Chapter 15 #2
But as he sought Sybil out that afternoon for no reason other than that he had missed her—Christ’s sake— he was willing to acknowledge that he had a problem.
She was alone in the sitting room that she preferred for the number of windows it possessed along with its blue damask walls.
She was seated on a gilt-framed settee, a pile of something in her lap atop icy blue silk skirts that complemented the walls.
Blue was her favorite color.
Yet another fact he knew about his wife.
Like the sounds she made when she came, the way her body felt beneath his, the sweetness of her scent, and the fact that children adored her.
She disliked ham. She adored blueberries.
She couldn’t resist a good cream ice. And she was perpetually surrounded by books that she didn’t read.
So many facets of her, small pieces that he had gathered like a bloody bird to twine through a nest. He couldn’t help but wonder, as he leaned against the doorjamb at the threshold to the sitting room and watched her sew with rapt concentration, if he knew any of these things about her.
The footman. The man she loved. The man she missed.
Everett preferred to believe that he alone knew all Sybil’s secrets.
That he alone had tasted her lips. That he alone was the man in her heart.
Stupid illusion, that. He had no notion of whether he was in her heart at all.
She certainly hadn’t made any confessions.
Even in the throes of passion, not a tender word for him passed her lips.
“Oh!”
Her sudden exclamation dragged him from his ruminations. He blinked and realized she was sucking on her forefinger. She must have pricked herself with the needle. Everett strode forward at once.
“How badly did you stick yourself?”
Her face turned up, surprise on her countenance. “Your Grace. I hadn’t realized that I had an audience.”
She was always ever so proper during the daylight hours, when anyone could happen upon them.
This Sybil, with her ramrod spine and her afternoon gown practically buttoned to her nose, her glorious chestnut mane captured in an almost severe chignon, bore scarcely any resemblance to the wanton who had ridden him until they had both come.
He didn’t bother to bow, not wanting formality between them just now, even if he inwardly chastised himself for allowing his mind to yet again wander to the indecent. Instead, he strode across the chamber and seated himself at her side, holding out a hand expectantly.
“Let me see the injury you’ve done yourself.”
Her eyebrows rose. “It is naught but a sting, and an embarrassing one at that. I had believed my skill with the needle eclipsed my ability to wound myself with one. Apparently, I was mistaken.”
He was not dissuaded, keeping his hand extended, palm up. “Show me.”
Wordlessly, she offered him her hand, apparently thinking better of arguing. Which was most unlike Sybil. Ordinarily, she was all fiery bluster, defying him at every turn when they weren’t alone in her bedroom.
Her hand was smooth and soft, and he hated himself for the way his body reacted to the simple touch. It couldn’t be helped, however. He was simply incredibly aware of her in a way he had never experienced with another woman.
Love?
Bloody hell.
He didn’t know. Apparently, that tender emotion had a most adverse effect upon a man.
A bead of dark-red blood rose on her fingertip where she had inadvertently pricked herself with the needle. Everett withdrew his handkerchief and took her hand in his, gently cleaning her finger.
“Better?”
Her lips had parted. He wanted to settle his mouth on them and kiss her more than he wanted to take another breath. But he resisted.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. I’m not usually so graceless.”
He glanced down at her lap as he released her hand, noting for the first time what appeared to be a child’s dress, plain and simply wrought. “What is this?”
“I’ve taken in some of the mending for the Children’s Foundling Hospital.”
He was surprised to hear of it.
Everett tucked the handkerchief back into his waistcoat pocket. “That is generous of you.”
“Or selfish. I need something with which to fill my hours.”
He frowned at that. “You are bored? I thought our mothers and my sister kept you quite occupied.”
“Lady Verity has been kind enough to allow me to accompany her on her visits to the Children’s Foundling Hospital. But I cannot shadow her all day, and when our mothers are napping and your sister is otherwise engaged, I must have something to fill my days.”
He had to admit that it hadn’t occurred to him that she might not be happy here in London.
Guilt laced through him. For the sake of self-preservation, he oft spent his mornings and afternoons occupying himself in anything that took him from the town house and her orbit.
Something about the notion of her being alone and discontented ate at him.
He didn’t like it. Everett liked the thought that he might be responsible for her unhappiness even less.
“What about your friend, Lady Blackwell?” he asked. “She has called upon you several times. Perhaps the two of you might go shopping or do whatever it is that ladies do to amuse themselves.”
He truly had no notion what womanish things ladies busied themselves with, but surely there was something.
Sybil shook her head. “Lady Blackwell has been called to the country for her sister’s lying-in.”
“Ah.” He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Thank you for coming to my rescue.” She examined her wounded finger. “It wouldn’t do for me to bleed all over poor little Emma’s gown.”
She knew the name of the child to whom the garment belonged.
He didn’t know why he was surprised at that either.
Verity had told him on more than one occasion just how generous Sybil was to the children at the Children’s Foundling Hospital.
Unfortunately, however, her conversations with his wife had not left her any more certain that Sybil’s feelings for her lover had dissipated over time and absence.
The reminder of the footman set his teeth on edge.
“Why do you not simply hire a woman to do the mending?” he asked, his voice emerging sharper than he had intended. “You needn’t toil and injure yourself. Others could sew a torn hem just as well.”
“I suppose they could,” she allowed. “But it makes me happy to imagine myself useful. It is a small enough thing. I hope you do not mind.”
He ground his molars. Naturally, he didn’t mind her mending for the orphans. Did she think him a heartless monster?
“Not at all,” he said, frowning.
“You are home early today,” she commented, returning her needle to her task and pulling a long line of thread past her tiny, neat row of stitches.
In truth, he hadn’t left. But he wasn’t sure he cared to admit that, for fear her clever mind would read into his actions and see far more than he wanted her to.
“My business concluded prematurely,” he told her stiffly, even though there had been no business, not today or most of the others when he had been absent from the town house.
He was lying, of course.
To her.
To himself.
The real question wasn’t why. He knew the answer all too well.
No, there were other questions that inevitably haunted him.
For how long could he continue carrying on as if she meant nothing to him?
For how long could he pretend as if the thought of her loving someone else didn’t eat away at him with excruciating persistence each day?
“How fortuitous,” Sybil said. “The Duke of Kingham has agreed to join us for dinner.”
Devil take it. Since when had King begun accepting invitations from Maman?
“He has?”
“Yes.” Sybil’s gray gaze searched his. “He has been occasionally calling upon Lady Verity. She says they are friends, but… You do not think…”
Her words trailed away, unfinished. She didn’t need to finish them. Everett knew precisely what she meant.
“No.” He forced a smile. “Kingham has no interest in innocent misses. And he would absolutely never dally with Verity.”
“Well, then.” Sybil’s lush lips turned upward in a bright smile, her cheer seemingly forced. “I am relieved to hear it. I really should get back to my mending before I need to dress for dinner. I intend to send this over to the Children’s Foundling Hospital today.”
Good God.
He’d been dismissed.
His own wife would rather stitch the clothing of orphans than linger in his presence. He stood and offered her an elegant bow.
“Until dinner, madam.”
Without another word, he turned and left her there in the sitting room, the sun glinting off her chestnut hair, lovelier than he’d ever seen her.
And never more unattainable.