Sybille's Lord (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

“How
will we manage?” Several hours later bathed, fed and replete, Sybille leaned
against a beautiful mahogany inlaid elbow cabinet in a cozy lounge as Thom
prowled the room. He looked every inch the predator, and reminded her of one of
the big cats her maman had taken her to see at the Royal Exchange. “How do we
flush him out?”

“We
announce our betrothal.”

“We
can’t. If he produces the fake string we’re sunk. Everyone will know we didn’t have
the real ones, and were in effect, duping them. Oh I know.” She held her hand
up. “Many do it, but it is known they have the real ones safe. We never have. If
Bankfoot produces the fakes and denounces us, the only way to save the
situation would be to call his bluff. We cannot.” Why couldn’t he understand? “I
will not let you sacrifice your family’s honor for mine.”

“There
will be no need for that. I have a plan. A long shot, I admit, but if we all
play our part, it might work. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

 
“Why not tonight?”

His
grin was wicked, as he ignored the plea in her eyes. “I have other plans for
tonight.”

“Ah.”
She did her best to look haughtily disinterested, and when he merely did that
annoying trait he had of raising one eyebrow, knew fine well she had failed.

“Of
course, they do not necessarily
have
to
include you.”

She
waited. He walked to the mantle, picked up a Spode china plate and examined it
as if he’d never seen it before. “Although I hope they will.” He didn’t look at
her but kept his gaze on the plate in his hands. It was only because she looked
closely she saw the faint tremor that racked him.

It
was the first time he’d displayed even a hint of vulnerability.

Sybille
suddenly realized how unfair she’d been to him. Taking, never giving. Hinting,
never confirming.

That
behavior—her behavior—was nasty, and she was ashamed of herself. She pushed
herself off the elbow cupboard, and smoothed down her dress. Mijo had chosen well
and the dark rose silk was a perfect foil for her honey blonde hair. Sybille
had of necessity dressed her tresses very simply, in a loose knot, which, as
Thom had told her was perfect, and, “so much easier for me to unpin.”

He
watched her warily, as she walked across the room and took the plate from him.
She placed it back on the shelf and took his hand in hers.

“I
hope they will as well.” She rested their joined hands on her cheek, his palm
warm on her skin. “I’m sorry. I’ve been somewhat of a bitch. I’d like to say
put it down to worry with regards to Bankfoot, but that is only part of it.”
She stopped to consider how to explain her state of mind. “I was on the
defensive. Wrong footed. I felt hemmed in.”

“Is
marriage to me such an abhorrent thought?” He stroked her cheek with their joined
hands.

Sybille
took a deep breath. “It could be if it was a marriage of convenience. I could
not stand to be wedded, bedded, increasing and discarded. I’ve seen how my
parents love and live their lives together. We children were part of that. I
swore I would never settle for less. Until you showed me the error of my
thoughts, I hardly dared dream you would feel as I do.”

His
hand tightened on hers.

“I
didn’t think I would want it.” Honesty rang in his voice. “Then I realized that
it was everything I want. When I offered for you, what I said was what I thought
was true. I needed a wife. You would fit. Then as time went by, and you didn’t
give me an answer, I accepted I wanted you, in every way. Just you, no one
else. Then of course I had to prove that.” He was silent. “Have I? Have I shown
you I love you and want you?”

Sybille
sobbed. It sounded so easy. However… “Oh yes, but…”

“No
buts, my love. Yes will do. And I’m not going to let you renege.” Thom lifted
her into his arms, and spun her round until she was giddy. “Consider yourself
properly betrothed. Shall we celebrate?” He put her down, but didn’t let go of
her.

Luckily.
The room spun as she tried to stand, and she clutched the arms that held her. “Er,
one moment.” She shut her eyes and then opened them cautiously. Nothing moved.
Satisfied she wouldn’t disgrace herself and be sick, she nodded. “How?”

“Oh
I’m sure we can think of something.” He snagged a bottle of wine and two
goblets, and with his arm over her shoulder, steered her toward the door. “Shall
we see what we can come up with?”

Several
hours later, Sybille opened her eyes and realized she lay snuggled and sated
next to Thom in a sumptuous four-poster. They had, she decided, indeed seen
what they could come up with. Several times. In a myriad of ways. Who knew a
cravat could have so many uses? Her body flooded with heat as she remembered
how he’d covered her eyes and told her to use her senses and just feel.

Even
better were the scenes that flashed though her mind when he’d handed the now
mangled cravat to her, and with a wicked grin, said simply, “your turn now.”

She
used it to tie his hands, an act that both surprised and excited her, and, she
judged, him as well. Eventually, after he’d entered her in more ways than she’d
thought possible, culminating with her on her knees and him behind her—no pamphlet
she’d seen had talked about that—they had collapsed in a heap on the bed.
Sweaty, happy, exhausted, and in her case, knowing it was perfect.

It
seemed Thom agreed.

As
he slid out of her, he rolled to one side, scooped her up and settled her in
the crook of his arm. “That was everything…” He yawned. “All…I love…” He
sighed, yawned again and snored.

Sybille
stifled the ready giggle that begged to be released. Mind you, he had worked
hard, been incredibly inventive and…she yawned as well. Ten minutes wouldn’t
matter.

Those
ten minutes had turned into many hours. She turned her head, and noticed the
first rays of dawn were showing though the windows. They hadn’t even got around
to closing the shutters before they’d tumbled onto the bed.

Sybille
moved her head cautiously and looked at the slumbering man who held her tight
in his arms. He looked so innocent, which was a description she decided could
never be used when he was awake. However, at that moment, she itched to see how
long the expression or attitude would last. She reached behind her and used her
forefinger to poke the easiest bit of flesh she could reach. His stomach.

Thom
jumped, grunted, snorted and snored. Sybille wasn’t sure whether to laugh or
shout in his ear. At least he hadn’t passed wind.

She
had no idea what time it was, around five or six she decided, and although not
the time she would normally rise, even in the country, she wanted to talk. She
wriggled around, and did her best to ignore the part of his anatomy that was
once more making its presence known to her, by pressing on her rear.

No,
she amended her thoughts, needed to talk. To find out what happened next. She
poked him again.

“Stop
wriggling woman, unless you want to wake every inch of me.” His voice was husky
from sleep, and the grumbling note in it was patently false. “It’s barely
daylight. Time for a snooze and then wake up and play. I need rest, you wore me
out.” He didn’t sound at all concerned, more the opposite.

“We
need to talk,” Sybille said. She tried to twist around to look him in the eyes,
but Thom merely sighed, yawned and tightened his grip.

“Later,
much later.”

“No,
now. I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh
lord,” Thom, and pressed a feather-light kiss on her neck. His breath was warm
in the early morning air, and Sybille shivered.

“Cold?
I can help.” Thom purred the words. “I seem to have been woken up and now I’ve
got an appetite.”

She
wriggled a little more. “Well, something’s woken up.”

Thom
had her on her back and had moved over her so fast she hardly had time to
blink.

“So
shall we feed it?”

Sybille
opened her legs and welcomed him inside her. The warmth of his staff in her,
his body around her and showing her what she meant to him, was oh so welcome.
She met him thrust for thrust, reveling in the way his breath became increasingly
choppy and his skin dotted in perspiration.

Thom
stiffened, the corded veins on his arms standing out as he did his best to
stave off his climax. As her own climax crested and threatened to break,
Sybille tightened her inner muscles and dug her heels into his back.

“Syb…
sweet lord, I can’t hold back.”

“Good…ah…”
She let her own climax peak and crash, as with one last thrust, he shouted his
own completion.

It
was several minutes before Sybille was able to think coherently once more. She realized
that Thom was still slumped over her and although she reveled in how she could be
responsible for the state he was in, she became ever more conscious of the
state
she
was in. Pins and needles in
one leg and a desperate need to use the chamber pot. Which luckily was in the
bathing chamber.

 
If only she could work out how to get to it.

Chapter Twenty

“Stop
sighing in my ear,” Thom muttered. “I’ll move as soon as I have strength.” He
nuzzled her neck. “You do smell so good, like a garden of spring flowers. I
want to sit and enjoy you, be part of you.”

Sybille
melted, as much at the soft slumberous tone of his voice, as the words he
spoke. It was beautiful and she kissed his ear… the only part she could easily
reach.

“Nice…
Do it again.”

She
sighed even as she smiled. “Later. I need you to move.”

“Later.”

“Now.
Seriously Thom, I have to get up.”

“You
don’t. I can’t move. I need to regroup.”

“You’d
best do it then.”

“Why?”

Lord how embarrassing
,
however it has to be said.
She cleared her throat.

“I
need to go.”

“Go?”

 
“Yes, you know, my lord…go.”

“Ah…”
He rolled onto his back and held his hands high over his head. His smile was
sinful, and his staff once more hard. “There you are, you’re free to go. As
long as you come back.”

She
dragged her gaze away from him and scrambled to her feet. “Thank you.”

It
was oh so hard to make a dignified exit when you were naked as the day you were
born and really, you wanted to dash.

His
low whistle made her quiver, and it took a great deal of determination not to
turn around and either giggle or glare. Instead she escaped the room as fast as
she could and still keep her decorum intact.

By
the time she used the facility, washed in the cool water in a pretty porcelain
ewer and donned the dark rose colored lacy robe someone, Thom she suspected, had
left over the back of the wickerwork chair next to the washstand, she was
reasonably sure she was in command of her faculties. However that didn’t mean
it would be any less embarrassing to return to the bedchamber. Not after it was
open knowledge to Thom, just what she’d been doing.

Even
though it was something everyone did, after all, all creatures had to relieve
themselves, to know someone
knew
was more
than discomforting. Sybille pulled her shoulders back, took a deep breath and
walked back into the bedroom. The robe was not precisely what a well brought up
young lady—young single lady, virgo intacta or not—would wear. She swore one
rosy nipple was visible through a lacy frame of gossamer thin threads.

She
needn’t have worried. The room was empty.

The
coverlets had been flung back to become a multi-hued heap of crimson and gold
at the bottom of the bed. The sheets were rumpled and the pillows indented. It
looked exactly what it was. A love nest.

Sybille
ran her fingers over the silken covers and lifted the sheet to stroke her cheek
with the soft material.

The
gazebo might have been her introduction to sex, but here in this bed she and
Thom had truly made love.

However
how maudlin and sentimental she got, it meant nothing if they couldn’t sort out
the problem of Bankfoot and her maman’s pearls.

Sybille
looked around. Where was her chemise and gown? She saw neither but a large and
unrecognizable valise sat on a padded bench at the bottom of the bed. On top
was a note written in a large distinctive hand. She might have only seen Thom’s
handwriting a few times, but it was definitely his.

The
message was short and to the point.

I particularly like the rose
sprigged green. I’ll be in the study.
It was signed with a large slashing ‘T’.

It
took a matter of seconds to lift the lid; the fastenings had already been unlocked,
and the straps left neatly on the bench. Sybille stared at the contents and let
the lid drop back on its leather hinges with a thump.

Wherever
the contents had come from it certainly wasn’t her wardrobe. A ruby red silk
gown, pale green cotton day dress, sprigged with tiny rosebuds in soft pastel
shades, smart fine wool riding outfit in midnight blue, and the finest, thinnest
chemises, were followed by stockings and ribbon garters. Plus a pretty pair of
sandals, and one of kid half-boots and a reticule and bonnet that would be
perfect with any of the contents.

Why?
She searched to see if there was
another note, but nothing turned up. Sybille bit her lips and turned back to
the dress Thom said he favored.

It
was unconscionably elegant. Luckily, her maman didn’t prescribe to the general
diktats of the ton regarding what colors were suitable for an unwed lady. Mijo
said firmly, her girls would wear what suited them, not what was deemed
suitable.

Thank you, Maman.

Before
she thought too long or hard, Sybille pulled on one of the thin to almost
transparent chemises and laced it. Then she let the day dress side over her
head and settle on her torso. It fitted perfectly, and Sybille wondered just
who had given her measurements away.

The
only problem was the laces. They crisscrossed her spine and try as she might
she couldn’t reach far enough to get the correct tension and then tie them so
the gown sat neatly. It was no wonder she thought, as she admitted defeat, and
left the ribbons loosely in a bow, that she preferred gowns with no fastenings,
or ones with ribbons and ties at the front. Of course when Thom undid all those
tiny buttons it had been arousing and …

Stop that now.
She needed to get her mind away
from
carnal
thoughts, however good
they were, and back to the matter in hand.

What
next?

Head
to the study. Sybille snagged a Flanders lace shawl and set it around her upper
arms and shoulders, thus covering the gaping neckline across her back. She
checked the rest of her was of a standard that would pass muster if any local
dignitary happened to call in, and made her way downstairs.

The
window in the hallway wall at the top of the stairs was open and warm air,
scented with flowers, flowed in. Outside someone was whistling, and the tuneful
rendition of a popular piece of music floated up to her. Sybille found herself
humming the refrain as she entered the study.

Thom
looked up from his desk where he was writing on a sheet of paper. He placed the
quill back on the stand, and smiled at her.

“You
look like the epitome of an early summer’s morn. Fresh, dewy, and a feast for
the eyes. That dress is a perfect frame for such a picture.”

Sybille
rolled her eyes. “Very poetic my lord, but doing it a bit brown. I know my
worth. I’m no hatchet-face, but nor am I a nonpareille. And this dress will
only be suitable if you lace me into it.”

“Do
not sell yourself short, my dear.” He stood up walked around the desk and with
a gleam in his eye she mistrusted, bowed over her hand. “Turn around.” His
fingers brushed her neck and her gown was laced in seconds. “That will do
nicely.” He swept her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly.

Sybille
didn’t even think of stopping him. She returned the kiss, sinking into it until
she thought of nothing, sensed nothing, except him. When Thom finally gentled
the kiss and eased back his breath, Sybille was glad to notice, was as ragged as
hers.

“You.”
He rested his chin on the top of her head. “Go to my head. I love it. But we
must for a few hours think and behave conventionally. For although my godmother
is considered to be liberal minded, she is still of a different generation. We
will throw ourselves on her mercy somewhat and say we were detained by a
problem here, but propriety was preserved by Mrs. Tate sleeping in your room.”

“We
are?”

 
He nodded. “While I pick her brains, and you
act the demure young lady who is to be my betrothed, all will come well.”

“Thom,
I haven’t agreed.”

He
smiled and propelled her out of the library and into the breakfast room.

“You
have, even if you won’t say so in so many words. You would never have agreed to
stay here last night otherwise.”

How
well he knew her. Sybille sighed. “Yes, but not…”

“No
buts. Yes will do, now let’s eat and make haste to Godmother’s. Then, all being
well, we can begin to put my plan in motion.” He held out a chair for her and
once she was seated, served her a plate of ham and eggs. “Eat up. The ham is
from a pig we slaughtered, and the eggs are of course from the chickens you
tried to run down.”

“I
did not try to run them down,” Sybille said indignantly. “They threw themselves
at the carriage wheels.

“Which
is where the expression hen-witted comes from,” Thom said as he piled his own
plate high and sat down to one side of her. “Like Henrietta Hemplewhite. Now
eat up.”

Sybille
giggled. She knew exactly what Thom meant. She applied herself to her meal without
any more comments. She was hungry and the food looked incredibly appetizing.

It
was an hour later when Thom tooled the phaeton down the drive, and Sybille
sighed with satisfaction. “I swear I won’t need to eat for a week after that
meal. The ham was the best I’ve ever eaten.”

“Silas
was the best.”

“Silas?”

Thom
chuckled as he steered over a narrow humpbacked bridge and missed by inches the
two urchins who hung over the parapet fishing, with their legs well into the
roadway.

“The
pig. Mrs. Tate named him Silas the silent, because he kept appearing around
her, very suddenly, and without making a noise. Tate thought it hilarious, and
said the hog had its eye on her. 'Eyeing you up,’ he’d say.” Thom did a
very creditable local accent. “‘He’s thinking like, shalli’s take a chunk of 'er
arse or 'er arm? Which’ll be tastiest arh?’” Thom chuckled. “She didn’t
know whether to be offended or proud of her attraction. However it didn’t stop
her saying when Silas was ready for the pot. Partly I think he’d put his snout
on her arse and tipped her into the mud once too often.”

Sybille
giggled. The picture Thom painted was so ridiculous. “You’re making it up,” she
said in between sniggers.

“True
story.” Thom contrived to look injured at her disbelief. He spoiled it by
winking. “Most if it anyway. Tate’s actual words were a lot more robust.”

That
Sybille could believe. She’d caught sight of Tate, the whistler, just before they
left. Well over six foot in height and nigh on as wide as he was tall, she
couldn’t imagine him describing things except in earthy terms. His wife, Thom
explained was a shorter, slightly thinner version of Tate.

“Poor
Mrs. Tate,” Sybille said when she could talk without biting her lips and chuckling.
“Did you give her first choice of a cut of Silas?”

“Of
course, she took the balls.”

Sybille
spluttered. “Good for her.”

“Indeed,
Tate looked somewhat anxious while she told me in great detail how tasty roast
bollocks were.” At the top of a long hill, he slowed the curricle to a halt. “And
stared from my cock and balls to Tate’s and back again. How neither of us
covered our pegos with our hands I have no idea.”