Chapter 11 #2
“Which is?” Cassandra asked with deceptive innocence.
“A mother for his daughters. Someone to guide them through society.”
“Ah, yes, the daughters.” Cassandra’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “How convenient that his paternal duties align so perfectly with your charitable nature.”
Why does everyone keep implying there’s more to this?
“It is convenient,” Sybil said defensively. “It means we both benefit without any… complications.”
“What manner of complications?” Anthea’s voice was carefully neutral, but Sybil caught the sharp attention in her gaze.
The sort where I forget why this is supposed to be a business deal when he looks at me like he wants to devour me whole.
“Romantic entanglements,” Sybil said firmly. “Emotional complications that lead to disappointment and heartbreak.”
“Always?” Cassandra’s voice was gentle. “Even when the gentleman in question offers marriage rather than empty promises?”
Even when he looks at you like you’re precious instead of convenient?
“Honor and sincerity can be… challenging to discern,” Anthea said quietly, and Sybil caught the flash of old pain in her friend’s eyes.
What happened to you, Anthea? What made you so careful about trusting men’s words?
“Exactly,” Sybil said, grateful for the support. “It’s far safer to maintain realistic expectations.”
“Safer,” Cassandra repeated thoughtfully. “But does safe equal fulfilling?”
“Fulfillment in my marriage is a luxury I can’t afford,” Sybil said.
“Can’t or won’t permit yourself?” The question came from Anthea, surprising in its directness.
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference,” Anthea said quietly, “is agency. One suggests circumstances beyond your control. The other suggests you’re punishing yourself for sins that were never yours to shoulder.”
“Some guilt is warranted,” Sybil said quietly.
“Is it?” Cassandra’s voice was soft but firm. “Because from where I sit, you’ve spent eight years atoning for your sister’s tragedy. Eight years denying yourself pleasure, joy, any chance at the very happiness Emmie would have wanted for you.”
“Emmie’s wishes are irrelevant now,” Sybil said stiffly. “She’s gone.”
“Yes, she is,” Anthea agreed. “But you’re alive with an opportunity at something that could be wonderful if you’re brave enough to seize it. ”
If I’m brave enough. But bravery had never been her strength where men were concerned.
“This has nothing to do with bravery,” Sybil said. “It’s about being reasonable with my expectations.”
Cassandra studied her with those knowing blue eyes. “Then why are you blushing like a schoolgirl?”
Sybil’s hands flew to her cheeks, feeling the telltale warmth there. “I’m not—the fitting is rather close in here—”
“Darling,” Cassandra said gently, “there’s nothing shameful about being attracted to your future husband.”
“I’m not attracted to him,” Sybil lied.
Both her friends looked at her with identical expressions of amused disbelief.
“Naturally,” Anthea said dryly. “That explains why you blush every time his name is mentioned.”
“And why you keep touching your lips,” Cassandra added with a grin.
I do not touch my lips. But even as she thought it, Sybil realized her fingers were pressed against her mouth, as if she could still feel the phantom brush of Hugo’s thumb.
She snatched her hand away, mortified.
“I see,” Cassandra said with obvious satisfaction. “How wonderfully… dispassionate of you both.”
“It is dispassionate,” Sybil insisted. “Physical attraction has no bearing on a marriage based on mutual benefit.”
“Doesn’t it?” Anthea’s voice held genuine curiosity. “I rather thought physical harmony was essential to any successful union.”
Physical harmony. The words sent heat spiraling through her as she remembered Hugo’s hands on her face, the way his body had caged her against the bookshelf, the ill-defined emotion in his amber eyes.
“That’s not… we’re not… it’s not that sort of marriage,” she stammered.
Her friends exchanged another one of those loaded looks.
“I see,” Anthea said carefully. “And His Grace is content with this… arrangement?”
Is he? Or is he simply waiting for me to stop being such a coward?
“The Duke understands our agreement,” Sybil said though she couldn’t quite meet her friends’ eyes.
“What agreement, exactly?” Cassandra asked with deceptive lightness.
“That our marriage will be one of convenience only. No romantic complications, no physical… entanglements. A partnership based on mutual respect and shared goals.”
The words sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“How very… progressive,” Anthea murmured.
“It’s reasonable,” Sybil said defensively.
“Absolutely,” Cassandra agreed though her eyes danced with barely suppressed laughter. “I’m certain a man of the Duke’s… experience will be perfectly content with such a platonic arrangement.”
His experience. There it was again—that hint of something in Hugo’s past that made women look knowing and men step carefully around him.
“What experience?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“Oh, my dear,” Cassandra’s smile was wicked. “Surely, you’ve heard the whispers? Before his first marriage, the Duke was considered quite the… accomplished gentleman. Very intense, very passionate. Quite devastating to the ladies who caught his attention.”
Accomplished. Intense. Passionate.
Heat flooded Sybil’s entire body as she remembered the way Hugo had looked at her in the library, the barely leashed hunger in his voice when he’d said her name.
“That’s… that’s ancient history,” she said weakly.
“Is it?” Anthea’s voice was quiet but penetrating. “Because passion doesn’t simply vanish, Sybil. It merely finds new directions.”
And what if he chooses to direct it at me?
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it sent a thrill of anticipation through her that she absolutely refused to acknowledge.
“His personal inclinations are his own concern,” she said stiffly.
“Are they?” Cassandra leaned forward, her expression suddenly serious. “Because if you’re marrying him, darling, they become your concern as well. Whether you want them to or not.”
Whether I want them to or not.
But the truth was, she did want them. God help her, she wanted Hugo’s passion, his intensity, his devastating attention focused entirely on her.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
“This marriage,” she said firmly, “will serve our separate, unromantic goals. Nothing more.”
Her friends exchanged one final look—longer this time, weighted with shared knowledge and barely contained amusement.
“Whatever you say, dear,” Cassandra said sweetly.
But as Sybil stood in her wedding dress, surrounded by silk and lace and the scent of expensive perfume, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her friends saw something she was desperately trying not to acknowledge.
Something that might destroy all her careful plans and reasonable arrangements.
Something that felt dangerously like desire.