Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
“Hold still, or I’ll stab you with this pin,” Beverly warned, her fingers working to secure the final pearl buttons along Sybil’s spine.
“I am holding still,” Sybil protested though her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the dressing table.
Through the window of her temporary chambers at Claridge’s, she could hear the clatter of carriages arriving at St. George’s Hanover Square.
Half of London society is coming to witness my marriage of convenience.
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Beverly observed, stepping back to examine her handiwork. “There. Perfect.”
Sybil turned toward the mirror and barely recognized herself. The ivory silk gown Hugo had selected transformed her into someone elegant, refined—someone who looked capable of being a duchess instead of a woman who’d spent eight years running an orphanage.
It’s just a costume. A role I’m playing for practical reasons.
“Oh, Sybil.” Cassandra burst through the door in a rustle of pale blue silk, Anthea following more sedately behind her. “You look absolutely—”
“Don’t,” Anthea cut her off with a sharp look. “She’s nervous enough without your dramatics.”
“I’m not nervous,” Sybil lied, smoothing her hands over the silk skirts. “This is simply a business transaction. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
Beverly snorted softly. “Business transactions don’t usually require special licenses and archbishops.”
“Or wedding gowns that cost more than most people make in a year,” Cassandra added, circling Sybil like a predator examining prey. “His Grace has exquisite taste.”
“The ton expects a certain standard from a ducal wedding,” Sybil replied. “This gown serves that purpose.”
“Of course, it does,” Cassandra said sweetly though her eyes danced with mischief. “He’s establishing our courtship for society’s benefit,” she said weakly.
“Naturally,” Anthea murmured. “Men are famous for their dedication to romantic theater.”
Beverly cleared her throat. “Forgive me, but shouldn’t we be leaving soon? The ceremony—”
“Starts in thirty minutes,” Cassandra finished, consulting the delicate watch pinned to her bodice. “Sybil, darling, you need to breathe. You’re going quite pale.”
Breathe. Right. Simple enough.
But every time she tried to draw air into her lungs, she thought about Hugo waiting at the altar. About the vows they would speak. His wife. The words sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with cold.
“Perhaps some wine?” Cassandra suggested. “Just a sip to steady your nerves.”
“I don’t have nerves,” Sybil snapped then immediately felt guilty. “I apologize. I simply… this is more complicated than I anticipated.”
“Marriage usually is,” Beverly said gently. “Even practical ones.”
“Oh, I don’t know, the Duke seems quite taken with you,” Cassandra observed, adjusting Sybil’s veil with careful precision. “Every time I’ve seen you together, he watches you like—”
“Like a man protecting his investment,” Sybil interrupted firmly.
“If you say so,” Cassandra replied though her tone suggested she thought otherwise. “Though I’ve never seen a man look at an investment the way he looked at you during your engagement dinner.”
The engagement dinner. Where Hugo had seated her beside him and spent the entire evening murmuring observations that made her laugh despite herself. Where his hand had brushed hers while reaching for the wine, sending electricity shooting up her arm.
Stop remembering things like that.
“We should go,” Anthea said suddenly, rising from her chair. “The carriage is waiting.”
“Yes,” Sybil agreed quickly, grateful for the distraction. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Over with?” Beverly looked hurt. “Sybil, it’s your wedding day.”
“It’s a ceremony,” Sybil corrected. “A necessary formality to legalize our arrangement.”
But even as she said it, her pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Hugo again. Of standing beside him while promises were made and vows spoken.
It’s just physical attraction. Nothing more complicated than that.
Still, the moment Sybil entered St. George’s Hanover Square, she forgot how to breathe.
The church was packed with London’s elite—a sea of feathers and jewels and curious faces all turned toward her. But she saw none of them. Her entire world had narrowed to the man standing at the altar.
Hugo waited in formal black, his dark hair perfectly arranged, amber eyes fixed on the doors as though willing her to appear. When their gazes met across the crowded church, something shifted in his expression—satisfaction, perhaps, or possession.
He looks like a man who’s gotten exactly what he wanted.
The thought should have steadied her. Instead, it made her stomach flutter traitorously as she walked down the aisle on shaking legs.
This is happening. I’m actually marrying him.
Hugo stepped forward as she reached the altar, offering his arm with practiced gallantry. But when their eyes met, she caught a flash of something in his eyes before his usual control reasserted itself.
“You look beautiful,” he said quietly, his voice pitched for her ears alone.
Don’t say things like that.
“Thank you,” she managed then added in an undertone, “I thought we agreed there would be none of this.”
“None of what?” His mouth quirked slightly, that familiar hint of amusement that made her want to either slap him or kiss him.
“You know perfectly well what.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” He moved closer under the pretense of taking her hand.
The way he said it—with that edge of challenge that always made her pulse race—sent a blush racing down her neck.
“I’m referring to unnecessary flattery,” she whispered back.
“Ah.” His fingers tightened around hers. “And here I thought I was simply stating facts.”
Facts. As if her appearance was a matter of objective truth rather than his opinion.
“Your Grace.” The Archbishop cleared his throat pointedly. “Shall we proceed?”
Hugo’s eyes glinted with something that might have been triumph. “By all means.”
He’s enjoying this. The impossible man is actually enjoying watching me squirm.
“Dearly beloved,” the Archbishop began, his voice carrying across the packed church, “we are gathered here today to witness the union of Hugo Alexander Rothburn, Duke of Vestiaire, and Lady Sybil Margaret Gillies…”
She slowly zoned out. She’d attended weddings before, but somehow, she’d never truly absorbed the weight of the ceremony itself. Now, she was standing beside Hugo while promises of faithfulness filled the air around them, every word felt loaded with implications she wasn’t prepared to face.
“Do you, Hugo Alexander, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, till death do you part?”
“I do.” Hugo’s voice was steady, certain, his amber eyes never leaving her face.
He sounds so sure. Like this means something to him beyond mere convenience.
“And do you, Sybil Margaret, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, till death do you part?”
Till death do us part. The words stuck in her throat. How could she promise something so permanent for what was supposed to be a practical solution?
“I do,” she whispered then repeated it more clearly. “I do.“
Hugo’s thumb brushed across her knuckles—a brief touch that might have been reassurance or something else entirely.
“The rings, if you please.”
Hugo produced a gold band set with diamonds that caught the light brilliantly. She hadn’t expected anything so costly, so obviously permanent.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” he said, sliding it onto her finger with deliberate care. “With my body, I thee worship.”
The feel of the cold metal was like a shock of cold water. His eyes darkened as he spoke, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that he meant every syllable.
Her hands trembled as she placed his ring in return. “With this ring, I thee wed. With all my worldly goods, I thee endow.”
What goods? She had nothing to offer him but problems and a scandalous past.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Kiss. Of course, there would be a kiss.
Hugo stepped closer, his hands framing her face with careful precision. For a moment, he simply looked at her, his amber eyes searching hers.
“Trust me,” he murmured so quietly only she could hear.
Then his lips touched hers—warm, firm, exactly the right pressure for a public kiss. It lasted only seconds, perfectly appropriate for a church full of witnesses, but it sent fire racing through her veins.
When he pulled back, his eyes had darkened to molten gold.
“There,” he said softly. “Not so terrible.”
Terrible? No. Terrifying? Absolutely.
“I present to you,” the Archbishop announced, “His Grace the Duke of Vestiaire and Her Grace the Duchess of Vestiaire.”
Duchess. The title felt foreign, like wearing clothes that belonged to someone else.
The congregation erupted in applause, and suddenly everyone was moving—Hugo’s daughters embracing her, friends offering congratulations, strangers pressing forward with curious stares and well-wishes.
Through it all, Hugo remained close, his hand at her back guiding her through the crowd. She caught glimpses of his profile as he accepted congratulations—polite but distant with most, genuinely warm with his daughters.
He’s different with them. With me, too, sometimes. Like, there are layers beneath that controlled exterior.
The thought was dangerous. She pushed it away.
The wedding breakfast at Vestiaire House exceeded even Sybil’s elevated expectations. Hugo had transformed his ballroom into something magnificent—crystal and flowers and enough food to feed half of London.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” she murmured as they moved through the receiving line.
“Have I?” He surveyed the room with satisfaction. “I thought the occasion warranted some effort.”
“All this for a practical arrangement?”
“All this,” he said quietly, “because you deserve it.”