Araminta’s famous saying. Everyone knew it.
Now Araminta was staring into the eyes of the most attractive young man Sybil had seen in a while and the look in his was wary, uncertain, and, yes, very interested.
Sybil heaved another sigh of relief. All would go well now.
The organ ceased, the shuffle of parishioners settling in to listen to another fire-and- brimstone sermon and the church door was firmly closed.
Sybil returned her attention to the front, following a sidelong glance to gauge
Humphry’s reaction.
His expression was inscrutable, as usual. Never once in twenty years had Sybil ever intercepted a look between her husband and Lizzy Hazlett that suggested they spent almost every evening and many nights together.
Lizzy’s children were equally well trained.
Sybil lowered her eyes and pretended to pray while she dreamed of sinking into a tub of hot bath suds as soon as they returned. A megrim was coming on and she needed to ease the tension from her limbs. All she’d done since Humphry had come to her bed three months ago for a repeat performance of the debacle three years ago was worry about the future.
Chapter Three
“My dear Mr. Cranbourne, of course it is nonsense for you to put up at The Wren.” Lord Partington put paid to Stephen’s protests with enough conviction for Stephen to be entirely comfortable giving orders for his trunk to be conveyed to the Grange. “Did I not say it in my letter?”
The letter had been such a bombshell Stephen had refused to completely believe its contents until it could be confirmed, in person, by Lord Partington.
Some of the tense, wound-up feeling he’d bottled up inside relaxed.
Lord Partington hadn’t said how long he was to remain his guest and Stephen had wondered if in fact he’d been summoned on spec.
Fortunately it seemed he passed muster on first impressions. Lady Partington had been gracious, Lord Partington enthusiastic and judging by the gleam in the lovely Araminta’s eye, he could look forward to some mild flirtation.
He forced back an image of Lady Julia, determined to conduct himself with the utmost propriety, saying conversationally as he leaned across the small space in the carriage, “I remember meeting you when I was a lad and you were both little girls.” He smiled. “And now you are beautiful young women.”
Yes, he would conduct himself with propriety but he could afford to flirt. Lord Partington was riding on the box with the coachman and the ladies had made clear their welcome.
Cousin Araminta smiled. “Nor are you the shy young lad I remember who preferred to catch tadpoles rather than play with your cousins, Mr. Cranbourne,” she said coyly, perhaps for her mother’s benefit for her eyes flashed the subtext for which he’d been fishing. “I remember not all our dolls, dressed for the occasion of your visit, could entice you, although we tried to interest you in the elaborate rig-outs of one-eyed Miss Lilly Vanilly and bald Lady Jane Tremain. I hope you will be less interested in tadpoles this visit, Mr. Cranbourne. Or should I say Cousin Stephen?”
“Of course you should,” Lady Partington interjected. Araminta, beside her, fixed him with her curiously feline smile as she smoothed the folds of her dress. She managed to combine sexual allure with enough girlish innocence to please all parties in the carriage, for clearly her mother was unaware of the lures she was casting.
“I shall try to be less disappointing,” he replied. “Ten-year-old boys understand far less than young girls about what’s important but now my vocabulary is sufficiently broadened to be able to remark that your eyes are reflected by the color of your gown, whose fashionable name I believe is Pomona green.”
With blinding clarity he recalled the candlelight catching the lustrous folds of Lady Julia’s Pomona-green gown in their trysting closet and confusion washed over him.
What had she been about? He’d left their home rather as a street urchin who’d been invited into the inner sanctum and after supping and being cosseted like a princeling by a lovely queen had been booted out into the night—but with promises of similar delights in a nebulous future.
This feeling was distinctly assuaged by the interest in Cousin Araminta’s assessing green eyes. He recalled Lady Julia’s remarks about the girl.
Could Araminta really have marked him out?
“Very clever, Cousin Stephen,” she murmured. “Where did you learn that, for you have no sisters?”
“I’m not a complete novice when it comes to ladies’ attire,” he responded. “Where were you when you got the letter, Mr. Cranbourne?”
Although it was the first question Cousin Hetty addressed to him, her mother caged her daughter’s hand and murmured, “It is not polite to be so direct, Hetty.”
“I’m not embarrassed by directness, Lady Partington,” he assured her, transfixed by
Miss Araminta’s full, enticing mouth.
To his surprise she met his look squarely.