Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“Marge, please, you mustn’t blame yourself for this.”
Sybil kneeled beside the makeshift bed where the orphanage cook lay curled on her side, tears streaming down her weathered cheeks.
Around them, Hugo’s grand ballroom had been transformed into an impromptu dormitory—thirty-seven girls of various ages tucked into hastily arranged cots, their soft breathing the only sound in the cavernous space.
“It was my fault, Miss Sybil,” Marge whispered, her voice thick with guilt. “That blasted pan of oil—I only turned away for a moment to fetch the salt, and when I looked back…”
“Accidents happen,” Sybil said firmly though her own heart was breaking. “No one could have predicted—”
“But I should have been more careful! Thirty years you’ve been building this place, and I destroyed it all in a single moment of carelessness.”
No, not carelessness. Exhaustion. We’ve all been working ourselves to the bone.
Sybil smoothed the older woman’s graying hair back from her forehead. “The girls are safe, Marge. That’s what matters. Everything else can be replaced.”
Can it, though? With what money? What resources?
The crushing weight of their situation threatened to overwhelm her again. Where would they go? How would she feed thirty-seven mouths with no income, no building, no—
“Miss Sybil?” Little Emma, one of the children she’d rescued from the fire, appeared at her elbow, clutching a torn rag doll. “Mary’s having nightmares again.”
Sybil rose immediately, pushing her own fears aside. “Of course, sweetheart. Let’s go see to her.”
As she moved between the sleeping forms, checking on restless children and tucking blankets more securely around small shoulders, she tried not to think about tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or—
One crisis at a time, Sybil. That’s how you survive.
“Lady Sybil, if I may…”
The deep male voice made her freeze mid-step. She’d been so focused on the children that she hadn’t heard anyone approach.
“I’m sorry, but this really isn’t the time for—” she turned dismissively, expecting to find one of Hugo’s footmen with some household concern.
Instead, she found herself staring directly into those disturbing amber eyes.
Oh. Oh my.
The Duke of Vestiaire stood less than three feet away, still in his shirtsleeves from the firefighting efforts, his dark hair disheveled and a streak of soot across his sharp cheekbone.
The sight of him—rumpled, powerful, devastatingly male—sent heat coursing through her that had nothing to do with embarrassment.
Pull yourself together. He’s just a man.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He wasn’t just any man. He was tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, broad enough that his presence seemed to fill the entire room, and there was something in the way he looked at her that made her pulse quicken traitorously.
“Your Grace.” She managed a small curtsy, acutely aware of her own disheveled state. “I apologize for my appearance. I was just—”
“When was the last time you ate, Lady Sybil?” he arched one dark brow, his voice carrying that particular tone of authority that probably made hardened soldiers snap to attention.
“Sybil, just Sybil,” she whispered.
“Lady Sybil is very correct,” Beverly corrected from somewhere behind her.
Traitor.
Sybil whipped around to glare at her friend and fellow teacher. Beverly had the grace to look apologetic, but she didn’t retract the correction.
Of all the times to remember propriety…
“I ate earlier,” Sybil said quickly, turning back to the Duke. “With all the others. We shared what food your kitchen staff so generously provided.”
Please don’t let him ask Beverly to confirm that. Please don’t—
But the Duke’s penetrating gaze had already shifted to Beverly, who straightened under his attention like a soldier facing inspection.
“And did she, in fact, eat with the others?” he asked in that same level tone.
Beverly’s face went pink. “Well, that is… she was very busy ensuring everyone else was fed, Your Grace. I don’t believe she actually… that is to say…”
“She hasn’t eaten a single bite,” came Marge’s voice from her makeshift bed. “Been running around like a woman possessed, taking care of everyone but herself. Just like always.”
Marge!
“There was far too much to do,” Sybil protested, heat rising in her cheeks. “The children needed settling, and we had to organize sleeping arrangements and inventory what we managed to save, and—”
She stopped mid-sentence because the Duke had moved closer—close enough that she could smell the lingering scent of smoke and something else, something warm and masculine that made her stomach flip in the most inappropriate way.
Step back. You should step back.
But her feet seemed rooted to the floor as he reached for her hand.
“Your Grace, what are you—”
Even through her gloves, she could feel the warmth of his fingers as he lifted her hand between them. His touch was gentle but firm, and when his thumb traced across her knuckles, she had to bite back a gasp at the unexpected intimacy of the gesture.
This is entirely improper. He shouldn’t be touching me like this. I shouldn’t want him to.
“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice quieter now but no less commanding.
Was she? She looked down at their joined hands and realized he was right. Her fingers were trembling against his though whether from exhaustion, delayed shock from the fire, or his proximity, she couldn’t say.
All three, most likely.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she said though her voice came out breathier than she’d intended.
“How do you expect to take care of others when you’re about to drop?” His amber eyes held hers captive. “You will join me for dinner. This is not a request.”
The authoritative way he said it—as though her compliance was simply assumed—should have annoyed her. She was not some simpering miss who jumped at a man’s command, no matter how imposing he might be.
Instead, she nodded.
What is wrong with me?
“I… very well. But only for a few minutes. The children—”
“Will be perfectly safe in my household’s care.” He released her hand though she could still feel the phantom warmth of his touch. “Beverly, is it? You’ll see to their needs while Lady Sybil takes proper nourishment?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Beverly said quickly. “Take all the time you need, Sybil. We’ll manage beautifully.”
Conspirators, the lot of them.
Following the Duke through the corridors of Vestiaire Castle, Sybil tried not to gawk at the opulence surrounding her.
Portraits of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow her progress.
Crystal chandeliers cast dancing shadows on silk wallpaper that probably cost more than she spent on food for the orphanage in a year.
Don’t think about money. Not now.
“Your home is very grand,” she said, immediately regretting the inanity of the comment.
“It serves its purpose.” His tone was dismissive, as though the luxury meant nothing to him.
Easy to dismiss what you’ve never lacked.
But that was unfair, she realized. He’d spent hours fighting the fire alongside common villagers, his expensive clothing ruined, his hands blistered from bucket handles. Whatever his faults, he wasn’t afraid of honest work.
The dining room he led her to was smaller than she’d expected—intimate, even—with a table that seated perhaps eight rather than the enormous banquet hall she’d imagined. Candles flickered in silver candelabras, casting warm light over polished mahogany and gleaming china.
“Please, sit.” He pulled out a chair for her, his fingers brushing her shoulders as she settled into it.
The contact sent another jolt of awareness through her, and she was grateful when he moved to the opposite side of the table. Distance. She needed distance from this man and whatever strange effect he had on her equilibrium.
You’re being ridiculous. He’s simply being polite.
But when he looked at her across the candlelit table, there was nothing polite about the intensity in his amber eyes.
A parade of servants appeared with dishes—roasted chicken, fresh bread, and vegetables prepared with herbs she recognized from her own garden. The aromas made her stomach clench with sudden, ravenous hunger.
When did I last eat? This morning? Yesterday?
She tried to maintain proper etiquette, cutting delicate bites and chewing slowly, but the food was so good, and she was so hungry that it took enormous effort not to abandon all pretense and simply devour everything in sight.
“You needn’t stand on ceremony,” the Duke said quietly. “I can see you’re famished.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your hands are trembling again. You’ve been staring at that piece of chicken as though you’re afraid it might escape.” A ghost of amusement flickered in his eyes. “Eat, Lady Sybil. I won’t think less of you for having an appetite.”
Lady Sybil. He keeps using my title.
“Though, I confess, I find myself curious what circumstances would lead a woman of breeding to run an orphanage in a village rather than gracing London ballrooms,” he continued when she didn’t respond.
The bread turned to ash in her mouth. Here it came—the questions, the judgment, the inevitable withdrawal when he learned about the scandal that had driven her from society.
Tell him. Get it over with.
She straightened her spine, meeting his gaze directly.
“I’m very sure you are aware of the Gilles family story, Your Grace.
” She watched his face carefully, waiting for the moment of remembrance.
It came quickly—a slight widening of his eyes, a tightening around his mouth that suggested he’d indeed heard the whispered rumors about her family’s disgrace.
She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
Everyone knew of her story.
But instead of the mocking answer she expected, the Duke simply nodded.
“I see.” His tone was neutral, giving nothing away. “And how long have you been managing the orphanage?”