Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The silk whispered against Sybil’s skin like a lover’s promise she had no right to believe.
She stood frozen before the three-way mirror in Madame Dubois’s exclusive Bond Street establishment, staring at a woman she barely recognized.
And this woman was what she had to be here in London.
Sybil almost could not believe she really was back in a society as judgmental as the ton of London, but here she was in one of the biggest French stores well known for their luxurious fashion in London.
The ivory gown transformed her from sensible spinster to radiant bride with ruthless efficiency—the fitted bodice emphasizing curves she’d forgotten she possessed, the elegant drape of the skirt making her appear taller, more graceful, almost… beautiful.
This is not who I am.
“Mon Dieu,” breathed Madame Dubois, her French accent thickening with professional satisfaction. “C’est magnifique! His Grace, he has exquisite taste, non?”
His Grace had exquisite taste. Because, of course, he had selected this particular gown from Madame Dubois’s collection, just as he’d arranged for this appointment, just as he’d somehow intuited that her “best dress”—a serviceable brown wool she’d worn to every important occasion for the past five years—would not suffice for a ducal wedding.
The man was insufferably thorough in his arrangements.
“Sybil?” Miss Anthea Croft’s voice cut through her reverie, cool and measured as always. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Sybil blinked, focusing on her friend’s reflection in the mirror. Miss Anthea Croft sat with perfect posture in her chair, her dark hair pulled back in a severe chignon, her expression carefully controlled.
To most of society, Anthea appeared coldly reserved—untouchable—but Sybil caught the flicker of concern in her gray eyes, the slight tension in her jaw that spoke of deeper worries.
She’s thinking about men who make grand gestures and pretty promises.
They had known each other since they were debutants and had been friends since then, together with Lady Cassandra Burrow. It had been so long since she had seen her friends, and it almost felt like the only good reason for her return to London.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Sybil said, smoothing her hands over the sumptuous fabric. “Simply overwhelmed by… all of this.”
“All of what, darling?” Lady Cassandra Burrow looked up from the fashion plates she’d been examining with obvious delight, her blonde curls bouncing as she moved.
Unlike Anthea’s rigid composure, Cassandra seemed to glow with genuine pleasure at being surrounded by silks and laces—one of the few unmarried ladies who still found joy in society’s rituals despite her spinsterhood. “The dress is absolutely divine. His Grace has impeccable taste.”
If only you knew how he’d looked at me when he chose it. Like he wanted to peel it off me himself.
Heat flooded Sybil’s cheeks at the unbidden thought.
“It’s rather… grand,” she managed. “I had expected something simpler.”
“Simpler?” Cassandra laughed, the sound bright and infectious. “Darling, you’re marrying a duke. Did you expect him to wed you in a morning dress?”
“I suppose I hadn’t thought much about the ceremony itself,” Sybil admitted.
“Hadn’t thought much about it?” Anthea’s voice held a note of sharp skepticism. “You agreed to marry one of the most powerful men in England without pondering the… implications?”
The implications. Like the way my pulse races when he says my name.
Like the way his hands felt framing my face.
Like the way he made me want things I’ve sworn never to want.
“The marriage serves mutual interests,” Sybil said firmly. “The details of the ceremony seem rather beside the point.”
Anthea and Cassandra exchanged a look—one of those wordless communications that spoke volumes.
“Mutual interests,” Anthea repeated quietly. “How very… businesslike.”
But Sybil caught the slight tightening around her friend’s eyes, the way her fingers gripped her reticule a fraction too tightly. Anthea had her own reasons for being wary of men who swept women off their feet with grand romantic gestures.
She’s worried about me. They both are.
“Now then,” Cassandra said brightly, “you simply must tell us everything. How did he propose? I do hope it was properly romantic.”
He backed me against a bookshelf and made me admit I wanted him.
“It was… direct,” Sybil said carefully. “He explained what marriage between us could accomplish, and I agreed it made sense.”
“Direct.” Cassandra’s face fell slightly. “Oh. How wonderfully… efficient.”
“Efficient marriages often prove most successful,” Anthea observed though something in her tone suggested she didn’t entirely believe it. “No false hopes to shatter later.”
False hopes. Like believing a man actually loves you when he’s simply using you for his own ends.
Sybil remembered the stories—whispered fragments about Anthea’s near-escape from some scandal years ago. The details were never discussed among them, but the wariness in her friend’s eyes whenever the subject of male sincerity arose spoke volumes.
“Precisely,” Sybil agreed. “We both understand what we’re gaining from the arrangement.”
“And what are you gaining?” Cassandra asked gently. “Besides resources for the orphanage, I mean.”
A husband who makes me forget my own name when he touches me. A man who looks at me like I’m the most fascinating woman in the world. A chance at something I never dared dream of.
“Security for the children,” Sybil said instead. “Stability. A chance to expand our work.”
“Noble goals,” Anthea murmured, and Sybil couldn’t tell if the comment was sincere or sardonic.
“Turn slightly, s’il vous pla?t,” Madame Dubois instructed, her fingers working to adjust the bodice. “The fit, she is almost perfect, but we must show your figure to advantage, non?”
Sybil complied, trying to ignore how the snug fabric emphasized the swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist. When was the last time she’d worn something that actually fit? When was the last time she’d cared how she looked?
When was the last time a man looked at you like the Duke did in the library?
“You know,” Cassandra said thoughtfully, “seeing you like this brings back memories. Before…” She trailed off, glancing at Anthea.
“Before Emmie,” Sybil finished quietly.
A moment of silence fell over the group. All three women had been there during Emmie’s debut Season—had watched her fall under the spell of a charming rake, had tried to warn her, had been among the few to show her kindness when the scandal broke.
And when that cad abandoned her, they were the ones who publicly cut him. The ones who called out the ton’s hypocrisy in accepting his behavior while condemning hers.
The memory of their loyalty still had the power to move her.
“Emmie would have adored this,” Cassandra said softly. “She always insisted you had the most beautiful coloring and that you just needed the right setting to show it off.”
“Emmie believed in many things that proved to be illusions,” Sybil said stiffly.
“Did she?” Anthea’s voice was quiet but penetrating. “Or did she simply have the misfortune to trust the wrong man?”
“The distinction seems rather academic when the result remains the same,” Sybil replied.
“Does it?” Cassandra leaned forward, her expression earnest. “Because it seems there’s a world of difference between trusting a man who proves unworthy and never trusting at all.”
“Some risks aren’t worth taking,” Sybil said firmly.
“And some risks,” Anthea said quietly, “are worth everything.”
Sybil turned to look at her friend sharply. Anthea’s face was composed as always, but there was something in her eyes—a flash of old pain, perhaps, or regret.
What did you risk, Anthea? And what did it cost you?
“Voilà!” Madame Dubois stepped back with a flourish. “C’est parfait. You are transformed, ma chérie.”
Sybil turned back to the mirror and felt her breath catch. The woman staring back at her was radiant—no longer the practical spinster who ran an orphanage but someone who looked capable of gracing a duke’s arm and of moving through society with confidence and grace.
Someone who looked like she belonged in his world.
“It’s perfect,” Cassandra breathed. “Absolutely perfect. His Grace will be quite overcome when he sees you.”
Will he? Or will he simply see a convenient solution to his problems, dressed up in silk and lace?
“It’s just a dress,” Sybil said though her voice lacked conviction.
“No,” Cassandra said firmly. “It’s a transformation. You look like the woman you were always meant to be.”
The woman I was always meant to be. Before Emmie’s death. Before the guilt and the exile and the years of believing I deserved nothing more than duty and service.
“I should change,” Sybil said abruptly, suddenly desperate to escape the beautiful stranger in the mirror. “We’ve taken enough of Madame Dubois’s time.”
“Nonsense,” Cassandra protested. “We haven’t even discussed the wedding breakfast or the flowers, or—”
“There won’t be much of a celebration,” Sybil interrupted. “It will be a small ceremony.”
“Small?” Cassandra looked aghast. “But darling, you’re marrying a duke. Surely there will be some sort of proper celebration at the very least?”
Proper celebration. With proper guests who will whisper about the scandalous Earl’s daughter who somehow managed to snare a duke.
“I prefer simplicity,” Sybil said.
“What about the Duke?” Anthea asked quietly. “Men of his standing rarely favor modest ceremonies.”
“His Grace understands our arrangement,” Sybil said carefully.
“Does he?” Anthea’s gray eyes were sharp, assessing. “Because powerful men rarely agree to arrangements that don’t serve their true interests.”
And what interests might those be?
But even as she asked herself the question, Sybil could hear his voice. Your body seems to have other ideas entirely.
“The Duke gains what he needs from our marriage,” she said though her voice came out less certain than she’d intended.