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“I’m ready for my bed, too,” Hetty said on a weary sigh. “Lysander was up three times in the night. He’s cutting another tooth, and I fear tonight won’t be any better.”
Stephen murmured the required sympathy and prepared to follow her when one of the footmen handed him a note. Discreetly.
He made sure he was alone when he opened it.
Meet me at the boathouse after dinner if you can manage it. The writing appeared to have been scrawled in haste. It certainly wasn’t Sybil’s usual hand, but perhaps she’d tried to disguise it. After all, it wouldn’t do to fall into the wrong clutches. It was obviously also the reason she hadn’t signed it.
He crumpled it, then tossed it on the fire on his way from the room, his groin suddenly aching with need.
The night was dark, and he had to take a lantern to light his way. He took the back route through the kitchen garden—and a rug for them to lie on—and hurried to make it there though he knew he’d be first. Sybil had left the dining room only seconds before him, but she’d probably see Lord Partington to his apartments since her husband was so obviously in pain. He hoped she’d not offer to rub his legs, but then, of course, she wouldn’t otherwise she’d not have written the note to Stephen. It had been a week since Lord Partington had been under the same roof as them, due perhaps to the fact Hetty and Sir Aubrey were staying so he wanted to keep up appearances. No wonder Sybil was on fire to be with Stephen for it was rare they were apart so long.
The note filled him with ridiculous excitement. He’d not expected this of Sybil, but she was always one to surprise him. It was just one of the many things he loved about her.
The quickest route was across the lawn, but as he might have been observed from a window with his lantern, he took the meandering path that skirted the great expanse of lawn, dipped into the forest, and arrived via the northern side of the lake. Perhaps Sybil would suggest they take a boat and row across to the island. It was a mild night, and there’d be even greater privacy for them in the little rotunda there.
It didn’t matter. His mind was too busy conjuring up delicious scenarios just to give it something with which to occupy itself, for the main object was that soon he’d hold Sybil in his arms, and feel her soft golden hair beneath his chin as he embraced her and breathed in all that was good about her…then took his fill of her wondrous sexual allure with as much eagerness as she.
He stopped at the threshold of the boathouse and glanced back at The Grange. The light was on in Sybil’s bedchamber where Mabel her dresser would be preparing for her mistress’s return, just as Sybil would be preparing for Stephen’s arrival.
He was hard with anticipation as he trod lightly over the threshold and into the darkened boathouse. A candle guttered in the base of one of the rowing boats at the far end, and he could make out the shadowed form of his dear heart. She appeared to be staring in the opposite direction but turned as she heard him, rising and putting out her arms.
“Stephen.”
Her voice arrested his progress. Shocked, he halted. “Who is that?”
“You do not know me?” She sounded disappointed. She rasped in a breath, and her voice broke. “I know it’s been a while and that you weren’t expecting me, but I thought you might have known my voice. Might even have been a little…pleased?”
There was a hopeful note to her voice.
There was only horror in his. “Lady Julia! What are you doing here?” What could she want at this time of night? Certainly not something he was prepared to give. She’d been flirtatious at Ara
minta’s ball the previous week, and he’d been polite but distant. It was not possible she could have misinterpreted any of his responses for encouragement.
“I need your help, Stephen.” Her voice caught. “You do not sound pleased to see me, and perhaps that’s only to be expected, but I do need your help since it’s because of you that I’m in such dreadful difficulties.”
“Me?!” Incredulity, even more horror, and just a little shard of terrified guilt sliced through him. “I don’t understand you.” She couldn’t be alluding to what—dear God—he never wanted to think about if he could help it. Besides, too long had passed.
“You are the father of my son, Stephen, and Sir Archie knows it, and now Lord Debenham is threatening to reveal the truth to the world.” She heaved in a sob, and her face looked haggard in the candlelight. “You must help me for I don’t know what to do.”
“I am the father of your son?” He leaned against the prow of the boat and stared at her. “You cannot know that.” Shock made his voice faint. “Nor could Sir Archie could ever prove that.”
Lady Julia ran a hand across her brow. “Indeed he could.” She straightened, then stepped over the center bench seat and sat down, smoothing the skirts of her cobalt-blue traveling dress over her knees. Her figure was as neat as he remembered it, and her bright golden hair as carefully coiffed, but she’d obviously dressed for a journey rather than an attempt at seduction. He hoped so anyway.
“Lady Julia, there’s nothing I can do for you. You come here claiming I’m responsible.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “Edgar?”
“Lord, we never went so far and no one has ever suggested impropriety to that extent. There is no doubt that you are the father of my third son. The son that will in all likelihood inherit from Archie.”
“How can that be?” He said it more to himself but she replied, “That night I detained you in the storeroom, and you took your pleasure—”
“No! You took your pleasure.” He was starting to shake now. This was his worst nightmare. She couldn’t prove this. Nor could Sir Archie and, good God, nor could Lord Debenham.
Her voice hardened. “You certainly didn’t object when I went down on my knees and took you in my mouth.”
The words sounded so coarse, but she spoke the truth. He had thrown his head back, astonished that after so many years living a rough soldier’s life a woman found him attractive. A woman wanted to pleasure him. One he hadn’t even had to pay.
And what happened afterward? He shook his head to clear it of what he simply could not think of just then.
But that a child had resulted from such a grubby two-minute encounter seemed inconceivable.
