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“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, sitting down beside her and 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.
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 you for, 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 wonderful, thick hair, 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. 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 Thirteen
