Sybill (14 page)

“Yes, it matters. I would like someone to understand. Father never did.” Her face brightened. “I know. I asked you how you knew when it was the right time to start the planting. And you said—”

He interrupted her, “I said that I simply knew, and I could explain it no more than that.” Reflectively he nodded. “I think I understand now, Sybill.”

“I'm glad.” She placed her hands in his and allowed him to draw her to the bench. When she sat on it, he leaned her head against his chest and enfolded her in his arms. For the first time, she felt safe.

“Tell me. I will listen to you.”

Quickly she told him of her unease with the situation in the Cloister. The steady alterations in the people was frightening. She spoke of Kate's attitude of invulnerability and superiority compounded with hints of impending doom for Sybill. Her voice faded to silence as she ended, “And now there is this portrait.”

“So he has told you about that?”

“You knew?” Her eyes widened as she stared at him with recrimination. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what? That Lord Foxbridge has contacted Gerard Sievers to paint you? It isn't such a horrible thing to be immortalized on canvas by such a fine painter.”

She frowned at his nonchalance. “Coupled with the fact that Owen is lying about the reasons why he wants this done, it's very important.”

Caressing her hair, he murmured in her ear, “You knew before how he feels about you.”

“But what am I going to do? I don't want to marry him.”

“Lord Foxbridge will never force you to marry him. He is no villain. That he wants you, I can understand all too well.” His hands slid along her arms in a sensual invitation. “You are so appealing.”

“Are you sure?”

He laughed. “Very sure, Sybill.” When he lowered his mouth toward hers, she pulled away.

“I mean about not forcing me to marry him.”

Trevor was suddenly serious. Sybill believed her own unproven feelings of tragedy. If he did not convince her otherwise, she would be emotionally destroyed by the upheaval within the house. Taking her fingers in his, he looked steadily into her azure eyes. “My sweet Sybill, I have known Owen Wythe for three years. He is stubborn, narrow-minded, and self-centered, but he would never force you to marry him. He may drive you insane with his proposals, but if you tell him ‘no,' he will accept it until the next time he asks you.”

Slowly she smiled. “You're right, Trevor. I'm being stupid. Owen invited me here when no one else would open their doors. That should be proof he is a kind man.”

“Exactly.”

She laughed at his pompous pronouncement. As his lips descended toward hers, she forgot Owen Wythe and everything in Foxbridge Cloister but this forbidden love. At the touch of his mouth, the familiar wave of yearning swept over her, drowning her in her own desire. Her fingers moved along the front of his doublet to settle over his heart, which beat as rapidly as her own.

A soft sigh of happiness drifted from her lips as they softened beneath his determined assault. When his tongue caressed hers, the flame within her burned savagely. She pressed closer, wanting to feel his mouth spread this sweet sensation throughout her. A pulse beat within her, urging her to touch him.

Raising his head enough to see her face softened with the emotions she found impossible to control, he smiled. To have her in his arms far from the rest of the world was the heaven he wanted. He hated to end it, but he was too aware of the passing time. “Sybill?”

“Hmm?” she murmured as she drew his mouth back to hers.

For a long, luscious moment, he paid attention only to her fingers slipping teasingly along his back. Then, with a sigh of regret, he released her. Her wounded expression as he stood sent a piercing pain through him. “We can't stay here.”

“We can't stay together anywhere,” she lamented. “Must you go now?”

“I'm late already for a meeting with Lord Foxbridge.” He scowled when she winced at the name of the man who stood between them and happiness. “Sybill, there's no need to be so sad. There will be other times.”

She held up her hands in supplication. Tears brimmed at the edges of her expressive eyes as she whispered, “Other times in other places, stolen moments too soon over. Is that all we will ever have, Trevor?”

“I don't know,” he answered with his characteristic honesty. His mustache drooped in sorrow. “I'm sorry it has to be like this.”

“Me, too.” She did not look up, for she did not want to see him leave her again. Even when she felt his lips against the top of her head, she remained motionless.

Only after his footsteps had faded into the far silence of the empty corridors did she stand. Her eyes searched the too quiet room. Minutes ago, it had been a sanctuary for two who could not resist the attraction which drew them together. Now … nothing.

Sybill's steps were heavy as she went back to the loneliness she suffered in her rooms. Although she had tasks to attend to, she did not have the heart to do any work. She knew she could not close herself in her rooms. There was one she could love unconditionally and who loved her without demanding more than she could give. She would spend the rest of the day with Goldenrod.

Trevor was prepared for an outburst when he saw Lord Foxbridge had arrived before him. After the upset the older man had suffered on the road to the Cloister, he was sure to be short-tempered. His expectations were fulfilled as soon as he entered the room.

Owen snarled, irritably, “Here you are! I wondered if you were going to make me wait all day.”

“Excuse me, m'lord.” He bowed his head briefly. “I have been busy.”

“Busy …” Adding nothing more, he turned to the desk. “Have you finished the papers to go to London?”

“I have, m'lord.” Relieved that Lord Foxbridge was going to ask him no questions he could not answer truthfully, he competently found the pages his employer wanted.

He noted without comment the disarray of the desk he had left neat. In the past weeks, Lord Foxbridge had shown no concern about letting his assistant know he snooped around the desk. That he had never found any reason to complain about Trevor's work seemed to irritate him. He wondered what the lord had on his mind. He was becoming increasingly absentminded.

His mouth tightened into a grimace as he realized he knew exactly what was on the lord's mind. The same thing that was on his. Sybill Hampton. Both men were fascinated by her, but she effectively was holding them away because she could not please both while following the inclination of her heart.

When Lord Foxbridge dropped the papers onto the desk, he walked to the window as if drawn by an invisible tether. Curiosity urged Trevor to follow. It was as he had guessed. On the lawn, an amber streak flashed by to leap a rosebush. The sharp sound of Goldenrod's bark was muted by the thick walls. As the dog wheeled with effortless grace, its owner came into sight. Like the child she resembled in so many ways, she chased her dog.

Trevor nearly laughed as she glanced around quickly. Thinking no one was watching, she lifted her skirts to show the lithe length of her stockinged leg as she raced after her pet. He knew she was with Goldenrod to flee the pain within her. No one would suspect she had a care in her pretty head.

“She is charming, isn't she, Trevor?”

He wrenched his eyes from the woman. How long Lord Foxbridge had been staring at him while he watched Sybill, he could not guess. It was useless to lie, for he was unsure if his face had betrayed him. “Aye, m'lord, she is. It's amusing to see her cavort with Goldenrod in such a childlike manner.”

Owen's eyebrows arched. “Childlike? Is that how you see her? As a child? I find that an odd estimation from an astute man like you.”

He did not dare to hesitate. “She's certainly not a child, but she views the world with untarnished innocence. If Gerard Sievers can capture that love of life on canvas, you will have a true treasure.”

“Yes, a true treasure.” His smile was triumphant as he turned from Trevor to peer through the window at the woman.

Sickness ate at Trevor. For the first time, he doubted his vow to Sybill. Lord Foxbridge wanted the young woman enough to force her into marriage. What the lord could not guess was that there was one man determined to stop him, even at the risk of losing everything else he had held dear.

Chapter Seven

“Mademoiselle Hampton, I am charmed.” The extremely thin man bowed over her fingers. A wealth of unruly curls tumbled about his shoulders in an ebony cascade. The hint of his French origins colored his words, and Sybill smiled.

“It is delightful to meet you, M. Sievers.” Although the painter had arrived after dark last night, this was her first opportunity to speak to him. His royal command had been to meet him in the drawing room at mid-morning. Rearranging her daily schedule, she had managed to comply. “We have been awaiting your arrival with great anticipation. I hope you are patient. Sitting still for such a length of time will not be easy.”

“I will take great pleasure in working with you.”

His heavy-lidded eyes glittered as he thought of the fine commission he would receive when he finished this project. Even if the mademoiselle was a termagant, he would weather her tantrums. He expected no trouble, for she had arrived exactly as he requested.

Sybill was surprised he was no taller than she. With his bright smile and quick motions, he reminded her of the pixies who hid just beyond the edge of human vision. She decided the long sessions might not be so horrible after all. “Tell me what I should do so we can begin,” she urged as she grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

Shaking himself physically, he nodded. “Of course, Mademoiselle. Do you wish to be painted in this dress?”

“This?” She laughed as she looked at her work gown. It was her favorite, for it did not have the restricting ruff fashion dictated should frame her face. “I'm afraid Lord Foxbridge would not be pleased to have you spend your time drawing me in this old frock. If you will excuse me, I will go upstairs and dress in the one he chose.”

“Certainly.” He bowed again as she left. Reflectively he looked around the ornately decorated room as he mused about the woman. It did not surprise him that she was lovely. That he had heard when he accepted this commission. What astonished him was her open smile. That did not match his expectation of a young woman eager to marry an old man.

His eyebrows arched in self-depreciation as he picked up a figurine and examined it. All would not be as he had anticipated in the wilds of England. Going to the window, he gazed out at the sea. No, it would be very different, as well as much safer than it was in London. Tales of the Spanish fleet filled the ears of any who walked the city streets.

As he noted the slant of the sunlight, all thoughts but of his work vanished. Gerard Sievers was obsessed with his craft. When the light was perfect, he wanted nothing in his head but the play of color. He collected his tools and waited impatiently for the young woman to return.

Within minutes, Sybill slowly descended the stairs. The blue velvet gown weighed heavily on her, and she detested the full ruff forcing her chin to an odd angle. She knew she would have to wear this every day for hours. With a grimace, she eased her foot off the last step. The wide collar did not allow her to look down to see where her feet were amid the starched petticoats and velvet overdress.

“Ah!” the painter cried as he saw her enter the room. “Like a vision! Blue! The color was created for you. If all my subjects were as beautiful, Mademoiselle, I could paint with a lighter heart.”

She laughed as she pulled at the bulky collar. “Do you mean to tell me that you falsify some of your paintings?”

“No,” he objected quickly, but grinned. “Shall we say that I keep my patrons happy?”

“By removing some of nature's gifts?”

“Or adding!” His eyes twinkled mischievously, and she laughed again.

“Tell me what to do, M. Sievers.”

Leading her to a bench, he seated her. She put her foot on a footstool and watched, intrigued, while he draped her skirt to allow the silver buckles on her shoes to be visible. Motioning her to cross her hands in her lap, he told her he would be painting an object in her hands, but there was no need for her to hold anything while she posed.

“What will it be?”

He paused his frenetic movements as he pondered her question as if it was of utmost importance. Regarding her steadily, he rubbed the beard on his narrow chin. He nodded in response to his own thoughts. “I think I will have you holding a lap virginal, Mademoiselle.”

“I do not play it.” She had seen the small instrument, which resembled its full-sized cousin, the harpsichord, but she had never learned how to play one.

With a smile, he said, “For you, Mademoiselle Hampton, it will be the only false thing in the painting.”

“To keep your patron happy?” she teased.

“Now you understand.”

He was almost satisfied with her pose when the door opened. Before either of them could move, a blur of gold raced across the floor.

“Goldenrod!” she cried, leaning forward. Instantly she realized she had ruined the careful positioning. She petted the dog's head indulgently. “What are you doing here?”

“I am sorry, Miss Sybill.” She looked past the dog, happily wagging its tail, to see Marshall. “He came through the kitchen. Someone left the door to the dining room open. We couldn't stop him when he decided he wanted to see you.”

The painter bent down to look at the oversized puppy. “And you are Goldenrod?” When the dog tilted its head to regard him seriously, M. Sievers smiled. “If you wish, Mademoiselle, your fine pet can be included in the painting. His color against your gown is a lovely contrast.”

“Oh, yes! That would be wonderful!”

Marshall closed the door. As he went back to his duties, the butler wondered what the lord would think of paying for a portrait including Miss Sybill's mongrel pet. He hid his smile behind his gloved hand. Goldenrod would not be the first nonpurebred painted in this house. It would be interesting to see Lord Foxbridge's reaction when it was finished.