Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin 1)

“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.”