with Sybil.

"Please don't be offended but if you wish the truth, I've enjoyed my time here too much, Lady Julia, to spare you a thought."

Her flare of outrage was quickly replaced by a determination to prove she was irresistible. Or at least that what she offered was irresistible.

They were alone. The passage was gloomy. Her hand darted to his crotch and her fingers curled around his flaccid member as she brushed up against him.

"You lie," she said, pretending coyness.

To his mortification, he felt himself harden, her soft, victorious chuckle compounding his shame. Quickly he stepped to the side, breaking contact at the sound of voices approaching.

"So you have missed me," she whispered over her shoulder, gloating as she disappeared around the corner. "I'll see you later this evening, Mr. Cranborne."

He didn't like the promise in her tone.

But there was no time for a rejoinder since Lord Partington was suddenly at his side saying in conspiratorial tones, "All's in order, lad. We'll show those upstarts that two can play at their game."

Stephen noticed the edge had been rubbed off His Lordship's usual sartorial elegance. Closer observation revealed that one of the buttons of his coat had not been done up but before Stephen could say anything, Hetty appeared round the corner, her plump face flushed as she cried, "Papa! Araminta and Edgar have had the most flaming row! I heard him accuse her of all manner of terrible things—all of which are quite true."

"You look quite gleeful, Hetty," Stephen remarked. "I daresay it's not often the lovely Araminta's perch is rattled. With all due respect, my lord." He glanced quickly at His Lordship.

"True enough. I think young Hetty and that dandiprat Edgar are far better suited." He patted his daughter's shoulder. "Now you go off and persuade him so."

Lord Partington raised his eyebrows at Stephen's obvious surprise once Hetty had gone, explaining, "I once made the mistake of telling Araminta she'd be a better mistress of this place than her brother. George was like Edgar, though I hate to say it. Well, Araminta was young and she immediately elevated the idea to glory status. Truth to tell, Hetty would be a far better match for young Edgar. Araminta would go her own way and Edgar would simply turn to drink and cards, just like his father. Hetty, on the other hand, could manage him and this place a good deal better than I think anyone would credit."

"But if the child Lady Partington is expecting is a boy then Edgar is of no account."

Lord Partington harrumphed. "There's a long time between now and when that time comes." He sighed and muttered, "Fact is, at this stage I have to assume Edgar will inherit and quite frankly I'd have more faith in entrusting the reins to my head stable lad than the bacon-brained nursling who is currently my heir." Abruptly he changed the subject. "Now do we have all in hand for this evening?" He fixed Stephen with a pair of bright, inquiring eyes as he bared his yellow teeth in a collaborative smile. "I'm sure everyone will thoroughly enjoy the entertainment I have planned."

However when the party assembled for dinner, the atmosphere heavy due to Araminta's tiff with Edgar and Edgar's obvious rebuff of a red-eyed Hetty, Stephen wondered how anyone could enjoy anything tonight. He was sure he must feel the most miserable of the lot, despite the possibilities of the wager. He'd be parting from Sybil tomorrow. Perhaps forever.

He also dreaded his next encounter with Lady Julia.

What if she forced herself on him? She was wily and determined and he was, quite frankly, terrified. Not of Lady Julia herself but of her underhanded tactics. That said, there was not a chance in hell Stephen would allow himself to be alone with the woman for even one minute.

It was Sybil he was most concerned about. Several times, Stephen locked eyes with her, long enough to convey a silent message that he hoped she would interpret as solidarity. She looked edgy and unhappy. As well she might. God, she loved _him_. They'd shared so much during the past ten days. They were lovers in the first throes of infatuation yet right now she'd be anticipating a visit from Humphrey to her bedchamber because she'd decided to play the duty card. He understood it. It was part of the reason he loved her. But his mind and body revolted at the thought of his dearest Sybil succumbing meekly to the attentions of a man she did not love when the man she did was waiting, so willingly, and so desperately, just down the passage.

Once the ladies repaired to the drawing room, the gentlemen were left alone to their port and coffee.

Sir Archie appeared very much at home. The arrogant tilt of his weak chin and the way he pursed his small mouth as he smoothed the hair back from his receding hairline made Stephen physically ill.

Earlier in the evening he'd muttered under his breath in passing, "A bet's a bet, Cranborne. Don't think your benefactor can bamboozle me into going soft. He's full of juice." His lip had curled as he raked Stephen from head to toe. "You, however, don't pass muster anymore now that you're rolled up. Tonight I'd better be assured I'll get my blunt. You thought you were a cut above but now you're on the rocks."

A less assured Stephen might have crowed that Archie's wife had been very happy for Stephen to dip his wick during their last encounter and showed every enthusiasm for repeating the experience.

Instead, he merely smiled. He'd provided Lord Partington the props but His Lordship, a legendary practical joker in his youth, had insisted upon managing the rest of the action.

Stephen had no great hope of success. It was highly doubtful Sir Archie would bet the same way, in which case the whole charade was useless.

He watched the servants clear the table, weighed down by the increasing sense of inevitability that this was not going to end well.

Now, as he drained his coffee cup while Lord Partington, Edgar and Sir Archie drained the port decanter, his cause seemed very hopeless.

"Gentlemen, the fairer sex has departed, but I wonder if we are any the better for it." Lord Partington steepled his fingers and smiled expansively at them. "Edgar, you're looking very down in the mouth, boy. I think you're only too glad to see the back of a certain young lady. Have you been bested?"

Edgar glared and Sir Archie looked surprised. Lord Partington turned to him, the corners of his mouth turned up in a sardonic smile. "Poor Edgar has, I fear, been bested by my minx of a daughter, Araminta. But, Sir Archie, perhaps you think the male of the species the superior of the sex in every way and that it's not possible to be bested by a mere female, eh wot?"

Stephen chuckled and Sir Archie swung round to face him, his cheeks blooming. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion but as an answer was required, turned back to Lord Partington, muttering, "Males are superior to females, there's no doubt of that, my lord."

"That glossy wife of yours looks like she leads you a merry dance."

Archie bristled though his eyebrows shot up in surprise. This was not the kind of talk he'd have expected from the ageing Lord Partington, no doubt. Pushing back his shoulders, he countered, "Lady Julia is spirited but she is biddable. She'd not dare do something not countenanced by myself."

"Good to hear. Like my Sybil. Can't allow these ladies too long a rein, can we?"

Although Stephen was grateful to His Lordship for helping him overcome his pecuniary difficulties, his hackles rose at these words and he was glad when Lord Partington indicated they should repair to the drawing room to join the ladies.

When they did they were met by a mixture of curiosity, excitement and revulsion, for, already lined up on a low table in the center of the room, were four glass domes, each containing a web with two spiders.

Sybil greeted the newcomers with pleasure. "I see you have some unusual fun arranged for us!" she exclaimed, stepping forward, clapping her hands. "Stephen, didn't you collect these yesterday? Oh yes, and Hetty helped. Look! Aren't they quite superb? You won't find these in every drawing room but my husband is quite the man of science and I've become used to the odd things he likes to display. Do you like spiders, Lady Julia?"

Stephen wished he could hug his darling Sybil. Lady Julia had a greenish hue to her skin and her eyes skittered between her clearly uncomfortable husband, His Lordship and Stephen.

"No, my lady," Lady Julia replied with a shudder, following Her Ladyship back to their chairs at the other end of the room. "I wish they were not so prominently displayed. In fact...in fact..." She put a hand to her forehead. "I don't feel at all well."

Lord Partington went to the table and picked up a glass dome, which he eyed with satisfaction. "We'll take them away shortly but first we're going to stage a little bet. Naturally I'd not have thought to do so in front of the ladies but Lady Partington thought it would be a lark. So please, indulge her just this once." He fixed Sir Archie with a gimlet eye. "I know you're a betting man, Sir Archie. I am too. Who's going to come off second best? The large, glossy female? You agree that it _is_ a female?" He paused meaningfully. "Good, good. Or will the male display to advantage? You declared the male could never be bested."

Archie raised his chin. Clearing his throat, he declared, "I believe there are occasions. In fact, I'd bet the opposite tonight."

However, the smug grin plastered on his face soon disappeared as the double doors were opened to admit the young Earl of Barston.

Stephen, seated near Lady Partington, let out his breath in a low, admiring whoosh. The Earl of Barston's heir. Stephen had mentioned Barston's presence only in passing to His Lordship, knowing that Barston was an ally of Sir Archie's and would never champion Stephen. However, Lord Partington was obviously more influential than Stephen and had seen the main chance.

Now, here was Barston, looking very down in the mouth. He'd sat in on the supposed invincibility of the male spider wager when Stephen had been entertained by Lady Julia in a closet just up the passage, and it was clear that he was now here on sufferance. Had Lord Partington used threat or inducement? It seemed His Lordship was adept at having matters arranged just as he liked them, Stephen thought bitterly as he inclined his head in greeting.

Barston returned the civilities with a fair degree of incivility but he nevertheless took the seat he was shown.

Stephen cast his gaze about the assembled group of people with interest. Clearly, Lord Partington intended to use whatever means he had to hand that would see justice prevail and even though Stephen thought little of his cousin in many respects, he at least owed him some gratitude for what he was doing tonight.

"You'd declare the opposite of your recent vociferous protests, would you, Sir Archie? I don't think that's wise, do you?" There was a warning note to Lord Partington's caution before he turned his attention to Barston. "Stephen, I think you mentioned you were in company with young Barston at the home of Sir Archie and his fair wife the evening you wagered a large sum in similar circumstances. Now, Sir Archie, which way did you say you were going to bet? Surely you'll bet the same way you bet before? That the male is superior in all species. This will be most interesting. Stephen, you bet the opposite? The odds? A thousand? No, no, let's make it two. As for myself, I shall refrain. So it's just you two gentlemen for the best out of three. It couldn't be fairer, now could it? Another drink? It might be a long night."

# Chapter 13

As she sat quietly sewing at the other end of the drawing room surrounded by her daughters, Sybil was struck by the incongruous feeling of being torn between two men; she who for twenty years had known she'd never owned the heart of even one.

Watching Humphrey conduct proceedings like a puppet master, she was conscious that her life, too, had been managed by him in just such a fashion—purely for his convenience and satisfaction. He wasn't a bad man or an unkind man. He just hadn't loved her. And for a woman like Sybil, who'd always suspected how much she'd missed out on for not having known the love of a man, the realisation of what she was now about to give up forever was almost more than she could bear.

Humphrey and the gentlemen were in consultation near the fireplace; and though she pretended a preoccupation with the careful stitches she was working in her sampler, her attention was fully on Stephen. How strong and self confident he looked as he handled the niceties—which she gathered weren't so nice. How young and handsome he looked.

Of course she was a fool to have imagined he would ever be hers for more than a few days. A few days for him to sate himself and move on as a much younger, more vigorous man surely would.

Yet that's not he saw it, she knew.

Not now, at any rate.

Glancing across at Humphrey, she acknowledged that he had a certain presence about him. He took on the role of master of the house with quiet confidence. He'd managed the estate in a way that had earned him the respect of his tenants and neighbors.

He'd dealt fairly by everyone but her. No, it wasn't enough that Humphrey had readily acknowledged his mistake in acceding to his parents' wishes by forsaking Lizzy Hazlett to marry Sybil.

Not when in all their marriage a few words of regret were all he'd offered to ease Sybil's burden. They meant nothing compared with his neglect and the fact he spent every possible moment with Mrs. Hazlett.

Where did that position Sybil?

As nothing more than a pliant, miserable, doormat of a wife. The clothes she wore were fine enough for a woman required to reflect a man of Humphrey's station, yet what pleasure did they afford her when she was constantly derided for wishing to experiment with colors and styles she hoped might suit her?

Why she should want to bother was another matter.

She'd only ever received one compliment from Humphrey and she didn't care to dwell on what had prompted that.

Yet Stephen's value of her was like a pain she couldn't bear. A joy that could never be fully realized.

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, 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 just 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 _un_ daring, undemanding of wives. _What an easy time of it Humphrey 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, resting her work in her lap 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—Humphrey 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," Humphrey 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 Humphrey 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 position all but promised 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 as she stepped in front 0f him.

"About us?" Stephen invested the phrase with derision as he quirked his eyebrows.

"About the fun we had." There she was, like a thorn in his side, rubbing her body suggestively against his and although Stephen swallowed past the lump in his throat there was—thank God—no answering lump growing 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, pushing aside the gold ringed curtain and sitting down beside her, 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. Yet there was some indefinable sweetness about her that tugged at Stephen's heartstrings. In the hands of the right man, he decided Hetty would flourish.

And Edgar was definitely not that man.

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 for you, 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 beautiful, thick hair like your mother's, 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. In a few short months 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 14

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 Humphrey's visit inevitable in view of their previous encounter and discussions with all its allusions, she felt physically ill.

What choice had she but to submit? She was his wife. 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 Humphrey 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 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. Humphrey 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, Humphrey."

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 Humphrey 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, Humphrey."

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 little as I do."

Sybil's mouth dropped open. Had he really said that? With such sarcasm? These words had actually spilled from from her reasonable though far-from-in-love-with-her husband whom she nevertheless had always considered felt a modicum of consideration? She couldn't believe it. Scrambling away from him, she jerked upright in the bed.

He must have realized his error for he said, into the dark, 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, Humphrey, you mistake me. Granted, I agreed an heir was required," she gasped. "For _your_ sake, Humphrey. 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 Humphrey'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. Humphrey'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?"

"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, Humphrey! I cannot do it!" She could feel the rising hysteria and tried to rein in her emotion. Humphrey 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 a loveless existence. 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, Humphrey. 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 all those 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 15

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 Humphrey 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 Humphrey 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 Humphrey, glancing from his bedroom window, might happen to observe Sybil in her nightgown, trailing her lover across the gardens, and so implicate Stephen.

But Humphrey 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 as 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.

"Humphrey came to visit me but...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. Humphrey had the power to destroy his wife's reputation in casting her off and to hobble Stephen's advancement. Stephen's future depended upon Lord Partington.

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 exhaled on 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.

Edgar was just outside the flimsy boathouse. Sybil heard the faint thud as he lurched into side, evidenced by his strangled shout of pain.

She sat up, staring at Stephen, whose face in the moonlight reflected her own horror at discovery.

"Climb in, Lady Julia," they heard Edgar drawl 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 Lady Julia and Edgar made it to the island, for Stephen and Sybil dared not remain where they were. Though they were well concealed by the beech trees that fringed the water's edge, it was highly possible Sir Archie might come looking for his errant wife.

Stephen helped Sybil 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 beginning of the path that led around the manicured gardens to approach The Grange from behind. The sounds of grunting and squeals from the rotunda made it clear they were unlikely to be observed from that quarter, but they were silent as they navigated their way deeper into the forest until it was safe to speak.

They did not break the silence, however. 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, her nipples and the whorls of hair at the back of her head conduits of exquisite sensation.

"Yes, 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 strained to touch his lips with her own, 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. Now why I have given you my body. It came with my heart, you know."

"I know." He smiled, angling himself so he could reach her lips with his. Lingeringly, he kissed her.

She gave a little sob, drew a breath and said more calmly as she withdrew, "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."

"Please don't make it sound like it was the last time, Sybil," he whispered. "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. Humphrey 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, resting her head against the trunk of the tree as she gazed at him, kneeling and intense, "But you cannot. We've had our moment. Do not feel guilty when time and distance have 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. About to relax, Sybil had opened her mouth to speak when 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.

When it came again on a fresh wave of anguish, Stephen rose quickly, helping Sybil to her feet. "Someone's in trouble." He took her hand and together they retraced their footsteps toward the lake as the sound grew louder. Another 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 barefoot, standing in the shallows, staring across the lake. Not at the rotunda where Sybil's gaze immediately gravitated but at the dark waters between.

"What is it?" she cried again, this time more urgently, for Hetty looked transfixed, her eyes not on her mother whom she'd ignored.

But then she pointed, and Sybil 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 now in water, still dressed in her evening clothes, her hair and eyes wild in the eerie light.

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 with strong, even strokes.

"Oh mama!" Hetty cried, jerking back to the present as if she'd been in a daze, before. "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 put an arm about her wildly shaking shoulders, "He'll find Edgar."

"Save me, someone! I can't swim!" came Lady Julia's anguished cry as Stephen reached her.

Yet there was no sense of triumph as he delivered 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, her eyes peeled for a sign of the unworthy young man she loved.

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 16

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 Humphrey, 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...?" Humphrey followed them into the room. He looked very old with his hair disordered, wearing only his night clothes.

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 Humphrey might react to the truth.

"Yes, Humphrey?" 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.

Then with a sigh, Sybil straightened and forced herself to attend to Humphrey's obvious confusion.

When she finally met his gaze, it was like looking at a stranger. Who was this man who'd sought her bed two hours earlier? Yes, he was the man who'd fathered her four children. The man she'd dutifully loved for twenty years despite knowing he did not love her. The man she'd loved until she discovered what love really was.

Unconsciously, she traced her belly with her hand. If she were with child, she'd keep Stephen's identity secret if it killed her.

If it were necessary.

Again, as Humphrey's troubled, confused countenance blurred before her, she had no idea what to expect from him. Understanding? Compassion? Gratitude, even? Or rage. Simple rage.

She sighed again and touched the cool, smooth sleeve of Humphrey's silk banyan, as if to ground him as he came closer. "Lady Julia and Edgar went to the rotunda. I don't know what happened, Humphrey. I think Edgar must have fallen out of the boat as they were returning."

They glanced at Hetty, the center of Stephen and Araminta's attention as they forced her to drink the brandy. Everyone wanted to know what had happened. Such an extraordinary accident in the middle of the night.

"You must ask Hetty, Humphrey," she said. "I found her by the edge of the lake, up to her knees as she tried to retrieve Edgar herself." She lowered her voice. "She must have followed Edgar and Lady Julia there."

"And Stephen?"

Sybil flicked a glance at Stephen, glad he was still clad in evening clothes and that she was the only one dressed for sleep. It made her story as an innocent bystander more plausible. Really, she didn't care if she had to swing for all their sins, but she must for the meantime concoct a plausible account of all their actions to Humphrey.

Sybil shrugged. "No doubt he couldn't sleep. There was a lot of excitement this evening."

Humphrey stared. Distractedly, he rubbed his eyes. "Lady Julia and _Edgar_?"

Sybil nodded. "One can only imagine Hetty's distress. But perhaps you should ask Hetty. She'll be questioned by the magistrate, no doubt. There'll have to be an investigation. It's best if she's encouraged to tell us everything now."

They crowded round to hear her tale. Araminta sat on the sofa beside her and took her hand, stroking it, pretending sisterly solicitude, Sybil thought uncharitably. Araminta seemed more fascinated than shocked by the means of her erstwhile betrothed's death.

"You mean you saw Lady Julia following Edgar across the lawn after he'd pretended to you he was going to bed?" She sounded outraged. "Then what happened?"

Hetty explained how she had stood at her window, vacillating between quietly retiring for the night or following Edgar and confronting him.

"I decided I had to tell him how I felt," she said in a small voice. "Cousin Stephen had said it would be helpful—for both of us."

Araminta made a small, strangled noise in her throat before asking, "It did not occur to you that Lady Julia's presence might prove an impediment?"

Hetty dabbed at her damp eyes with a handkerchief. "I thought Edgar was heading for the lake because he was miserable about you, Araminta, and that Lady Julia might be thinking she could console him." She shrugged. "But then I discovered she was there to console him in other ways."

"What other ways? What else did you see?" There was a prurient gleam in Araminta's eye.

Stephen said hastily, "I don't think Hetty wants to go into too much detail."

"Since she'll be asked by the magistrate, surely it's best she recounts it first here?" Araminta objected. "Come, Hetty. You can tell us."

On a wail, Hetty replied, "They were on the grass outside the rotunda when I reached the edge of the lake. I could see them in the moonlight. They were kissing... _More._ " She shook her head. "It was horrible. I started screaming at them."

She looked scornfully at their house guest who was shivering in front of the low fire, rubbing at her sodden dress with a strip of dry linen the maid had just brought her. "But Lady Julia just laughed at me, then said to Edgar the fun was over and they should return."

Araminta squeezed her sister's arm. "So you waited, like an avenging angel, to greet them with the full force of your righteousness, only Edgar toppled into the water when he saw how angry you were." She seemed impatient for the facts.

Hetty ignored her. Her eyes and nose were streaming as she stared at her hands. "Edgar pushed the boat from the shore and then leapt into it. It made quite some distance but he was still trying to regain his balance when it was already halfway across. Then he just simply pitched forward. He didn't even try to save himself. At least, it didn't look like it. I didn't see him again after that. Not...not until..."

Araminta put her arm about her sister's shoulders. "Edgar was obviously foxed. He'd drunk a great deal and people often simply lose consciousness when they're bosky."

Sybil wondered how she was such an authority on the matter as her elder daughter went on with a sigh. "You did everything you could, from what I can tell," indicating Hetty's gown, sodden to the waist. "As did Cousin Stephen."

Sybil exchanged glances with him. She was expecting to be quizzed further on her role. "Araminta, please take your sister to her room," she said. "Summon Mary to help her out of her wet things and into bed. I shall be up shortly."

It was a tone that brooked no objection. Araminta had only to look at her mother's face, and the expressions on the faces of her father and Stephen to know she must obey.

"Lady Julia must be helped to bed also," Sybil said in an undertone to the men when Araminta and Hetty had gone. "How do you propose we tackle that?"

Humphrey looked at his shaking, uncomprehending houseguest with disfavor, indecision in his tone as he asked, "Should her husband be told or do we strive for discretion? She could be dried off and put in a spare room for the night."

Sybil looked inquiringly at her husband. "What do you do when your actions are contrary to what you'd wish your nearest and dearest to be privy to, Humphrey?"

Brushing off her comment with a grunt, Humphrey leaned over Lady Julia and spoke to her in loud, clear tones. "My wife will have her lady's maid attend to you, madam. It is perhaps wise to put your unfortunate condition down to an accidental dunking in the fishpond when you missed your footing during a stroll about the garden in the moonlight with Araminta, who wished to confide in you regarding a matter pertaining to her London season."

Stephen raised one eyebrow and Sybil marveled with heavy irony, "My goodness, Humphrey, one might imagine you were in the habit of concocting Bunbury tales to cover your tracks." She reached down and, with a brisk tug, helped Lady Julia rise. "I shall return shortly, gentlemen," she said from the door, one arm about Lady Julia's waist. "Hopefully Dr. Marsh will be here soon."

Lady Julia's fear was evident as Sybil led her along the corridor towards her room. "If Edgar has drowned the tale will be all over town," she whimpered. "What will be said of me?"

Sybil was reassuring. "We want as little scandal as you, Lady Julia. Edgar had drunk a great deal tonight and was clearly not responsible for his actions. This is not the first accident to claim a healthy young man when he's in his cups."

She returned to the others after a quick detour to her own room to change her torn nightgown and tidy herself.

Stephen and Humphrey had their heads together. They looked up at her entrance.

"Dr. Marsh is on his way, according to the stable lad, and Stephen will lead him to the lake," Humphrey said. "I have also reminded Stephen that in the event of Edgar's death, he reverts, once again, to being my heir." He cleared his throat and directed Sybil an incisive look. "That is, if we have no more sons of our own."

Sybil followed Humphrey's gaze, touching her belly as horror ripped through her, but before she could order her thoughts, the sound of Dr. Marsh's carriage could be heard rolling up the driveway.

As Humphrey strode forward to open the double doors of the drawing room, which opened onto the terrace, Sybil gripped Stephen's sleeve to detain him.

"Dear God, Stephen, what have I done to you?" she gasped, pulling him into the shadows of the heavy curtains that covered the deep window seat as Humphrey went onto the terrace speak to the doctor. "You are Humphrey's heir. Yet if you have succeeded in what I begged of you—to plant a seed in my womb—then I have blighted your future." She was close to tears. "Forever."

Stephen put a hand on her shoulders and tilted her chin up with a forefinger. His look was grave. So much smoldered in its depths—regret, adoration...and yes, doubt. But she could see no recrimination.

"You acted for the good of the family, Sybil...darling." Lingeringly, he trailed his finger across her collarbone. Closing his eyes on a sigh, he smiled when he looked at her again. "Only time will tell. But you mustn't blame yourself—whatever happens."

They could hear Humphrey conversing with the doctor in a low undertone just a few yards away yet Stephen took her in his arms like a lover. Although they were part hidden, Humphrey need only turn and strain his eyes to witness their forbidden embrace.

Sybil wilted against him, joy cutting through every other emotion as he declared, "If striding out there and announcing to His Lordship that I claim you for my own would bring us happiness, I'd do it." Passion limned his whisper and in the clouded depths of his eyes Sybil saw that he meant every word. He shook his head and the pain in his voice sliced through her as he added, "But an adulterous wife can be cast off by her husband too easily. Lord knows I'd gladly have you live with me—forever—but..." He shrugged and for the first time she saw helpless regret cloud his features. "I have nothing to offer you. No money and, if your husband were vengeful, no prospects." Painfully, he burst out, "God, Sybil, I'd die before I hurt you."

Rapture made her giddy. He was in love with her. She swayed in his arms, reaching her hands up to pull down his face for another kiss, murmuring against his lips, "I would choose happiness in a hovel with you, Stephen, any day over a loveless marriage in this house; in this...gilded prison." She drew back. Tenderly, she traced the beloved contours of his face, her heart pounding as she whispered, "But you are young with your life ahead of you. Possibly I have already blighted your prospects. If you are no longer to be heir you must at least be allowed to prosper and enjoy what is the right of every young man of courage and integrity: a position of responsibility and importance—and Humphrey can see that you are offered that. I will not hold you back."

Wonderingly, she traced his mouth, committing his lips to memory. For memories were all she would have, though the knowledge that she was loved filled her with bittersweet joy.

Loved where she'd never thought possible.

It was enough. Enough to sustain her through what she must endure in the next...five years? Twenty?

"You'll always know where I am." He winced as if her touch were too much for him to bear, even as he moved in to her. "And if you ever need me, Sybil, you have only to ask. If I am in Timbuktu or the Spice Islands, I will come." He broke off to glance back towards the sound of voices.

The stable lads had arrived and Humphrey had broken off his discussion with the doctor in order to direct them to lead Dr. Marsh to the lake.

Stephen's declarations became more urgent. "Sybil, I mean what I say. When I go to London, I want you to know I am only three hours' hard ride away and that I'd do anything, drop anything, say anything...if you ever need my help. You must believe that."

She nodded. She'd never believed anything more.

"And Sybil—"

"Hush, Stephen! Humphrey's coming."

He gripped her shoulders tightly and brought his face close. "Always know I love you, Sybil. _For_ always."

"Sybil? Stephen?"

Humphrey's voice intruded, loud and demanding. He was nearly upon them. Stephen drew her farther into the shadows, his arms sliding down her back and behind her head to draw her deeply into his kiss.

His final kiss.

Fire tore through her as she cleaved to him, glorying in the sensations only Stephen had ever evoked within her once-parched heart and soul.

With a shuddering sigh he broke away, then, taking a step forward, he managed to sound almost casual as he replied, "Yes, my lord," though he still held Sybil's hand tightly. He turned back and lowered his head, his whisper the final, flimsy thread she had to cling to. "I don't believe in hopeless farewells." He touched his chest, his heart. "This is where you will live, Sybil." Then he broke the contact as he prepared to step out from behind the curtain to properly respond to His Lordship.

On a second thought, he turned to once more grip Sybil's shoulders with even greater urgency. "Did you mean what you said, my love?" His eyes seemed to shred her soul. "About preferring poverty with me?"

She nodded. "I've never been more sincere—" She cut the words short, fear at his youthful impetuosity flooding her with panic. "No, Stephen, you mustn't."

He slid his hands down to grip her hands, pulling her with him from behind the curtain so that she blinked, dazed in the light. Exposed...

The doctor had followed the stable lads out of the room and now only Humphrey was there. He cocked his head, his expression was quizzical. Probably the events of the night had addled his sense of reality. Then, perhaps perceiving the flushed countenance of his reinstated heir and the agitation of his wife, he inquired slowly, his tone now laced with suspicion, "Mustn't what...my dear?"

Sybil shook her head. To utter a single word might condemn Stephen when he still had an opportunity to wriggle out of what he'd incautiously begun.

But Stephen paid no heed to the urgent, resisting tug of her hand. Retaining it in a vise-like grip, he straightened his shoulders and there was no trace of uncertainty in his tone when he replied, "My lord, I am in love with Lady Partington and I seek her happiness above all else—yet that can only happen with your approbation."

The widening of his eyes and apparent loss of balance was the only indication Humphrey had even heard. He opened his mouth to speak, transferring his incredulous expression from Stephen's brave, determined face to Sybil's no-doubt cowering expression before demanding, "Are you bamboozling me?"

Stephen cocked his head, bringing Sybil's hand briefly to his lips before saying, "With all due respect, it is common knowledge, my lord, that you've kept a mistress for the duration of your marriage." He cleared his throat. "I realize that I risk both Lady Partington's happiness and that of my own by approaching the matter with such boldness, and yet I had hoped to appeal to your generous...and liberal nature by making a clean breast of things. Skullduggery is not my favored course, and so I would ask you now to sanction a union between your wife and myself along the lines of the one you've enjoyed with Mrs. Hazlett."

Had Stephen really said that? Spoken so transparently of matters which were never discussed between even Sybil and Humphrey?

Sybil glanced fearfully at her husband, whose growing apoplexy in the lengthening silence didn't augur well. She put her hand on his sleeve and said apologetically, "I know it's a shock, Humphrey, and I did try to warn you when I mentioned I'd taken you at your word after you indicated a preference for handing the estate over to the head stable lad rather than Edgar—"

"I never did!"

"You did, Humphrey. And you were completely against the idea of siring your own heir, and since you'd taken such a shine to Stephen, I persuaded him to help me do what I thought would ultimately please you, and that would, I hoped, ensure Hetty's happiness—ensure Edgar was not going to be heir and therefore marry Araminta." She swallowed. She stared at her feet before casting an imploring look at his face. "Things got rather out of hand after that."

Humphrey shook his head, his mouth opening and closing as if he couldn't push out the right words. Finally he said, "Are you suggesting an heir might already be in the offing?"

Sybil glanced at Stephen as she unconsciously contoured her belly, then at her husband. "It's more than possible, and if so, I am fully sensible of the bitter irony in having thus blighted Stephen's prospects."

Stephen cleared his throat. "I bear Lady Partington no ill will, should that indeed come to pass. My most pressing concern, however, is if you will sanction a discreet union between your wife and myself." His impatience was clearly growing. "Araminta and Hetty will soon remove to London for the season and presumably their mother will accompany them. As we'd discussed this evening, a position in the Foreign Office seems not impossible. However, should it not eventuate, tonight's handsome winnings—thanks to your Lordship's generous machinations—will be sufficient to see me through the next few months, should you reconsider your generous offer in backing me."

Humphrey seemed suddenly to snap into renewed life. "Are you _really_ asking for my blessing? Asking me to sanction this scandalous...outrageous situation?" His eyes bulged and he had to grip the curtain to steady himself. "You've made a cuckold of me...yet you have the cheek to believe I may still offer you my patronage?"

It was rare Humphrey was so moved to anger, but it was a necessary catharsis, Sybil believed, in an all-but intolerable situation for her husband. "Humphrey, Stephen takes a grave risk in bringing this into the open when we could have carried on a clandestine affair and you'd have been none the wiser regarding the two of us and the paternity of the child who might one day inherit." She strove to sound soothing rather than combative. "You have every legal right to cast me off yet I ask you, what good would that serve? The scandal would be intolerable and if there were no child, or it were a girl, Stephen would still be your heir. For years I've begged you to lie with me so I might conceive another son."

At his bluster of embarrassed outrage she held up her hand for silence. "It seems that since George's death you've thrown yourself into being Lizzy Hazlett's husband to the extent you are completely unable to perform your conjugal obligations. Yes, Humphry, conjugal _obligations_." Humphrey's mounting anger was beginning to frighten her but for once she took the initiative instead of abjectly accepting whatever he chose to mete out to her. She pushed out her bosom and said with more force than she'd managed in twenty years, "Believe me, if you choose to follow the path of a publicly disgraced, cuckolded husband and discard me and cut Stephen off without a penny, I will disseminate every sordid aspect of our marriage and reasons behind its dissolution to the courts and to the world." She took a deep breath. "Do you really want that?"

Humphrey's telling silence suggested Sybil's argument had found fertile ground, yet when he suddenly burst out, "Is Stephen a complete and utter fool that he would risk his future for love of _you_ , Sybil?" she cringed at the denigration she was so used to.

Stephen drew in an outraged breath and would have spoken had Humphrey not continued, "If you are not already carrying Stephen's child further dealings with you all but ensure that he is throwing away any chance he has of inheriting the estate." He nearly choked on the words, "Do you think you're really worth the boy ruining his future?"

Sybil felt the tears well up behind her eyes as she shrank into herself. He spoke only the truth.

Rallying behind this new approach, Humphrey's tone became almost conciliatory. "Stephen, my boy. You're young. Only twenty-five. You don't know what love is." He clapped him on the shoulder, almost fatherly. "Sybil has enticed you into what was, no doubt, a well-meaning attempt to ensure Edgar didn't inherit and you've been seduced by the excitement and novelty of an older woman throwing herself at you—"

"With due respect, you misinterpret the situation, my Lord." Stephen spoke crisply as he drew back from Humphrey's touch. "I am no green boy. I understand very well the ramifications for my own future and I understand my heart and mind very well. I'm willing to take whatever risks—and precautions—necessary to secure Lady Partington's happiness, which runs in accord with mine. All I ask is for your...understanding."

"Understanding!"

Stephen nodded calmly, as if Lord Partington had repeated the word with approbation rather than in outrage. He went on, "I wish to pursue a career—and I believe my experience abroad equips me for distinguishing myself in the Foreign Office—at the same time as enjoying the domestic felicity with Sybil that you have enjoyed these past twenty years with Mrs. Hazlett." He spoke with quiet authority, adding, "We are both grown men who understand what is worth fighting for, but know, too, when it is wiser to back down."

His expression softened as he gazed at Sybil, tense with terror and expectation beside him, before confronting Lord Partington once more. "It is my understanding, my Lord, that you bitterly regretted the fact you allowed yourself to be influenced by your pater in the matter of your marriage to Lady Partington when your desire was for a union with Mrs. Hazlett." He paused before lowering his voice to add softly, "In that light, surely you can understand why I take such bold risks to secure _my_ future happiness?"

Stephen's closeness and his championing words were like a physical caress. _Dear Lord_ , prayed Sybil, _let Humphrey show the kindness of which I know he is capable_.

Tensely, she watched him battle the expected emotions he'd feel at this bolt from the blue—injured pride, incredulity, anger...

Terrified but desperate, she whispered, "You've never loved me, Humphrey. You've apologized for it for years. Please," she begged, "allow me just a little happiness. We cannot change what has happened. I may be with child or I may not. If I am, it may never be born or it may be a girl, in which case the succession remains unchanged." She reached for Stephen's hand and, gripping it tightly, added, "If I am not, we have every incentive to ensure I do not become _enceinte_ so that Stephen remains your heir—a situation, I might add, that you seemed perfectly content to accept when the idea of conjugal relations with me was clearly repugnant and against your notion of honor and fidelity toward Mrs. Hazlett."

Humphrey opened his mouth to speak, closed it again then turned away, shaking his head as he muttered, "God knows it was a sorry day I bowed to my father's dictates and wed you, Sybil."

Stephen stepped in front of him. "Then you cannot be surprised, my Lord, when I tell you that if you do not condone a discreet union between Sybil and myself that we will defy you anyway, despite the scandal which will cost us _all_ , dearly, and despite the pecuniary and other obstacles that you are in a position to throw at us."

He pulled Sybil close to him as if to protect her, adding fiercely, "You may feel you need time to think about this, my Lord, but we are not awaiting your decision—for ours is made already. Come, Sybil."

They were almost at the door when Lord Partington ground out, "Wait!"

They turned, the expectation almost more than Sybil could bear as she watched the anguished workings of her husband's expression. His unkempt gray hair added to his air of defeat—for that's what she recognized, and she was almost sorry for him as she accepted the pain his years at her side had caused him.

He glared at Stephen. "You are due to leave for London tomorrow. I've already written a letter of introduction on your behalf to my contacts in the Foreign Office." He paused. "I had intended giving to you before you left."

Sybil stalled down her desperate disappointment. Stephen's bold gamble had not paid off. Humphrey was going to cast Stephen adrift and Sybil would spend the rest of her life torturing herself with self-recrimination. With her role in her beloved's fall from grace.

Half way across the Aubusson carpet, with Sybil's hand held tightly in his, Stephen halted, and nodded curtly. "Then we go without your blessing, my Lord. For Sybil is coming with me. She will not remain here, a prisoner."

"A prisoner! Ha!" Lord Partington's tone was bitter. "I've been a prisoner for twenty years!" He scratched his stubbled jaw. "Sybil is not going with you, Stephen, for the scandal would ruin us all. But—"

Sybil returned Stephen's convulsive grip on her hand as she, too, tensed for what was about to come.

"But..." He exhaled on a great sigh and his shoulders slumped. "You leave here with my support and prospective employment on one condition."

Stephen's inquiring look was his only response before Lord Partington finished, "Sybil and I will continue this charade of a marriage for the sake of appearances, naturally. To do anything else would ruin Araminta's and Hetty's chances in the short term, besides, though it would appear your bold risk, Stephen, in pushing for an outcome here and now had not factored that into the equation."

"I believed it would be a matter _you'd_ factor into the equation, my Lord," Stephen muttered, staring first at the cream and gold design of the floor rug, then his benefactor's craggy face, "and fortunately it appears I was right."

Humphrey allowed himself a wry smile. "Perhaps you are a better judge of character than I thought." He seemed to deflate on a final weary sigh. "Go to London, my boy, and make a man of yourself. You can see Sybil when she takes the girls to town to launch Hetty in two months—not before."

He held up his hand for silence as Stephen gasped, apparently about to object. "Let us see what notions of fidelity a green boy can uphold when surrounded by the temptations of the city." He hesitated. "You may yet thank me for my goodwill in agreeing to your terms on the proviso of this cooling-off period."

Sybil's mouth dropped open. She glanced at Stephen and intercepted his expression. Where she might have seen hesitation she saw only unalloyed joy before Stephen moved forward to shake Humphrey's hand, saying, "Two months is nothing to wait if I know I retain Sybil's heart while I impatiently bide my time until I can see her again."

Sybil had never seen him smile so broadly. He turned his smile back to her. "Sybil is my angel. She will make me the best I can be. I know it." He spoke with such fervor Sybil's heart swelled and the tears prickled behind her eyelids.

"Thank you, Humphrey," she said simply.

"But discretion will be paramount," her husband said darkly, frowning, as he broke the handshake.

"Yes, Humphrey," Sybil whispered, thrilling to the fact that her delight was still reflected in Stephen's smile. Humphrey had imposed conditions but Stephen clearly felt he'd won a victory.

Humphrey turned on his heel, still glowering. "And now I have the matter of my nephew's body to attend to," he said, acidly. "In case you'd forgotten, Dr. Marsh will soon be back and there'll be an inquest. You'll have to come back from London for that."

He looked at Stephen, whose grin broadened as he answered, "With alacrity, my Lord."

Humphrey merely harrumphed before turning his back on them. Sybil and Stephen watched as he headed toward the door to look out across the moonlit lawns.

Then his voice, soft but distinct, punctuated the almost disbelieving silence as Sybil and Stephen held each other's hands and turned to gaze in one another's eyes.

"May you have joy of her, Stephen," he muttered. His words floated across the few yards that separated them and as Sybil looked at her husband's green-silk-clad back she nevertheless felt a stab of remorse for failing in her impossible duty. Lord Partington shook his head as if weighed down by the past. His look was sorrowful. "It's not her fault she's brought me little enough of it..." He sighed heavily, adding, "But perhaps she deserves what happiness you can give her."

Sybil was too used to backhanded compliments to be troubled. Being enfolded in Stephen's strong, fervent embrace before his mouth came down, hard and passionate upon hers, was compensation enough.

# Epilogue

**_T wo months later_**

It had been exciting enough whipping up his new bays as he left London to return to The Grange, but as Stephen dismounted in the stables and prepared to make his discreet entrance to the home where he'd been so warmly welcomed, he felt like a schoolboy on the cusp of his greatest adventure.

Yet he'd had adventures to last him a lifetime. The years fighting in the Peninsular Campaign had truncated his youth and brought him low for a spell yet, today, youthful optimism was in the ascendant as he trod purposefully over the cobblestones towards the kitchen door.

He wanted to arrive unobserved. If possible, he wanted to see his darling Sybil, alone for a few minutes, before anyone else knew he was here.

"Cousin Stephen! You're back already!" Hetty's girlish cry of excitement caused him to jerk up his head but his disappointment was short-lived as she hurled herself into his arms before he was even half way to the kitchen steps.

For her greeting was genuine; as if he were her most favourite cousin in all the world.

How could one not love a girl who flaunted her heart on her sleeve in such an artless manner?

"Oh, we've missed you so much, Cousin Stephen. And even mama looks all misty eyed when your name is brought up. Why, it's been so long. And you look so handsome!" She couldn't seem to stop talking as she took a step back and raked him with admiring eyes. Eyes that, when in the presence of someone trusted, looked bright and merry in her pretty face. Yes, _pretty_ was an apt description, he suddenly thought, for never more had she resembled Sybil with her sweetly pursed lips and her soft, rounded cheek hinting at the softness in her heart.

Still, she was prattling on—and goodness, but he liked to hear it for it made him truly feel a part of something bigger than himself; a part of a family that embraced him.

"And I hear you've already distinguished yourself in the Foreign Office and are working on some very important matters to keep our country safe."

He was glad she seemed able to focus on what was ahead rather than dwelling on her cousin Edgar's death. Bad business, all round.

"I don't know about that, Hetty," he said, fondly, allowing her to lead him to the bench beneath the apple tree rather than into the house. "Yes, there is work that occupies me and keeps me out of trouble—"

"Apprehending dangerous villains?" She sounded excited as she sat down, patting the seat beside her.

"Villains parading as gentlemen might be a better way to describe it—am I not right, Cousin Stephen?"

A shadow crossed over them as a velvety voice interjected and Araminta leaned over the back of the bench, unexpectedly kissing Stephen on the cheek. "Welcome home, Cousin Stephen. So...! You're daily occupied by _dangerous gentlemen_? Oh, do promise me you'll introduce me to any villainous suspects when we're all in London next month?"

Stephen glanced from sweet Hetty to her sister, as Araminta moved in front of them to rest her shapely form against the tree trunk. He wondered how the sisters could be related.

Wondered, also, how Araminta could be his darling, tender-hearted Sybil's child. Araminta had gained in self assurance in the two months since he'd been back.

Contemplating the beautiful young woman, he was reminded of the glossy arachnid he'd recruited for the summer's eventful house party; the glossy harbinger of evil who'd sunk her fangs into her mate when the poor puny spider had done as was required and was no longer of use.

But then, he thought, more charitably, that glossy arachnid had also won him his wager, plumped up his pocket book and restored his self esteem.

"I shall do no such thing, Cousin Araminta," he said amiably. "Your mother and I will be in London to ensure that you and your sister meet only eligible gentlemen. Not dangerous gentlemen. In fact, I can hear her now, exhorting me to ensure that not a single one of _those_ crosses your path. It shall be my mission to carry out such a properly motivated mother's wish," he teased.

Araminta sent him rather an odd look and Stephen realised the way he'd phrased his relationship with Sybil did make it sound rather odd.

Indeed it was. But it was right and with time it would only be cemented.

"I must pay my respects to Lord and Lady Partington," he said, rising, more eager than ever to find Sybil.

And to be alone with her.

"I'm afraid papa is not here so you'll have to make do with just mama's company." Araminta sounded bored as she plucked a leaf from the tree. "But she may be sleeping. She's been poorly the last few days. Perhaps we could go for a walk by the lake, instead, Cousin Stephen."

The last thing Stephen was going to do was endanger himself by taking up such a proposal. Dismissing it with as much charm as he could manage, he excused himself and hurried in search of Sybil, saying anxiously as he was admitted into her private sitting room and the door had closed upon them, leaving them alone, "My darling girl, I hear you've been unwell. Nothing too alarming, I hope."

Sybil opened her eyes at his entrance and the pure unadulterated joy he saw in their depths rocked him to the core. By God, this was real, he thought as he enfolded her in his arms, taking a seat beside her on the chaise longue.

With a deep sigh of what seemed to be happy satisfaction, she dropped her head onto his shoulder. He'd been anticipating a reunion charged with desperate passion but seeing Sybil pale and wan made him only want to comfort her.

"Stephen, my love, I have missed you desperately since you've been gone," she whispered. She snuggled against him, closing her eyes.

"So your ill health is nothing worse than a broken heart?" Relieved by her reassurance, he toyed with her ringlets and stroked her face but to his consternation a large tear rolled down her right cheek.

Anxiety churned in his gut. This was not like the stoic Sybil he knew. He gripped her hand and waited, tensely.

"Dr March confirmed yesterday I am with child. Between two and three months gone, he believes." She bit her lip and stared anxiously into his eyes as she fiddled with the silk tie of her dressing gown. As if she were nervous as to his reaction.

And indeed, it changed everything for him.

"That's wonderful news!" It came from the heart. He'd not have imagined he'd be so excited and it was his initial sensation before he understood Sybil's concerns. He squeezed her hands and brought them up to his lips to kiss. "I'm to be a father! Do you know how joyful that makes me feel? Together, you and I are to have a child. Isn't that the greatest of bonds?"

"But the ramifications for you, Stephen—"

"It was bound to happen sooner or later. I've no intentions of leaving you, Sybil. Not now, not ever. See, I've come back to say in person what I hope I've made clear in my letters: offer my pledge of eternal fidelity." He touched his heart. "You worry that the twelve or so years between us makes it inevitable our love is will run its course; that the time will come when I will want to marry and have my own family." He cupped her face and kissed her brow before reverently placing his hand upon her belly and his heart rate accelerated wildly. He was going to be a father! In a voice more soothing than the one shouting its excitement in his head, he went on, "But we will soon have our own family, Sybil. That's more important to me than anything."

"A child that possibly may cheat you out of your rightful inheritance because I insisted—"

"Cheat?" He shook his head. "It may be a girl, in which case nothing changes. But if it's not, I shall take the greatest pride in guiding our son towards manhood with a realistic notion of his responsibilities." Galvanised by this thought, he went on, "Don't you see, this is my chance to show him how to be a man in a way that I was not shown. My father was a wastrel with little concern for me and my mother cared only for pleasure. The more her beauty faded, the more destructive she became. I see all of that now, just as I see what we have—and are about to have—as the greatest opportunity to put right what has been wrong in my life." He offered her a smile and, indeed, it truly came from his heart. One full of hope and joy that he was part of something good and pure and meaningful. "You, darling Sybil, you have been my salvation, don't you see?"

He was pleased that his words seemed to cheer her. With a little more energy, she reached up and stroked his brow. "I did not believe love like this was possible," she whispered, another tear rolling down her cheek. "I'm sorry for being so sentimental. I think it's the baby's fault. I was always in good health with the others but hopelessly emotional and too full of worries for the responsibilities I carried. Shall you mind, Stephen?"

"Try me, and I think you'll find I won't." He gave a short laugh to jolly her out of her concerns and hugged her against his chest. "I like to have problems to fix so you just tell me your cares and worries and I shall enjoy having some worthwhile mission to expedite. What concerns you right now, my love? Other than the baby, that is, for the baby is _our_ concern but it is only a wonderful thing—provided you remain healthy."

Sighing, Sybil rubbed her belly through the thin silk of her peignoir. She hesitated, then said, "In two months, when Araminta and Hetty are launched, I may be less able to chaperone them and keep a watchful eye over them, than I'd like."

"Then I shall accompany them everywhere! There! Problem solved." He grinned. Truly, he wanted to leap up and dance a jig. Of course, he recognised that the physical between them would be curtailed but he was more than ready to embrace the compensations. He would be a father and, with Lord Partington's growing acceptance of the situation—which had been subtly communicated—Stephen would indeed be in a position to enjoy the conjugal and marital felicity with Sybil he craved.

"It's Araminta I worry about. She'll be a trial to you, Stephen," Sybil warned. "Hetty will wear her heart on her sleeve and, with her dowry, attract someone eligible if unexciting, I suspect. Someone I hope she can love. But Araminta is my immediate concern. She is reckless. She has the potential to create a drama that I fear...may embroil the whole family."

"I understand your concern," Stephen conceded, grim for a moment before adding as he helped her to her feet and led her to the bed, "But I've already told the girls, themselves, that I shall ensure that _no_ dangerous gentlemen cross their paths."

"Stephen, what are you doing?"

He looked down at her, surprised, as he tucked the bed clothes about her. "Making you comfortable. Looking after you and our child."

"You're not going to join me?"

Hesitating, he shook his head. "You're carrying a baby, Sybil."

"You surely don't imagine that means we can no longer..." To his surprise and amusement, she colored up, before clearing her voice and saying, "But of course, I hear some husbands can't bear the idea of—" Pressing her lips together suddenly, she stopped and, intrigued, he lowered himself onto the mattress beside her and took her hands lightly in his, his feet still firmly on the floor.

He was most interested to learn more about the realities of what he'd only assumed to be the case when a woman was expecting but first he asked, "You're embarrassed, Sybil. Why? Was it your reference to the word _husband_? For that is what I am to you, in all but name—Let's make that perfectly clear! But now, tell me what I need to know regarding the two of us in the bedroom department. I shall be guided entirely by you."

It was as if Sybil had finally received all the reassurance from him she needed for light and joy seemed suddenly to radiate from her. She shifted beneath the covers and Stephen saw that she was making room for him.

"Did you lock the door behind you, my love?" she murmured, a wicked look transforming her from concerned-mother-imbued-with-a-Madonna-like glow to intriguing vixen with some wicked plan up her sleeve.

"I shall do so right now!" he said with alacrity, covering the distance to the heavy oak-panelled door with determined, enthusiastic steps.

When he returned, a warm, welcoming space had been made for him upon the mattress beside Sybil. Not long after that, Stephen was enjoying an even warmer welcome than he'd anticipated for the two eternal months he'd been parted from his true love.

With welcomes like this to look forward to, he decided as he contoured Sybil's soft, womanly belly and buried his face in her fragrant hair, he would endure anything to protect the happiness he'd found at last.

**_The End_**

**Does Araminta embroil the Partington family in scandal? Or, does Hetty?**

**Find out in _Dangerous Gentlemen_.**

**Read now.**

**Or, better still,read the whole series and save!**

# Note from the Author

So you finished! I would be so thrilled if you liked **Her Gilded Prison** enough to review it here.

Just a bit of background. **Her Gilded Prison** started life as a stand-alone story for a publisher of very steamy books.

Today, this tale of an older woman leads into an intrigue-filled series of five with all the books following Book One devoted to the two nobly-born and two illegitimate daughters of Lord Partington who all compete for love while bringing to justice a dangerous, handsome traitor.

Just a note of warning. Dangerous Gentlemen (Book 2) is for those who love shocks. You'll see that reviews are very mixed. Many people love it - but many loathe it because of something that happens at the end.

No, it's not a cliff-hanger. I'd never do that to you. But it is an event that is a turning point for the rest of the series. And although a terrible wrong is committed, it is addressed later, and there is redemption and retribution to follow.

So, read on if you like surprises.

# What Happens Next...?

**_Read an excerpt:_**

With a furtive look over her shoulder, Hetty approached the slightly open door, then stood motionless, staring at the light that filtered from within. The mending woman had said Sir Aubrey had left for the evening. Could the gentleman who occupied this room—and she was certain it was Sir Aubrey—have left a lamp burning?

That would be dangerous, surely? Hetty would only be doing her duty to ensure that a candle or light were extinguished to prevent a fire hazard.

She gave the door a little nudge with her foot and it swung open.

Excitement rippled through her.

"Hello?" she asked in a low voice. She took another step into the room. "Is anyone in here?"

Silence. An argand lamp stood upon the mantelpiece. A low fire burned in the grate before which was a table, against which were propped several items, including a familiar silver-topped cane. Her breath caught. The last time she'd seen that cane was when Sir Aubrey had exchanged several words with Araminta in the street as Hetty had been bringing up the rear with Mrs. Monks. Of course Sir Aubrey had not looked twice at her, excusing himself before having to be introduced to the younger sister and the chaperone who'd nearly closed the gap.

Heart hammering, Hetty closed the door behind her and went to pick up the cane. How delightfully fortunate to have stumbled into Sir Aubrey's room, she thought happily when she observed the fine coat lying upon the bed, apparently discarded in favor of what he was wearing tonight.

He really was a nonpareil, wearing his clothes as if they were an extension of his athletic physique.

Yet he was dangerous, she had to remind herself. Meaning she should not be here, which of course she shouldn't, regardless of whether he was dangerous or not.

But how such a scion of good breeding and genteel society could be guilty of such a heinous crime as treason, Hetty could not imagine. And surely the story of the runaway wife was a gilded one. It was all the stuff of make-believe and Cousin Stephen was only telling Hetty he was dangerous to curb her schoolroom daydreams.

Turning, she saw half protruding from beneath the suit of clothes what appeared to be the edge of a silver, filigreed box. It was partly obscured by the overhang of the counterpane, as if it hadn't properly been returned to its hiding place.

A moment's indecision made her pause but soon Hetty was crouching on the floor, closing clammy fingers around the box. Might it contain secrets? Ones that would reveal, conclusively, what Cousin Stephen claimed was true?

Alternatively, proof that would exonerate Sir Aubrey?

Hetty fumbled for the catch. Dear Lord, this was too exciting for words. Perhaps Sir Aubrey was a secret agent working for the English, and Stephen had no idea.

Perhaps he was—

The sound of footsteps made her gasp as the door was flung wide. Hetty let the lid of the box fall and retreated into the shadows as Sir Aubrey strode into the room.

He was breathing heavily as he shrugged off his jacket with a curse, raindrops spattering into the hissing fire as he raked his fingers through his hair. A curious stillness overtook him and he froze, obviously sensing all was not as he left it.

He sniffed the air. "Orange flower water," he muttered, stepping closer to the fire, fumbling for the tinderbox on the mantelpiece to light another candle, no doubt so he could plumb the depths of the shadows.

Immediately he was thrown into sharp relief and as he stared at Hetty, it was not his look of shock and suspicion that made her scream—but the copious amounts of blood that stained his shirtsleeves and once-snowy linen cravat.

"God Almighty, who are you?" he demanded as his gaze raked her finery. "You're no parlor maid, that's for certain."

Gaping, unable to formulate a sensible answer, Hetty finally managed through trembling lips, "W....what happened to your arm, Sir Aubrey? Are you injured?"

"Sir Aubrey, is it? So you know who I am!" He grunted as he glanced at his arm, the bloodied linen shredded over the long graze. "It's not as bad as it looks and I assure you, I gave a good account of myself." His laugh was more a sneer. "Indeed, my assailant lies dead in the gutter."

Hetty gasped. "Dueling?" Myriad questions crowded her mind. Could this be to do with Araminta? Had Sir Aubrey left Araminta in the middle of the ball to fight some other contender for her affections?

"Dueling?" he repeated. He shook his head and Hetty drew back at the coldness in his eyes when earlier in the evening, upon the dance floor, there had been such warmth as he'd gazed upon Araminta. "There was nothing noble about my activities this evening. I was set upon in a dark alley. A short scuffle ensued, I drew my knife, then..." With his hand, he made a gesture like the slitting of his throat, adding, "I am slightly wounded but as I said, my attacker does not live to repeat the insult."

Her horror clearly amused him, for his eyes narrowed while his generous mouth quirked. He looked like an incarnation of the most handsome demon she'd ever seen depicted in the fairy stories she loved to read.

Trembling, Hetty could only stare like the star-struck debutante she was. She felt like the heroine in one of Mrs Radcliffe's novels she'd been forbidden to read.

"We all have enemies, madam." His eyes gleamed, reflecting the dancing flames in the fireplace. Hetty put her hand to her chest, thinking this was the most exciting moment of her life as he said softly, "Enemies who must be eliminated if we are to breathe freely."

His nostrils flared and he took a step closer, his gaze sharpening as he studied her with an interest bordering on salaciousness. "However, with tonight's violence behind me, I'm ready for some female company so, let's begin, shall we?" he murmured. He extended his hand and gently contoured her cheek with his fingertips. "You must be the girl Madame Chambon sent. I must say, you're not at all what I was expecting."

**_End of Extract_**

**Read Dangerous Gentlemen now.**

**More about the Daughters of Sin** series

**Daughters of Sin** follows the intertwining lives and sibling rivalry of Lord Partington's two nobly born - and two illegitimate - daughters as they compete for love during several London Seasons.

With Hetty and Araminta both falling for men on opposing sides of a dastardly plot that is being investigated by Stephen Cranborne, now a secret agent in the Foreign Office, there's lashings of skullduggery and intrigue bound up in the central romance.

**_What Readers are Saying About the Series_**

"...lies, misdeeds, treachery, and romance. What an impressive story! Ms. Oakley has a unique way of telling her stories, bringing unknown heroes/ heroines into the spotlight, as they navigate a world of espionage, and intrigue, all while trying to survive and find their HEA. Magnificent and mesmerizing!" **~ Kindle Reader**

"Full of secrets, murders, intrigues and you feel you know the characters and want to strangle some of them, especially Araminta!!! I have since read all in the series and can't wait for Book 5... This is a series I will read again and again." **~ Kindle Reader**

**Below is the order of the books:**

Her Gilded Prison (Book #1)

Dangerous Gentlemen (Book #2)

The Mysterious Governess (Book #3)

Beyond Rubies (Book #4)

Lady Unveiled: The Cuckold's Conspiracy (Book #5)

**Dangerous Gentlemen ~ Book 2**

## The Mysterious Governess ~ Book 3

Two beautiful sisters – one an illegitimate governess, the other a celebrated debutante – compete for love amidst the scandal and intrigue of a Regency London Season. Lissa Hazlett lives life in the shadows. The beautiful, unacknowledged daughter of Viscount Partington earns her living as drudge to the social climbing Lamonts while her vain and spoiled half sister, Araminta, enjoys London's social whirl as its most feted debutante. When Lissa's rare talent as a portraitist brings her unexpectedly into the bosom of society – and into the midst of a scandal involving Araminta and suspected English traitor Lord Debenham – she finds an unlikely ally: charming and besotted Ralph Tunley, Lord Debenham's underpaid, enterprising secretary. Ralph can't afford to leave the employ of the villainous viscount much less keep a wife but as an accepted member of the ton he can help Lissa cleverly navigate a perilous web of lies that will ensure everyone gets what they deserve.

## Beyond Rubies ~ Book 4

London's most celebrated actress, Miss Kitty La Bijou, has almost achieved her heart's desire. Mistress to handsome Lord Nash and the unacknowledged illegitimate daughter of Viscount Partington, she has fame, beauty and the man of her dreams. But the respectability she craves eludes her. When Kitty stumbles across Araminta, her nobly born half-sister, on the verge of giving birth barely seven months after marrying dangerous Viscount Debenham, Kitty realises respectability is no guarantee of character or happiness.

## Lady Unveiled ~ The Cuckold's Conspiracy

In Book 5 of the Daughters of Sin series, the lives of all four sisters are interwoven in a tale of scandal, intrigue and love. Hetty, happily married, is doing her best to keep Araminta from destroying the reputation of the Partington family. Her half-sister, Lissa, an overworked governess, is using her talent as a portraitist to aid the man she loves to apprehend a dangerous villain. Kitty, as London's most acclaimed actress and a member of the demimondaine, sadly accepts she can never be the lawful wedded wife of the dashing nobleman she loves. How can each overturn society's perceptions of them-or trade on secrets and lies- so that their birthright and misdemeanors are not held against them? So that they are embraced as fully fledged pillars of society – not Daughters of Sin?

## Daughters of Sin ~ Books 1-3

**Read now**

**Or read the entire Boxed Set and save even more.**

# Newsletter

If you enjoy books with plot twists and unexpected endings, sizzling romance and dynastic ambition competing with virtue and honour, please sign up to my Newsletter.

You'll be the first to hear of new releases and competitions, receive a PDF of the Partington Family Tree, and get access to free and discounted books from today's popular historical romance authors.

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# Other books by Beverley Oakley

**HEARTS IN HIDING Series**

The Duchess and the Highwayman

The Bluestocking and the Rake

Duchess of Seduction

**SCANDALOUS MISS BRIGHTWELLS Series**

Rake's Honour

Rake's Redemption

Rogue's Kiss

The Wedding Wager

The Accidental Elopement

**DAUGHTERS OF SIN Series**

Her Gilded Prison

Dangerous Gentlemen

The Mysterious Governess

Beyond Rubies

Lady Unveiled: The Cuckold's Conspiracy

**GEORGIAN MYSTERY ROMANCE Series**

Wicked Wager

Her Valentine's Secret

**FAIR CYPRIANS OF LONDON Series**

Saving Grace

Forsaking Hope

Keeping Faith

Wedding Violet

Christmas Charity

**The Daughters of Sin** series follows the intertwining lives and sibling rivalry of Lord Partington's two nobly born - and two illegitimate - daughters as they compete for love during several London Seasons.

With Hetty and Araminta both falling for men on opposing sides of a dastardly plot that is being investigated by Stephen Cranbourne, a secret agent in the Foreign Office, there's lashings of skullduggery and intrigue bound up in the central romance.

_What Readers are Saying About the Series:_

"...lies, misdeeds, treachery, and romance. What an impressive story! Ms. Oakley has a unique way of telling her stories, bringing unknown heroes/ heroines into the spotlight, as they navigate a world of espionage, and intrigue, all while trying to survive and find their HEA. Magnificent and mesmerizing!" **~ Amazon reader**

"Full of secrets, murders, intrigues. You feel you know the characters and want to strangle some of them, especially Araminta!!! I have since read all in the series and can't wait for Book 5... This is a series I will read again and again." **~ Amazon reader**

Below is the order of the books:

_Book 1: Her Gilded Prison_

_Book 2: Dangerous Gentlemen_

_Book 3: The Mysterious Governess_

_Book 4: Beyond Rubies_

_Book 5: Lady Unveiled: The Cuckold Conspiracy_

Buy the complete series as a Box set and save.

# About the Author

Beverley Oakley is an Australian author who grew up in the African mountain kingdom of Lesotho, married a Norwegian bush pilot she met in Botswana's Okavango Delta, and started writing historical romances to amuse herself in the 12 countries she's lived as a 'trailing spouse' (in between working as an airborne geophysical survey operator, a teacher of English as a Second Language, and writing for her former newspaper).

The first book in her _Scandalous Miss Brightwell_ series was nominated **Best Historical Romance** by the _Australian Romance Readers Association_. She is also the author of the popular _Daughters of Sin_ series, a Regency-era 'Dynasty-style' family saga laced with intrigue.

Under her real name Beverley Eikli, she writes Africa-set romantic suspense, and psychological historical romances. _The Reluctant Bride_ won Choc-Lit's **Search for an Australian Star** competition and her Regency tale of redemption _The Maid of Milan_ was shortlisted in the _Top Ten Reads of 2014_ at the **UK Festival of Romance**.

Beverley lives north of Melbourne (overlooking a fabulous Gothic lunatic asylum) with the same gorgeous Norwegian husband, two daughters and a rambunctious Rhodesian Ridgeback.

You can read more at www.beverleyoakley.com.

Or contact her at beverley.oakley@gmail.com.

a when she was young, and married a Norwegian bush pilot she met while managing a safari lodge in Botswana's Okavango Delta.

Beverley writes historical romance laced with mystery, scandal and intrigue. She lives north of Melbourne (overlooking a fabulous Gothic lunatic asylum) with the same gorgeous Norwegian husband, two daughters and a rambunctious Rhodesian Ridgeback.

Browse Beverley's books, on Amazon.

Visit Beverley's website to sign up for her newsletter (and receive a free book)

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# Acknowledgments

Love and huge appreciation, as ever, to my wonderful husband, Eivind. Thank you for your support and encouragement. I couldn't continue to write the stories I love without you!

I'd also like to thank my two wonderful critique partners, Lexi Greene and Nina Campbell, who have made the journey so much more rewarding and exciting.

And you, dear readers, I hope you enjoyed this book and want to read the rest of the series. This consists of five books to complete the main series, with more books to follow.

Many thanks and happy getting through that teetering TBR pile!

**_Beverley Oakley_**

# Contents

  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Author's Note
  6. Her Gilded Prison
    1. Chapter 1
    2. Chapter 2
    3. Chapter 3
    4. Chapter 4
    5. Chapter 5
    6. Chapter 6
    7. Chapter 7
    8. Chapter 8
    9. Chapter 9
    10. Chapter 10
    11. Chapter 11
    12. Chapter 12
    13. Chapter 13
    14. Chapter 14
    15. Chapter 15
    16. Chapter 16
  7. Epilogue
  8. Note from the Author
  9. What Happens Next...?
  10. Newsletter
  11. Other books by Beverley Oakley
  12. About the Author
  13. Acknowledgments

  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Beginning
  6. Epilogue
  7. About the Author
  8. Acknowledgments

