Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin Book 1)

by Beverley Oakley

  Anticipation gripped him as she made her way languidly from her bathtub towards the bed. It was a large, intricately carved tester covered in a sumptuous white counterpane, edged with ermine, and as she lowered herself onto it her lustrous tresses swirled about her waist.

  And then with the most enormous shock he realized that this was the quiet, modest woman who’d welcomed him here. He’d barely noticed her in the carriage with her hair covered by a blue silk bonnet and her manner almost deferring to her eldest daughter, who certainly wanted to put herself forward.

  This was Lady Partington.

  Torn between the desire to scramble away as fast as he could and to strain his eyes to see what other secrets she’d been hiding, prurient interest won out. She was exquisite.

  And she certainly seemed not about to raise her eyes to the window.

  She flicked aside the curtain of her hair as she reached for a stocking, raising her leg to put it on so that Stephen was treated to the most intimate view a newly arrived heir no doubt had ever received of his benefactor’s wife, the lady of the manor.

  He ignored the cries and shouts from his admiring audience below as he enjoyed the visual extravaganza before him.

  Lady Partington eased the stocking onto her ankle then, in a seemingly unrelated act Stephen could not at first explain, she hooked her ankle over her knee and placed her head on her thigh. Then she raised her head...

  And looked him squarely in the eye.

  At first he did not move. He registered the flare of shock in her expression, quickly followed by confusion. She stood up quickly, her hair frothing about her waist, one hand moving to cover the fluff at the juncture of her legs, the other to conceal her full, heavy breasts. From this distance he could see the sheen of moisture from her bath and the faint marks left by pregnancy on her soft and rounded body.

  He’d been with women who’d given birth to children but never one who’d shied away from him with such outraged horror.

  As was only to be expected. Lady Partington preserved such delicacies for her husband and Stephen was guilty of gross voyeurism. He ought to be ashamed of himself yet he was curiously aroused in a way he’d not expected. Against her vibrant eldest daughter she’d been a soft little pouter pigeon, clucking her welcome. Now she’d stepped into a different league altogether.

  Lady Zena chose this moment to hop onto his shoulder and Stephen deemed it timely to beat a rapid retreat. With his heartbeat roaring in his ears, he descended in record time, leaping the last six feet and going over on his ankle, surrounded by the young ladies—Hetty who gripped his arm and Araminta whose regal self-possession was nevertheless disturbed by the violence of his fall.

  “Did you hurt yourself, Cousin Stephen?” she cried.

  He was about to dismiss their concerns when he checked himself, adding slyly, “I might have twisted my ankle. Perhaps if we retired indoors you’d be so good as to administer a soothing poultice.”

  Araminta read his meaning at once, offering him her shoulder to lean on, which he made good use of, and the close proximity. She was worldly enough to know he’d hardly make a fuss over a minor injury and she would be flattered that he’d use the opportunity to gain access.

  Yet while her perfume teased his senses and her ministering touch was gratifying he could not get out of his mind the lush, ripe nakedness of Lady Partington’s unexpectedly desirable body.

  Limping into the house, he realized how terribly embarrassing the episode would be for Lady Partington once she understood he was blameless. Hopefully she could dress it up as an amusing anecdote to share with Lord Partington as they cozily discussed the day’s events—something Stephen was looking forward to doing with his own wife.

  Simple pleasures.

  Lord Partington had done well in his marriage, even if he didn’t have a living son. The demure façade presented by Her Ladyship was clearly very different from the reality.

  * * * * *

  Sybil didn’t know how she had the courage to enter the dining room that evening. Should she tell Humphry? How would he take the fact that his highly anticipated heir was a peeping Tom? That he had spied on her in her bedroom and leered at her naked. For he hadn’t looked away in shame. Oh no, he’d continued to stare right at her.

  Her stomach roiled. At his contempt? His disgust? When he addressed her in future he’d think only of her old, ugly body while he pretended the requisite courtesies.

  She knew she should face him with regal hauteur but her embarrassment was too acute.

  “Mama, come and look at Lady Zena.” Hetty leaped to her feet when Sybil entered the drawing room. “Isn’t she a darling?” she demanded as she ran across the Wilton carpet to drag Sybil to the corner where Araminta—and, lord forbid—Cousin Stephen were crowded ‘round what looked to be a bird’s cage.

  Sybil could not meet his eye. She should make clear her indignation and outrage but she lacked the courage. Was he embarrassed that he’d been caught peeping? Or did he imagine her such a mouse that she’d say nothing?

  Running a hand across her heated brow, Sybil forced herself to attend to Hetty’s prattle while acutely conscious of the young man’s strong, lithe body only feet from her. Her brain whirled with questions. Why had he spied on her? And—not that it should matter, but...how badly had he been repulsed?

  “We were quite certain poor Cousin Stephen was going to break his neck,” Araminta said, casting a surprisingly warm glance at the young man. “Then Hetty wanted to run into your room to see if we could help him through the window as it was your sill he was clinging to.”

  Sybil stiffened. “What did you say, Araminta?”

  “Mama, you are so vague,” Araminta huffed. “I said that Cousin Stephen rescued Lady Zena, the canary he gave to us this afternoon, after it flew out of its cage and landed on your windowsill.”

  “He was so daring and insisted the bird would come to him if he could get close enough,” said Hetty. “He climbed right up to your bedchamber. I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”

  “But he was in such a hurry to climb down again he twisted his ankle when he landed,” said Araminta.

  Cousin Stephen cleared his throat. “All’s well that ends well and no damage was done, I assure you, Lady Partington.”

  Oh dear Lord, he was looking directly at her, a faint smile playing about his beautifully formed lips.

  What was wrong with her? He certainly didn’t look disgusted. In fact...well, the very opposite.

  “I hope you didn’t object to my surprise, Lady Partington.”

  “No, I—” Sybil could utter nothing coherent, she was so overcome with confusion. Her embarrassment only increased when Mr. Cranbourne added, “I mean, to my giving the girls a bird.”

  Oh, Lord. Did he imagine she’d misinterpreted him? Well, she had...for just a second. “A bird?” she croaked. “No, of course not. No objections, nothing to object to, that is—is there?”

  “I hoped you’d feel that way.”

  His response was so soothing. Meanwhile she was acting like a flustered peagoose whose feathers were being gently stroked.

  However, it was with relief she welcomed Humphry, who joined them in the drawing room, saying, “I trust you had a pleasant afternoon, Stephen, and that the ladies have entertained you.”

  “I’ve been vastly entertained, my lord.” The young man bowed, glancing at Sybil as he raised his head. Was he making fun of her? A young man seeing a woman more than fifteen years older than himself in such a state? No, she was imagining it. He was looking at Araminta beside her. How could she have imagined he’d even bother making fun of a woman old enough to be his mother? Well, nearly old enough.

  Smoothly, he continued the conversation he’d obviously had earlier with Humphry. “I should enjoy joining you for an afternoon ride tomorrow, my lord. Riding is one of the things I like best, in fact.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” There was an encouraging degree of enthusiasm in Humphry’s tone.

  Sybil kn
ew how relieved he was that Stephen was so unlike Edgar. Stephen was strong, tall, handsome and apparently capable. Levelheaded and considered. Unlike chuckle-headed, indecisive Edgar.

  “Cousin Stephen, there is something I’d like to show you.” It was Araminta, using her voice like a lure.

  Sybil wondered by what method she’d honed her considerable powers of attraction when her mother had none. Sybil could not even entice her husband into her bed to try for another son.

  The young people drifted over to the window seat, Hetty’s presence like a gooseberry, it soon became clear.

  Humphry chuckled as he took a seat beside Sybil near the fire. “Araminta is clearly delighted with her cousin.”

  Sybil smiled. “They look a fine couple. What man would not fall in love with Araminta? Cousin Stephen looks taken with her.”

  “A good thing since the young lady has her sights set on him. And Araminta always gets what she wants.” The warm gaze Humphry directed at their daughter was some solace. He looked very at home leaning back against the blue silk upholstery and she was struck by how rarely he inhabited this domestic domain, amongst his legitimate family.

  Impulsively, Sybil said, “Our daughter is very lovely, Humphry. You must be proud of her.”

  “Proud indeed. Now, about this evening, my dear.” He turned the subject and Sybil’s heart thudded to the pit of her stomach when he said, “I’ll be out late so don’t expect me at breakfast.”

  “But Humphry, it’s Stephen’s first night—”

  “And he’s had a tiring day so will sleep late. We’ve made arrangements to go riding the day after.”

  The dinner gong sounded. “Of course, Humphry,” she said, beckoning to the girls then, as the most senior lady, taking Stephen’s arm so he could lead her into dinner.

  Her spirits were so weighed down she could barely put one leg in front of the other. “I hope I am not the reason you look so downcast, my lady,” she heard Stephen whisper and was surprised at the kindness in his expression. The fine, arched eyebrows that she imagined could deliver such disdain—and surely such a handsome young man delivered that in spade loads—were angled above eyes that were warm with compassion.

  Two footmen threw open the double doors and Sybil raised her head like the lady of the manor, which for most of her life made her feel like such a sham.

  With surprise, she registered the light touch of Stephen’s hand over hers in what seemed almost, though not quite, far too familiar a gesture under the circumstances. “I’m sorry to have discomposed you, Lady Partington. Please don’t be angry with me.”

  Heat rose in her cheeks. “Of course not,” she murmured, wondering how anyone could be angry with him. He was lovely.

  Araminta obviously thought so too as she waxed lyrical about the original manor house, which had been added to over the centuries, the fine library of books—most of which she intimated she’d read, which was nonsense, of course.

  To his credit, Stephen appeared entranced so that by the end of the evening, when the ladies and gentlemen reconvened in the drawing room, Humphry cornered Sybil in a dark corner and said, “What a combustible evening, my dear. Araminta turned on the charm like I’ve never seen before.”

  “Then you don’t see enough of her.” Sybil knew there was no point in shaming him, so she left it at that.

  Besides, he dismissed her comment just as he dismissed her and went on in his usual distracted manner, discussing Araminta.

  Araminta was seated near the fire and had elicited Stephen’s help in winding a skein of wool into a ball she could work with. From time to time the rhythm was broken either by the inexperience or deliberate offices of her cousin, and Araminta, with an arch look, would stop her winding to untangle the wool from around his fingers. This obviously involved a degree of surreptitious intimacy, which brought the amusement to Humphry’s eyes.

  “That girl is tempting fate,” he remarked. “Sybil, you’ll have to talk to him.”

  “Me?” The idea of broaching the topic to which he alluded was horrifying at the best of times and now was not the best of times.

  Humphry frowned. “It’s hardly something I would discuss with Stephen, my dear. Araminta needs to tread carefully. Have you heard whispers as to why she cut her season short?”

  Sybil shook her head.

  “Really, Sybil, you have your head in the clouds. Isn’t that an essential role of a mother? To have one’s ears to the ground for the first sign of trouble?” Irritated perhaps by Sybil’s blush of shame more than anything else, he went on, “There are whispers that the only reason young Bolton’s heir shot himself was because Araminta turned him down—”

  “But Humphry, that’s perfectly obvious. I knew that.”

  “If you would let me finish.” Humphry was never angry with her but his regular irritation was a thorn in her flesh. Forcing herself to patiently accept his inevitable censure, Sybil waited.

  “Word is that his pockets weren’t deep enough for Araminta’s ambition.” He raised an eyebrow and nodded as if Sybil had already corroborated his horror. “Indeed, word is that Araminta boasted she’d not accept anyone with under a hundred thousand or who wouldn’t build her an exact replica of the Grange.”

  Sybil gasped and would have said something to defend her daughter, whom she knew was probably entirely guilty of such charges, only Humphry cut her off. “She’d returned to this nonsense about seeing if she couldn’t whip Edgar into shape. Edgar! Can you imagine Araminta marrying that dweedlenap?” He snorted. “It’s your duty to warn Stephen to take care. Tell her he must adhere strictly to the gentleman’s code. That is, unless he intends to make Araminta an offer sooner rather than later, which may be entirely possible since most men seem unable to resist the girl’s charms.”

  Sybil nodded miserably. “Yes, Humphry.”

  “Good.” He rose, then, and moved toward the door, saying over his shoulder, “In fact, I’ve already mentioned you’d like to speak to him on a private matter.”

  The only person who could possibly know how Sybil felt was Hetty. Plump, ungainly Hetty, who always tried too hard was a younger version of herself, Sybil thought sadly as she studied her youngest child, deep in conversation with Lady Zena. Who else was there to talk to, after all? A great surge of tenderness welled up in her breast as she contemplated Hetty’s prospects during her forthcoming debut in just a couple of months.

  The girl’s dowry was not insignificant. She’d in all likelihood find a husband but it was unlikely to be one who’d offer her his heart as he offered his troth.

  The idea of vibrant, enthusiastic, loving Hetty living a life like hers—a life without love—was almost too hard to bear.

  Sybil turned away, afraid of being unmasked in this vulnerable moment. It was time to make her exit and leave the young people to themselves. They were cousins. They should get to know one another.

  As she rose to leave, Araminta called from across the room. “Mama, are you going to bed? I forgot to tell you that I saw Mrs. Wilcock in the village today. She asked after you and says Mrs. Hazlett is selling Bunty. You know I’ve always loved that horse. I thought you could suggest to Papa that he buy her for me.”

  Clearly misinterpreting Sybil’s look, she went on impatiently, “You know who I’m talking about, surely? Mrs. Hazlett with the fine brown hair, who lives in the house closest to the bridge.”

  Could Araminta really not know?

  Sybil damped down her horror. “Why should she want to sell Bunty?” It was a rhetorical question. All Sybil wanted was to make a hasty exit and never have to hear about Mrs. Hazlett ever again.

  “She’s going away. Mrs. Wilcock said she was suffering fainting and dizzy spells and the only cure for such a malady was nine months’ rest.”

  Sybil fixed Araminta with a beady look. Was her daughter taunting her? Was she saying what Sybil thought she was saying? Surely Araminta was not so naïve?

  It appeared she was. Certainly it appeared one could be a minx and a ja
de without knowing a thing about the realities of life.

  Undaunted by her mother’s lack of enthusiasm, Araminta went on, “Mrs. Hazlett is going away for nine months, according to Mrs. Wilcock, and taking her eldest daughter with her so they’re selling that lovely bay. Do you think if I ask Papa he’ll buy it for me?”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure he will if it’ll benefit Mrs. Hazlett,” Sybil said with more venom than was wise. “Good night Cousin Stephen, girls.” With a curt nod, she turned on her heel and hurried up the passage.

  Mrs. Hazlett’s lack of feeling up to the mark was something Sybil could empathize with. Her fainting spells and nausea were another thing altogether. Maladies she herself should be suffering—if only Humphry would let her.

  She cast herself onto the bed as soon as she gained the privacy of her room and began to sob.

  Humphry had deemed an heir from another line of the family preferable to intimacy with Sybil. Not even the familiarity of twenty years could overcome his aversion. She was a repugnant old woman who couldn’t even tempt a husband desperate to beget an heir.

  Mary came in a few minutes later and helped her mistress out of her clothes and into her nightdress. Though she made soothing noises in response to Sybil’s obvious recent tears and told her there’d be better days ahead, she could not understand and Sybil was too proud to make a confidante of anyone, even a trusted retainer who’d been with her for more than a decade.

  She was just drifting off to sleep when a cursory knock was followed by the door being pushed open. Araminta drifted across the carpet and sat at her dressing table, looking at her reflection rather than at her mother as she said, “Cousin Stephen is very nice, don’t you think? Much nicer than Edgar.” She shuddered. “I’d have hated to marry Edgar but now I’ll have a dashing husband and still call the Grange home and live here as mistress of the manor. You’d live in the gatehouse once you’re a dowager, of course.”