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A chill of foreboding made her shiver and she touched her knee to Humphry’s. Could Hetty...know?
Yet when her husband glanced across at her, she could not put into words her fears.
Thomas and his two sisters were Humphry’s children by his mistress Elizabeth Hazlett. That made Thomas Hetty’s half-brother yet surely Hetty had no idea 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 Thomas, looking up and locking eyes with the girl, grinned self-consciously.
Thomas 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. He’d be especially outraged if he knew—as he presumably did—the reason he was not Lord Partington’s heir. His mother would surely have told Thomas that his father had buckled under family pressure and reneged on his marriage proposal to her. Shortly after Humphry had unexpectedly inherited the title he’d reluctantly married the much more “suitable” Miss Sybil Green. Yet even after such betrayal and after all these years Humphry and Lizzy Hazlett remained desperately in love.
Two generations had suffered the unhappy consequences—and always would. It was of no account that Humphry had regretted his marriage almost immediately, or consolation to Sybil that he’d told her it was not her fault.
She glanced at her husband’s impassive profile. Hard to believe they’d been married twenty years and produced four children, two of whom had died. Both sons. One stillborn, the other, George, only fourteen. The pain still sliced through her with the rawness of lemon juice in a fresh cut.
Still, it had taken Humphry three years after George’s death before he’d returned to Sybil’s bed. For so long she’d been half expecting it, for of course dear George’s death meant that without a direct heir the Grange and the fortune that went with it would go to Edgar.
Detested Edgar.
The memory of Humphry’s visit to her bedchamber made her cringe with shame. What a debacle it had been—Humphry 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 Humphry’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.
She looked at Araminta. 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 everything she could wish for. Except love.
Humphry didn’t love Sybil but he’d been kind in his way and he’d always tried to spare her discomfort. Not pain, for nothing could quite erase the hopelessness of knowing one would never know the love of a man.
Nor could she hate Lizzy Hazlett although on more than one occasion she’d wished her dead, wondering if perhaps then Humphry might be able to form for Sybil some small affection.
As the years passed, Sybil realized Humphry would never love anyone but Lizzy Hazlett, who had returned Humphry’s love by eschewing the respectable marriage she might have made as a solicitor’s daughter in order to become Humphry’s mistress. Her punishment had been social ostracism and she’d condemned her children to a dubious future. For what future was there for a bastard?
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 Humphry.
She stiffened.
Stephen. It could be no other.
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sp; 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. Humphry 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 Cranbourne, Humphry’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.”
