Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin Book 1) (18 page)

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, releasing her hand. “So she plays the loyalty card.” Suddenly he was brisk. “Well, it had to end. You told me that. I just didn’t want to believe you.”

“In London—”

“You think I shall find someone else as soon as I get to London. You think I’ll forget you. I won’t,” he vowed almost angrily, tapping his heart. “I’ll never forget you.”

* * * * *

H
e 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 but found instead 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 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.”

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. Only she was off-limits now and his heart felt heavy in his chest.

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, for she is so 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 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 pointed to the spiders. “I must take these to the house.”

Now there was to be no more Sybil to caress. Only a vacuous weekend of dodging the gambits of the conniving Lady Julia.

* * * * *

L
ady 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. Cranbourne,” 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.

“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. How much lower were his standards mere weeks ago? In everything, women included, he thought some time later, watching Lady Julia’s assessing look as she surreptitiously ran her hand over the plush upholstery of the fashionable Egyptian sofa upon which she sat.

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.

“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 but he was repulsed by her.

“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. Cranbourne.”

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 Humphry  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, Cranbourne. 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, his heart thudding with the fear that this was not going to end well.