Chapter 8 #2
The door to the carriage opened, and Sybil descended, accepting the aid of a footman as she alighted. Riverdale’s town house loomed before her, commanding and larger than she had thought it would be. How strange to think this impressive edifice would be home to her when she was in London.
The air possessed a dampness accompanied by a slight chill.
She pulled her wrap more firmly around herself as she swept along the pavements toward where the carriage containing her mother had stopped, not bothering to wait for her husband’s accompaniment.
It mattered not, for he was there at her side in an instant, impassively taking her gloved hand and placing it in the waiting crook of his elbow.
Beginning an argument just before she was introduced to the domestics and his mother and sister seemed a terrible idea, particularly given that her mother was accompanying them, so Sybil didn’t retract her hand from his arm as she longed to do.
Instead, she glided along at his side, trying to ignore how natural it felt to be here with him.
To be his wife.
She dashed that errant thought at once, for it was decidedly unwise.
Efficient servants bustled forward, aiding Mother in descending from the carriage and settling into her invalid chair.
“Your journey was a restorative one, I trust?” Everett asked solicitously.
“I do believe I slept through most of it,” Mother answered, her smile looking a bit wan.
It had been a great deal of journeying for her in one day. Worry knotted Sybil’s stomach.
Their small procession made its way along the pavements. The door to the town house was opened by a servant, and Riverdale guided them inside. Sybil had a brief impression of a marble entry, some busts, and a handful of paintings framed in gilt that shone in the lamplight.
If any of the attending domestics were startled to see the duke accompanied by Sybil and her mother, they were far too well trained to utter a word or raise a brow. Everyone bustled about as if they had been expected and nothing was out of the ordinary.
“Hockley, where is Her Grace this evening?” Riverdale asked a stern-faced older man who was presumably the butler.
“The duchess is in the drawing room at present, along with Lady Verity. Shall I announce your arrival, Your Grace?”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you.” They handed off their outerwear, and with a nod to the butler, Riverdale led them to a staircase.
It didn’t escape Sybil’s notice that he had not bothered to make an introduction. She would have to learn her way here at the town house, it seemed, just as she had done at Riverdale Abbey.
“Will you be able to navigate the stairs, my lady?” he asked her mother solicitously.
“I dare say so, Your Grace,” Mother answered. “I shall be slow, however.”
“I will aid you,” he offered.
“You needn’t,” her mother protested. “I shall hold the banister.”
“You shall hold the banister and me, and I won’t hear a word of objection,” Riverdale countered, his tone firm but smooth. “I insist.”
Some of the ice in Sybil’s heart where he was concerned melted.
She fetched her mother’s golden-handled cane and offered it to her, and with the duke’s help, Mother was on her feet, beginning the slow journey up the grand staircase.
He directed a pair of footmen to carry the invalid chair up the stairs ahead of them.
Sybil followed in their wake, feeling rather unneeded as her husband began a pleasant chatter with her mother.
“I do believe that you and my mother will get along famously,” he was saying.
The past three months fell away, and the charming duke who had rescued her returned. The man who had stolen her heart. Who had given her hope for a home away from her father’s wrath and children of her own. For a future.
They reached the floor where the drawing room was located, and her mother was comfortably seated once more in her invalid chair. Everett dismissed the footmen and pushed her mother to the drawing room, Sybil following awkwardly in their wake.
He stopped at the closed door, knocking before entering.
“Riverdale! You weren’t expected today.”
The chorus of excited feminine voices within had Sybil straightening her spine. This was to be her first meeting with her husband’s family. At long last. And it was a far cry from how she had once envisioned such an introduction might happen.
An older woman who resembled her husband came into view in an excited swirl of dark-blue skirts, followed by a lovely dark-haired woman dressed entirely in black, a golden locket at her throat, who could only be Riverdale’s sister.
Their expressions of surprise when they spied Sybil and her mother were identical.
“As you can see, I am indeed a day early,” Riverdale drawled, casting a glance in Sybil’s direction before hastily averting his gaze, as if looking at her pained him.
“And I’ve brought some very important guests with me.
Maman and Verity, may I introduce you to Sybil, the new Duchess of Riverdale?
Sybil, my mother, the dowager Duchess of Riverdale and my sister, Lady Verity.
Accompanying us is the Marchioness of Eastlake, my wife’s mother. ”
“Duchess?” His mother had gone pale, the surprise and curiosity on her countenance replaced by shock and disbelief. “Wife? You’re married?”
“Married,” Lady Verity repeated, her mouth agape.
“Yes,” the duke said tightly. “Married.”
“You,” Lady Verity emphasized, as if she required further confirmation.
Sybil felt heat creeping slowly up her throat, drenching her cheeks.
“Quite,” her husband said, still not bothering to look in her direction again.
“But, Riverdale,” his mother protested, her bejeweled hands flitting about as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them. “How? Since when?”
“Since over three months ago,” he admitted.
“Three months? Riverdale, how could you?” His mother staggered backward, looking pale. “Someone fetch me my smelling salts at once. I feel faint.”
“Do be so kind as to fetch my mother her hartshorn, won’t you, Linsdale?” Riverdale’s sister asked a gray-haired companion who was hovering at the periphery of their uncomfortable gathering.
“Yes, of course,” the woman said, hastening into motion as she dipped into a curtsy and fled from the room, presumably in search of the smelling salts.
“You sly fox,” Lady Verity scolded the duke. “Keeping such secrets from us.”
She moved toward Sybil, offering a welcoming smile, arms outstretched. “I have always dearly longed for a sister. What a happy occasion to finally have one, even if I am only learning about you three months too late.”
The latter was a pointed aside for Riverdale’s benefit, Sybil realized, as his sister enveloped her in a perfumed embrace.
“Better late than never,” Riverdale said, his expression dour as his pale gaze at last flitted back to Sybil.
She wasn’t certain she agreed with that sentiment. But for now, she was willing to hold her tongue and hope for the best. Because that tiny speck of optimism was all she had left to cling to.