Chapter 4 #2
Heat flooded her cheeks as the implications of his words sank in. He was talking about attraction. Physical attraction. To her. But more than that, he was suggesting he could read her desires better than she could.
This is not part of your practical arrangement, Your Grace.
But before she could formulate a response, he was moving closer, backing her against the sideboard with predatory grace. She watched, transfixed, as he lifted her gloved hand to his lips, his amber eyes holding hers with calculated intensity.
“You can pretend this is merely business,” he murmured against her knuckles, his breath warm through the thin material. “But we both know there’s something more here, don’t we?”
His thumb traced a slow circle against her wrist, and she felt her pulse leap traitorously at the contact.
“Think about it,” he said, his voice like warm honey laced with sin. “Think about what it would be like to stop fighting what you want.”
Then he was gone, leaving her standing alone with her heart hammering against her ribs and the uncomfortable realization that he’d just proven he could manipulate her responses as easily as breathing.
Just like Emmie’s rake. Pretty words and practiced seduction.
Practical arrangement, indeed.
Hugo found his daughters exactly where he’d expected—huddled together in Rosalie’s bedroom, supposedly preparing for sleep but obviously plotting something. They looked up guiltily as he entered which only confirmed his suspicions.
“Papa!” Melanie launched herself at him with typical twelve-year-old enthusiasm. “Did you really save Lady Sybil from the fire? They say you climbed up the building like a knight in a fairy tale!”
More like a desperate fool, but I suppose the result was the same.
“Lady Sybil saved herself,” he corrected gently, settling into the chair by Rosalie’s dressing table. “And the children. I merely provided assistance.”
“She’s very pretty,” Leah observed with fifteen-year-old directness. “And she wasn’t afraid of you at all which is more than most people can say.”
“I’m not that intimidating,” Hugo protested though he knew it was a lie.
All three of his daughters looked at him with identical expressions of amused skepticism.
“Papa,” Rosalie said carefully, “we heard the servants talking about Lady Sybil staying here while the orphanage is rebuilt.”
Here it comes.
“That’s correct. She and her staff will be our guests until alternative arrangements can be made.”
“How long will that take?” Melanie asked eagerly. “To rebuild, I mean?”
That depends entirely on whether she accepts my proposal.
“I’m not certain yet,” he said diplomatically. “These things take time to organize properly.”
“She could teach us about medicine,” Leah said suddenly. “About herbs and healing. Think how useful that would be!”
“I doubt Lady Sybil has time to take on additional students,” Hugo replied though the idea had merit. His daughters could benefit from practical knowledge beyond the usual accomplishments.
“But if she were staying longer…” Rosalie’s voice trailed off meaningfully.
They’re matchmaking. My daughters are trying to play matchmakers.
The realization should have been alarming. Instead, Hugo found himself oddly pleased by their immediate acceptance of Sybil.
They see what I see—intelligence, competence, genuine warmth beneath the proper facade.
“Lady Sybil has her own responsibilities,” he said firmly. “We mustn’t impose on her responsibilities.”
“Of course not,” Rosalie agreed too quickly. “We would never dream of imposing.”
The innocent tone didn’t fool him for a moment. His daughters were definitely plotting something.
Let them plot. It might make things easier if they’re already fond of her.
“Now then,” he said, rising from the chair, “it’s past time you were all in bed. Tomorrow will be another busy day.”
“Yes, Papa,” they chorused with suspicious obedience.
He paused at the door, looking back at their expectant faces.
They want her to stay. They want someone who sees them as more than ornaments or burdens.
Just like he did.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. She hasn’t agreed to anything yet.
But as he walked back through the corridors toward his own chambers, Hugo found himself thinking about the way Sybil had looked at him when he’d kissed her gloves. The flush in her cheeks, the catch in her breathing, the way her pulse had fluttered visibly at her throat.
She’s not as indifferent as she pretends to be.
The thought was more satisfying than it had any right to be.
This is a practical arrangement. Nothing more.
But even as he tried to convince himself, Hugo couldn’t forget the feeling of her hand in his or the way she’d looked at him as though he were a man worth knowing rather than just a title worth pursuing.
Perhaps there can be more to this arrangement than either of us anticipates.
The possibility should have alarmed him. Instead, as he reached his chamber door, Hugo found himself smiling.
Tomorrow, he would have his answer. And either way, he suspected his well-ordered life was about to become considerably more interesting.