Page 42 of Never Love a Lord
When he didn’t move, she looked up into his face reluctantly. He was not smiling, only staring intently at her.
She swallowed. “Don’t pursue me, Julian. I am poison.”
He shook his head only slightly, moving his face nearer hers. “I don’t think so,” he repeated in a whisper, and then he kissed her softly, his lips lingering against hers.
“Bah!” Lucy shouted, seemingly delighted, and slapped her father’s cheek soundly.
Sybilla could not help her chirp of laughter. “Well said, Lady Lucy. Appalling behavior, I agree.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, milady, milord,” a voice said, startling Sybilla’s attention to the door where Murrin stood, her face ashen, dramatic, black circles beneath her eyes. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but Lord Griffin bade me tell him right away if I was feeling poorly.”
Julian stood up instantly. “What is it, Murrin?”
Sybilla saw the girl force a swallow from across the room. Her eyes were wide, wild. “I think I’ve fallen in with the sickness, milord,” she said weakly. “I’ve already packed my things for London.”
Chapter 15
It did not take long for Julian to see Murrin off. Sybilla had, at first, insisted that the nurse stay on in Fallstowe’s makeshift sanatorium with the rest of the sick victims, but in the end she relented to Julian’s cautious wishes.
That in itself gave him hope.
Even Murrin had obviously surrendered to the notion that she would be better off away from Lucy while she recovered from whatever was going around, citing that if she stayed on at the castle, Lucy would pine for her—and for the milk she provided. And so Sybilla had efficiently and without argument arranged for transport and guards for the nursemaid’s journey to London, and then spent the remainder of the day securing a source of fresh, rich sheep’s milk for Lucy.
“It is the best thing for her,” Sybilla had informed Julian crisply. “My mother did not nurse me, and yet I thrived as a child.”
Julian had wanted to ask if Amicia’s lack of maternal attention was due to a physical impediment or otherwise, but in the end decided against it. It didn’t matter at this point. And yet he did wonder how her other two daughters could have such devotion to the same mother they shared with Sybilla.
Sybilla had furthermore procured one of her own lady’s maids—a woman who had raised four children who were now of age to work outside of the cottage—to tend Lucy, and installed her in the little chamber at the bottom of the stairs.
It bothered him more and more, the rumors of Sybilla Foxe’s nature: vicious, heartless, brazen, cold. Yes, she did give that impression superficially. And perhaps her thought processes were more logical and analytical than most females, but if anyone dared to know the woman more than superficially, they could not help but see her compassion, her attention to detail, her devotion, her deep sense of responsibility to all in her care.
Sybilla Foxe was not content to ride her wave of privilege and notoriety. She did not give a bloody damn what other people thought of her. She did things as she saw fit, to the benefit of those who depended on her—nothing less would do. She did not want to be taken care of, and Julian thought the reason for that was because she had never been taken care of.
Groomed, perhaps. Girded. Tempered for battle. But never cared for, looked after, treasured, loved. Maybe Morys Foxe had loved the girl—his firstborn who was, perhaps unbeknownst to him, not of his issue. But he was long dead. Had been gone for so long that whatever gentleness or respite he had offered Sybilla was buried and forgotten, like the accounts he’d examined in the little tower room years and years ago. An old, worthless memory.
That was not entirely true, though, he argued with himself. Sybilla’s sisters loved her. Old Graves worshipped her. All of Fallstowe adored and respected and were bent on protecting her—the people and the edifice itself, it seemed. Of all the staff he had spoken to, from the kitchen to the stables to the old priest, not a cross word had been uttered. Nothing that could be considered anything less than praise.
So, more than whatever warped sense of honor she felt she owed the despicable woman who birthed her, Julian suspected that Sybilla fought as hard as she had, evaded him more craftily than any thief, in order to hold on to the one thing that brought her true, unconditional love: Fallstowe. It was her child, her lover, her beginning and end, the legacy she would leave behind like gold dust on the pages of the tomes of history yet to be written.
He shook himself from such romantic musings when Lucy took the skin she had been drinking from and threw it to the floor with a clatter. He chuckled down at her and set her up on his shoulder.
“Sorry about that, darling,” he said, standing up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the mattress, and bouncing on his feet as he patted her back. “Preoccupied.”
She cooed her forgiveness, her fist finding her mouth, and she laid her head down on his shoulder. Julian hummed a meandering tune while he paced his chamber.
Perhaps he had mentioned the idea of marriage between them too soon—he hadn’t planned on bringing it up, and had in fact been quite surprised when the words had come from his mouth. But they were running out of time. After Julian had conducted his last interview with old Graves, he would be bound to return to London with his evidence.
A knock sounded on his door, and Julian hoped beyond hope that Sybilla Foxe would be waiting on the small stone landing. He crossed the chamber, and could not contain his smile at the sight of her in a thick, embroidered robe, a tray between her hands.
She’d come back.
“Oh,” she said coolly, her eyebrows lifting only slightly as her gaze lighted on Lucy’s limp form over his shoulder. “I apologize. I would have thought her to be in her own bed by now.”
Julian opened the door wider and gestured to the small cradle he’d moved from the nurse’s chamber downstairs.
“She is yet uneasy with the woman you’ve provided,” he explained, motioning with his head for her to come in. “I thought perhaps she would sleep more soundly in my room this night. I’m sure she’ll warm up to her on the morrow.”
“I’ve brought you a drink.” Sybilla set the tray down on the trunk near the bed, and Julian could not help but notice the two chalices next to the decanter. She straightened and turned, her posture stiff, her expression enigmatic. “I’ll leave you now so as not to disturb the child. Good night, Lord Griffin.”
