Chapter 3 #2
It pleased Sybil to think that at least someone had found happiness in this dreadful house party, and none more deserving than her new friend.
If only they had confided their true names in each other instead of relying upon their favorite colors and hiding behind their half masks.
But they hadn’t, and like so many parts of her life, Sybil regretted it deeply.
Not as deeply as she regretted her hasty marriage to the Duke of Riverdale, of course.
Sybil was persuaded she couldn’t regret any action as much as that.
She’d made a grave error in wedding the clever, rakish duke with the incredibly broad shoulders and powerful frame.
He’d been persuasive. Polite. Charming. Most importantly, intelligent.
He’d been a man with whom she could hold a conversation and learn something she didn’t already know.
He’d been intriguing. He’d listened to her when she’d spoken.
He’d also been diabolically beautiful. He still was, quite naturally.
Her heart had tripped over itself when their gazes had first collided, and little had changed in that regard.
But he had ultimately proven inconstant as any rake. His reputation had preceded him. She shouldn’t have been surprised or disappointed. She shouldn’t have been so utterly devastated by his defection and abandonment.
And yet, fool that she was, she had been.
Because she had believed him when he had plied her with his silver-tongued flattery. When he had spoken with her, he had made her feel as if she were the only person in the room. His gaze had lit upon her that first day, and she had fairly melted into the earth beneath her boots.
The Duke of Riverdale had seemed the perfect husband.
An ideal gentleman who admired Sybil’s mind, who thought she was lovely, who spoke to her as if she were an equal instead of an inferior who must thoughtlessly agree with his clever opinion.
A man who was nothing like her father, who expected the women in his life to be dutiful and subservient, to nod and smile and curtsy and hold their tongues and turn away from the mistresses he kept in secret.
Unfortunately, the gentleman she’d believed she had come to know had proven nothing but a fiction. Riverdale was no better than her father or any other past suitor she’d known. Men who did as they pleased and yet demanded the utmost loyalty from their wives.
“It’s his coat, is it not?”
The sudden, slyly drawled question, issued in a new voice that was mellifluous and deep, tore Sybil from her thoughts.
She turned to find a wickedly handsome, unmasked man addressing her to her right. Sybil had noticed him upon entering the dining room. She recognized him as one of the hosts, apparently a friend of her husband’s, the Duke of Kingham.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Riverdale,” the duke elaborated smoothly, angling his head subtly in the direction of her husband. “You are staring at him because of that utterly atrocious coat he’s unfortunately chosen to pair with that waistcoat this evening. Are you not?”
Oh dear. Had she been staring at Riverdale? She hadn’t realized. She’d thought she had been glaring at her haricot verts, which she’d never particularly cared for, as she had lamented inwardly on the state of her life.
Sybil swallowed and forced a bright smile. “I’m afraid I didn’t take note, Your Grace.”
“Hmm.” Kingham cut a judicious bite of roast fowl. “Is it perhaps then his unfortunate need of a hair trim? I’ve been warning him that his hair is too long for the last decade, I vow. The poor fellow has no notion of what is current fashion.”
“It is not that either,” she demurred, rather bemused by the duke’s sudden interest in her.
Kingham was an exceptionally handsome man.
Always the most elegantly dressed in every room, his charm was effortless.
His intense regard made her long to squirm in her seat, rather as if she were being inspected by one of her most severe governesses.
No doubt he would find her toilette woefully lacking.
“Then pray tell, how does Riverdale have your rapt attention when I do not?” Kingham asked.
It was a most excellent question. Any lady in her shoes would have been eagerly falling upon every word the Duke of Kingham uttered. And yet here she was, miserably casting glances down the table toward the man she had married.
The man who had abandoned her.
And she’d be damned if she was keeping his secrets for him a moment longer.
“Because he is my husband,” she announced, knowing full well the ramifications such a statement would potentially have.
Feeling as if the entire dinner would come to a halt, the guests gasping in horror at her revelation.
Instead, she was disappointed by the lack of interest. The men and women surrounding her continued eating and chattering, their commitment to self-interest defeating all else.
Even Wharton and Saunders had failed to hear her announcement, distracted instead by other ladies at the table next to them.
Kingham, however, had heard her words.
And he stared at her now, saying nothing, the fowl speared on the tines of his fork hovering midway between his plate and his lips before he lowered it to the table, looking shocked. “Your husband, madam?”
“Yes.” She seized her wineglass, gripping the stem so tightly she feared it might snap. “You heard me correctly, Your Grace.”
He raised a dark brow. “You aren’t bamming me?”
“I can assure you, I wouldn’t joke about a matter so dire. I find nothing amusing about it.”
“You must forgive me my surprise. It is only that Riverdale is like a brother to me. I would like to believe he would inform me of something as important as his marriage…”
“And I would like to believe that he would have informed his friends and other associates as well,” Sybil countered pointedly, unable to keep the edge of resentment from her voice.
“As I have noted, however, His Grace has declined to so much as mention his change of circumstance. It seems I am a secret he is determined to keep.”
The usually quick-witted Kingham looked as if he were at a loss for words. He lifted his wineglass to his lips and took several hasty draughts. Then he stared at her some more.
Sybil regarded him solemnly in return, wondering what he was looking for in her countenance.
A hint of deception? If so, he would find none.
She hadn’t such subterfuge in her, even if it would have proven a boon.
She had realized just how little stomach she had for deception when she had attended this house party.
“You aren’t lying,” Kingham pronounced.
Sybil sighed. “Dishonesty doesn’t serve anyone.”
“Liars seem to think it serves them quite well,” the duke pointed out.
She nodded. “I suppose it does. But I’m not a liar.”
“No.” His shrewd gaze passed over her as if he were studying her like a pinned insect specimen on a board. “I don’t believe you are.”
She huffed out a small laugh. “I’m so relieved to hear it, Your Grace. My good opinion of myself was hinging upon your verdict concerning my character.”
Kingham’s lips twitched. “A lady with an appreciation for sarcasm. I do believe I like you.”
“Well, I don’t know yet if I like you,” she told him honestly. “And considering the friends you keep, I should think you an unlikely judge of character.”
He laughed, perhaps at her candor. “How the devil did you meet Riverdale?”
“His country seat borders my father’s. Eastlake Hall. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
“Your father is the Marquess of Eastlake?”
“Yes,” she answered grimly. “He is.”
“My apologies, madam.” Kingham raised his glass of wine to her in mock salute. “Little wonder you were eager to marry a scapegrace like Riverdale.”
The duke was alarmingly accurate in his assessment. Sybil supposed her father’s reputation was infamous, even though no one could know the full truth. But it didn’t escape her notice that Kingham was quick to rake Riverdale over the coals.
She raised a brow. “He is your friend, and yet you call him a scapegrace?”
Kingham grinned. “As a wise lady so recently said, dishonesty doesn’t serve anyone.”
Sybil smiled back at him, charmed despite herself at his rejoinders. “Quite.”
Kingham leaned toward her in conspiratorial fashion, his pleasant scent winding around her as he did so. “Make certain to laugh uproariously at everything I say, as if I’ve told you the world’s most clever sally.”
“Why should I do that?” she asked, reaching for her wine.
“You wish to make him jealous, do you not? He’s been scowling in your direction every few seconds, and I daresay he is presently planning my untimely demise.”
Ah, so Riverdale had noted her presence at dinner today at last, after days of revelries? The rotten man. It would serve him right if he were stewing in jealousy just now.
“I like the way you think, Your Grace,” she told Kingham quietly.
And then she laughed just as he had suggested, not missing the way Riverdale’s pale gaze swung to her, narrowed and sparkling with vexation.
A lovely woman was seated by him, with her generous breasts nearly toppling from her silk evening gown.
Sybil stifled the resentment rising within her at the cozy picture the two presented.
She wouldn’t consider whether the woman was her husband’s lover.
What would be the point of that? Instead, she would focus upon the entertaining duke seated to her right.
“I do believe you’ve just saved dinner,” she told Kingham.
He raised his glass to her once more, and they spent the remainder of the meal in conversation. But she’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel the weight of her husband’s gaze—heavy as a stone—upon her for the duration of the meal.
The night ahead was going to be interesting indeed.