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“I haven’t dared terribly much over the years,” she admitted. Lord, she thought, she’d been the most undaring, undemanding of wives. What an easy time of it Humphry had had. “I’ve simply allowed things to happen because I thought I had no choice in the matter. I’ve always considered myself the rather ineffectual wife of a rich and influential man; that as a woman I have no say in how my life is directed.”
Araminta and Hetty were looking intently at her. It was rare she had their complete attention. She was not about to squander her opportunity.
“As women it is true we have little influence.” She paused significantly as she locked eyes with them. “But where we are in a position to exercise our rights to do right, it is our duty.”
Araminta leapt in self-righteously. “It was duty that directed me to engage Edgar’s affections. I did it purely for the good of the family.”
“You did it with no thought for the sensibilities of anyone else other than yourself, Araminta. You did it for your own power and ambition.” Sybil’s tone gentled. Araminta was young. She had no idea of the pain she was inflicting but if a few words of caution could redirect her she might in fact find happiness and in doing so leave the way clear for her sister to do the same. “All I’m asking is that you be true to yourself.”
Araminta glared and her nostrils flared. She looked as if she were about to rise out of her chair through an excess of outrage. “Mama. I was prepared to sacrifice everything—my own happiness included—for the sake of this family!”
Sybil held up her hand. “For this family’s sake? Or for your sake? Because of the glory and power you thought it might bring you in years to come? Your motives might have started out well enough but you ignored your heart, Araminta, and you persisted in making Edgar fall in love with you, despite your scorn for him, despite knowing it was going to break your sister’s heart and despite the fact that you harbored feelings for Stephen.”
Araminta’s breathing had become very rapid. Her eyes were like pinpricks of malice. Sybil thought she’d never been as hated in that moment and yet she felt no regret at having spoken so frankly.
Hetty looked distinctly shaken. And tongue-tied.
After a quick glance at the men, busy settling their wager, Araminta leaned forward. “What about you, Mama?” she hissed. “If you believe everything you’ve just said, what does that make you? You don’t love Papa. He certainly doesn’t love you! Yet you live under his roof and spend his money and entertain him and his friends with...cloying civility.” She looked on the verge of tears. “Now you’re to have a baby. You hate Papa! Yet you call me names and accuse me of hooking my claws into a man I don’t love just because it suits me. I think you’ve some hide, accusing me of behaving exactly as you have yourself. You order me to be true to myself. When were you ever true to yourself?”
Sybil stiffened. She hadn’t expected Araminta capable of a defense that would hit home like that but before she could defend herself—if indeed that were even possible— Humphry and Stephen stood before them, their expansive beams proclaiming the fact they’d enjoyed the past half an hour a great deal more than the ladies.
“Sir Archie and young Barston are feeling a little the worse for wear,” Humphry reported under his breath, with a sideways glance at the two men approaching them; as it turned out, to offer their excuses and retire to bed.
Edgar remained staring gloomily at the jars on the table. For the first time Sybil felt a small stab of compassion for the young man. It was not his fault he was stupid, or perhaps even cowardly. He was just a very young man who had not had the advantage of a good example, as evidenced by his dissolute mama and papa. Araminta would have been a disastrous match but if Hetty believed she could make something of him and be happy in the process, Sybil would never stand in the way, and she doubted Humphry would either.
* * * * *
“Victory, my boy!”
Stephen nearly lost his balance, so fiercely did Lord Partington clap him on the shoulder.
“You might be leaving the Grange tomorrow without the grand expectations you harbored when you arrived—and for that there’s none sorrier than I—but at least you leave a thousand pounds richer with a promise from me to put in a good word for you in the Foreign Office.”
Stephen managed to return his smile. There was some small consolation in what His Lordship said but his heart was suddenly as heavy as a stone at the reminder that tomorrow signified a break with all he held dear.
“I’m grateful to you, my lord,” he said, flicking his tongue over dry lips. He’d not drunk much but he was consumed by a sudden desperate desire for the comfort of his bed. Of course, the comfort of Sybil’s arms would be much more agreeable and he’d happily forgo the sleep he craved to enjoy that. He cleared his head of the scandalous thought as, smiling politely, he declined Lord Partington’s offer of another brandy.
A thousand pounds the richer. He felt very much poorer right now. And distinctly green-eyed as he darted a parting glance at his benefactor and wondered if Lord Partington was right now preparing to go to his wife to do his distasteful duty—if Sybil’s assessment of his attitude to conjugal relations was to be believed. God knew how any man could not think himself in alt when enjoying the delectable offerings of the lovely Sybil.
He was glad Lord Partington did not accompany him up the passage though he took his Lordship’s, “I’ll just have one more to fortify myself,” distinctly ill, with its apparent reference to bolstering himself for unwelcome bedroom duties.
In fact, Stephen was still seething when, from behind the curtains in the Long Gallery on his way to bed, Lady Julia suddenly appeared in the halo of light supplied by the candle sconce above her.
“If you’ve lost your way I believe you’ll find your husband’s chamber in that direction,” Stephen said, pointing back the way he’d come, not even hesitating as he passed her.
Of course, Lady Julia was not one to be so easily fobbed off.
“Why, you’re jealous, Stephen!” she crowed, stepping in front of him, arresting his progress with both hands, palm outward, slithering over his shoulders.
Grasping her wrists, he put her away from him and continued walking. She hurried after him and gripped his sleeve, forcing him to halt.
“Stephen, my husband doesn’t know anything. Not about us, at any rate.” Her catlike eyes danced with as much confidence as ever.
“About us?” Stephen invested the phrase with derision as he quirked his eyebrows.
“About the fun we had.” There she was, back in front of him, rubbing her body suggestively against his and although Stephen swallowed past the lump in his throat there was—thank God—no answering lump growin
g in his breeches.
