Sybil listened to Araminta’s excited prattle and through bleary, tear-filled eyes, watched her confident daughter uncoil her hair as she extoled the many virtues of the “next Viscount Partington”, who it never occurred to her wouldn’t see her as the best candidate for his viscountess.
“Perhaps your Cousin Stephen is already attached, Araminta, dear,” Sybil suggested almost diffidently.
Araminta just shrugged her shoulders and replied, “Well, he’s not married and that’s all that counts.”
Finally the girl rose, her sigh of satisfaction suggesting that all was nicely in order in her world, and Sybil heaved a sigh of relief that she’d soon be able to close her eyes on this perfectly awful day.
But Araminta wasn’t done yet. “Mama, you will remember to tell Papa he must buy Mrs. Hazlett’s mare for me, won’t you?”
Chapter Four
By day three Stephen was still reveling in the excellent horseflesh beneath him as he tore through the woods that would belong to him someday.
Life was full of surprises but it would be hard to beat his elevation to all this. He cast his eye around the sweeping fields of golden corn, the beech wood to the east, the glistening lake with its picturesque rotunda just behind it and the squat but handsome house about half a mile away, which he would one day call home. Not to mention the young lady of the manor.
It was clear Araminta had set her sights on him. While he had to acknowledge this was on the basis of his recent expectations, there’d be few men not thrilled at such an alliance. She was exquisite.
Exquisite and willing. It seemed the ideal solution. His courtship would be short and straightforward and there’d be no surprises. He would sire sons who would inherit all this and he’d grow old in comfort. Respected and revered.
He did a quick mental calculation of his debts and tried to shake the considerable embarrassment occasioned by his recent loss to Sir Archie. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to settle that—or explain it to Lord Partington.
As for Lady Julia, he’d tried his best to erase her from his mind. He’d been a fool. Anyone could see that. Hopefully only he would know it.
But the debt. He wasn’t at all sure how the viscount was going to react. Although generally genial, he was at other times distant and aloof.
Lady Partington, on the other hand, was like a sweet little peahen, always running an anxious eye over her daughters. Hetty, in particular, he noted. It was quite clear Cousin Araminta could look after herself but anyone could see Hetty would not make a similarly confident entrance when she was introduced to society.
He must remember to keep an eye out for potential fortune-hunters of the heartbreaking variety, for Hetty and Lady Partington were birds of a feather—tender- hearted creatures who needed extra bolstering. They reminded him of his dear cousin Annabelle, who’d made such a disastrous match.
The sudden flap of wings as a partridge burst out of the gorse in front of him turned his thoughts from peahens to the richer game he’d soon enjoy as the future Lord Partington. Like hunting parties in August for which he’d be renowned as the most generous of hosts with the most desirable wife.
Turning his mount for the home that would be some years in coming, he was again struck by his immediate pecuniary obligations.
Before his two-week visit ended he’d have no choice but to broach the subject with his benefactor.
It was with interest and more than a little curiosity that he was told upon arrival that Lady Partington desired to see him on a private matter “at his convenience” some time that day.
As he changed from riding dress into a new coat with boots zealously polished to disguise their age, and trousers he’d bartered from a colleague, he hoped his appearance sufficient to inspire confidence.
Confidence was required in any interview that dealt variously with money or marriage, and he rather suspected Lady Partington had something of importance to say upon one of these subjects.
Mary, the viscountess’ lady’s maid, eyed him with some concern when he presented himself, adding dubiously that he could wait in Lady Partington’s private sitting room while she sought out Her Ladyship.
So Stephen lowered his lanky form onto a delicate gilt sofa and was studying the amateur watercolors done by Lady Partington, when a rustle made him glance up at the paneled wooden door that led in from the passage. Waiting was always a tedious business when there were so many more interesting pursuits to contemplate, and the Grange offered an abundant supply. He could never be bored here. His Lordship had offered to take him on a tour of the estate later this afternoon after he’d returned from wherever it was he spent his mornings, and Stephen was looking forward to learning how to run things properly.
To his surprise, Lady Partington entered from a doorway hidden near the bed. Clearly unaware of his presence, she made her way directly to her writing desk, seated herself and then took down her inkpot.
Stephen was about to declare himself when her next action rendered him indecisive.
With a heart-rending sob she leaned back, covering her face with her hands. When she dropped them and raised her eyes to the ceiling, her expression was desolate.
She must have heard something for she jerked her head around, crying, “Cousin Stephen!”
In a trice he was on his feet, his hand upon her shoulder, aware this was the second time he’d caught her at a disadvantage. “Lady Partington, forgive me but I was told to wait in your sitting room. Please don’t be angry.” For the wide-eyed horror she fixed upon him indicated the extent of her wounded pride.
He realized he’d been gently massaging the back of her neck, and stopped. Far too familiar an action under the circumstances but instinctive when he’d seen her distress. “I know you must deplore the reasons I am here,” he said, assuming her unhappiness must be related. “It is not easy to see everything go to a virtual stranger because you have only daughters, but despite my reputation, I intend to be as diligent as your husband is in my duties toward the estate.”
She exhaled bitterly. “If my husband were as diligent as you suggest, he might have his own son to whom he’d pass everything, but he has no wish to deal with me.” She heaved in another shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, pay no heed,” she continued, gathering herself and pulling away. “This is very irregular. You should not see me like this.”
“I should not,” he agreed. “And I should not have tried to capture Lady Zena on the ledge either,” he added. “However I did and as you have no reason to be ashamed I hope you will forgive me.”
He thought she might turn her back on him and show him the door with an imperious wave. Clearly she was contemplating it. Then she relented and met his determined, bolstering smile with an unsteady one of her own. Her hair was loose and he noted the rich gloss of it and the fact there was no sign of gray. Had she really intimated Lord Partington was insensible to her physical charms?
“That is in the past,” she said with brittle formality. “Thank you for your concern but if you’ll excuse me it is time for me to dress for dinner. We can discuss whatever it was that brought you here at some other time.”
Obediently he turned toward the door, hesitating to remark, “If you’ll forgive the impertinence, Lady Partington, I strongly recommend bold colors, which I believe would be more flattering to your complexion.”
He indicated the dress her maid had laid out on the bed. “The color and construction are decidedly matronly for one of your youthful looks.”
With a final bow, he excused himself, his mind running wild over what transgression Lord Partington was guilty of in the eyes of his distressed wife.
* * * * *
The household whiled away the hours after dinner in pleasant conversation with their guest and close neighbor rear admiral Hopton, whom Humphry had felt obliged to invite. Their fathers had been testy comrades and as the rear admiral took a paternal interest in Humphry’s affairs, the arrival of the heir-apparent was more than a passing social interest.
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“Good strong chin,” the rear admiral wheezed into Sybil’s ear. “Not like that namby-pamby Edgar. Good thing Corunna took care of him.”
Sybil didn’t reply. She was ashamed that she tacitly agreed with the sentiment that her nephew’s death during the bloody Peninsular campaign was a godsend for Humphry and the Grange.
The admiral’s next sentence heated her cheeks. “Bit peremptory of your husband to bring in reinforcements when you should be able to provide one of your own.” The rear admiral had been raised in a more down-to-earth era and no doubt considered the implication of his sharp-eyed study of her middle region not at all ill-mannered.
Sybil managed to swallow her sherry without making any unladylike noises before murmuring, “My husband wanted time to groom Mr. Cranbourne for his role in case—”
“Aye, that’s right, in case he went the way of his old pater.”
Sybil did not comment. Humphry’s father had drowned when in his cups, in a barrel of brandy, at the tender age of forty-five. “Not likely. In fact, your husband would do better if he were more like the old pater. But this Mr. Cranbourne. Is he likely to go his mother’s way? That’d be more my concern. Little strumpet, Miss Bessie Brayford was in her day. Aye, no credit to her sex, that’s what my mother said, but we don’t always listen to our mothers, do we? Your Miss Araminta doesn’t and I’ll warrant it won’t do her a jot of harm.”
The warmth of his glance as he gazed upon the young woman he’d dandled on his knee as an infant sent a pang of some unidentified longing through Sybil. Araminta, seated by the window, was holding court, Stephen appearing like a rapt disciple as he lounged against the wall and listened. Pride—and something else—raged through Sybil. Her daughter’s beauty was breathtaking, as was her ability to take what she wanted in life without thought for the consequences. While Sybil wanted nothing but happiness for her eldest daughter, Araminta was not going to get Mrs. Hazlett’s gray mare. She was determined upon it.
The rear admiral’s interest was as admiring as Stephen’s. “The girl knows how to get what she wants. Thank the lord she’s not playing up to that sapskull Edgar, which she would be if he were here being groomed for the role of heir.”
“Araminta wants to make a good match this season,” Sybil murmured. “Mr. Cranbourne would be a very good match.”
“Two months ago he wouldn’t have been. No, Miss Araminta has an eye to the main chance, and good on her. Let’s just hope Mr. Cranbourne knows what’s expected of him. Young man’s been around. He knows how to please the ladies, no doubt about that,” the rear admiral observed.
Sybil squinted at the young pair. Was her neighbor suggesting Mr. Cranbourne wasn’t genuinely smitten?
“No need to fluff up your feathers like a protective mother hen,” chuckled the rear admiral. “Mind you, with your eyes so bright and in that gown, you’re a fine sight to behold.”
A tremor of pleasure ran through her. It was the first time she’d been complimented in years. Her red silk gown was one she’d had made in a fit of daring the year before but never worn after Araminta derided her for trying to appear in the first stare “when surely you’re old enough, Mama, to know how positively sad it is to look like you’re trying to compete with your daughters.”
Since then she’d reverted to the simple, safe and matronly pastels she’d always worn. Mr. Cranbourne’s comment tonight had emboldened her to select the dress.
“And no need to gape as if you don’t know it’s true. You’re a damn fine-looking woman, Sybil, only Humphry don’t appreciate it.” He took another sip of his sherry, staring down his claret nose to add, “Araminta’s not the only beauty in the family. Now, as you’re clearly not used to compliments and your husband is looking this way, I shall bid you good evening and go and speak to my old neighbor.”
Sybil closed her mouth, returned Hetty’s smile—she was kneeling by Lady Zena’s cage whispering to the bird—then resumed watching Stephen and Araminta.
What had the rear admiral meant? Mr. Cranbourne was like every young man who met Araminta. He’d fallen completely under her spell. The only danger was if proceedings went awry. After the curtailing of her first season, no breath of scandal must touch Araminta.
No, let all proceed quietly to plan, prayed Sybil. Mr. Cranbourne was the new heir and Araminta, since the death of her brother, had been determined to marry whomever she needed to become mistress of the Grange.
It was Sybil’s duty, however, to warn Mr. Cranbourne, subtly, of Arabella’s expectations so as to avoid any potential misunderstandings.
* * * * *
Stephen was enjoying the attention of his lovely female audience as he leaned against the wall and listened to Araminta spout a string of deriding comments about all the ape leaders with whom she’d been forced to rub shoulders during her first season.
Clearly she’d despised everything as much as she’d enjoyed it. “Miss Clara Doyle only stood up three times at Almacks the first night I attended. She has more than ten thousand a year, but imagine a gentleman having to get past that nose of hers.”
“A large nose is an impediment to anyone, even those with ten thousand a year,” he agreed.
She sent him a wary glance before relaxing with a derisive smile as she went on, “And then there was poor Miss Myrtle, who might have been pretty had her guardian not insisted on dressing her like she’d been dragged out of a fashion plate from The Lady’s Magazine ten years ago. Why, the rig-outs—”
“One’s dress is vital to one’s success.” Stephen nodded, glancing at Lady Partington who looked, he conceded, mighty fine in hers this evening. One might even argue she looked a good ten years younger, which he calculated would put her at around thirty, only a couple years older than himself. Well, perhaps a few more, though age didn’t matter when a woman was that attractive.
She was talking to the rear admiral, a worried frown creasing her brow, but a disarming remark from him brought on a spontaneous laugh that lit up her face, making her in that moment exceptionally lovely. Lovely in quite a different way from Araminta, whose shrewd eyes narrowed as she intercepted his gaze.
“Poor Mama’s trying too hard again, I see,” she remarked. “I told her never to wear that dress. She’s far too old.”
“I don’t think so.”
Araminta stared at him. Clearly this was not the kind of thing she was either used to or had been expecting.
“Mama is practically in her dotage,” she insisted, leaning forward and looking past Stephen to frown at her elderly parent in conversation with the rear admiral.
“No, she’s not.”
“She’s too old to provide Papa with an heir,” Araminta rejoined, spitefully.
Stephen said nothing to this but naturally he did wonder at the veiled allusion Lady Partington had made earlier that day that would refute this.
Yet surely if Lord Partington considered it safe to call Stephen here and pronounce him the new heir it was because Lady Partington was unable to produce one herself. Perhaps she’d been unable to have more children after her last child but refused to accept it.
“If Mama’s trying hard now, she left it too late, didn’t she?” Araminta’s scornful look softened as she transferred it to her father talking to the rear admiral.
At Stephen’s quizzical glance she muttered, “Papa has no desire for Mama’s society. As soon as he can get away, he does. He hardly ever spends the night here and only returns for luncheon.”
Stephen was shocked both by the charge and the veiled accusation. “And you consider that your mama’s fault?”
“Well, it’s not mine.” Araminta replaced her glare with a beauteous smile. “But let’s not talk about dreary old Mama, Cousin Stephen. Let me hear all about yourself and your daring exploits.”
Stephen participated in the lighthearted banter that followed, though Araminta seemed to take most of what she told him a lot more seriously than he did.
Nevertheless, it was a novelty to be the focus of a
ttention from a beautiful young woman, even if she was a trifle self-absorbed and, at times, selfish. She was also young and no doubt she’d be softened by a more maternal side when the time came. Like her mother, whom he did not consider dreary at all.
If Araminta had marked him out as her future husband, he could do worse. It was time to claim a wife and with possibly years to wait until his inheritance, there would be definite financial benefits.
* * * * *
It was on the subject of his pecuniary and, he hoped, only temporary embarrassment, that he finally got up the courage to approach Lord Partington.
There was no point in beating around the bush, Stephen decided, as he accompanied His Lordship on horseback around the grounds of the Grange with an almost lung-bursting sense of pride. In all his wildest dreams he’d never imagined a future as glittering as the one that had opened up before him.
“Where do you live when you’re in town?” His Lordship asked as they followed a meandering brook through a pretty meadow.
“With my grandmother while I look for something more suitable,” he replied.
“In that case you’ll stay at the Grange until something else is arranged.” His Lordship squinted toward the hills to the east. The spires of smoke from the village could be seen above the trees. “Besides, you’ll need to spend some time here so you can understand the responsibilities you’ll be required to undertake one day. Obviously you’ll want to spend a good deal of time in town. You’re a bachelor after all.” He hesitated. “Though perhaps not for long.”
Stephen ignored the questioning look in his eye but obliged him with, “I think I’ll find myself quite content to molder in the country for at least a few more weeks.” He sent his benefactor a knowing look and the viscount chuckled. “Be wary, my boy.” He opened his mouth to continue, hesitated, then went on, “My daughter is a vixen who knows how to get what she wants and if you have other ideas you’d better state them now.”
Stephen grinned. “I’m quite partial to vixens,” he said. “Especially the green-eyed variety.”
Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin Book 1) Page 5
