Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Sybil’s hands shook as she tore the diamond pins from her hair, letting the elaborate wedding coiffure tumble down her back in auburn waves.
The moment her bedchamber door had closed behind her, the careful composure she’d maintained all evening cracked like glass.
Hairpins scattered across the Persian carpet as she worked frantically to free herself from the trappings of her new role—the duchess she was supposed to be, the wife she’d never planned to become.
How dare he invite them without telling me? How dare he make that choice for me?
Her wedding dress, so beautiful just hours ago, now felt like a costume she was desperate to escape. She fumbled with the pearl buttons Beverly had fastened so carefully, her fingers clumsy with rage and betrayal.
You started to believe it, didn’t you? Started to think maybe this could be more than just business.
The knock at her door came exactly when she’d expected it—firm, authoritative, completely lacking in apology.
“Come in,” she called, not bothering to turn from her dressing table.
Hugo entered without ceremony, still in his formal wedding attire though he’d loosened his cravat. His amber eyes swept over her—taking in her disheveled hair, her half-unbuttoned gown, the scattered pins at her feet—with the calculating assessment of a man trying to solve a puzzle.
“Well,” he said, closing the door behind him with deliberate calm, “that was dramatic.”
Dramatic. As if her feelings were some sort of theatrical performance for his amusement.
“Was it?” she yanked another pin free, not caring that it caught in her hair. “I thought it was rather restrained, actually.”
“Restrained.” His voice held that familiar note of dry humor that made her want to throw something at his perfectly composed face. “Yes, fleeing your own wedding reception certainly qualifies as subtle.”
“I didn’t flee. I left when my duties as hostess were complete.”
“Your duties as hostess would have been complete after you met with your parents.”
There it is. The real reason he’s here.
She finally turned to face him, noting how he stood with military precision near the door—close enough to block her exit if she tried to run again, far enough away to maintain the pretense of propriety.
Always calculating. Always in control.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “The moment I realized that you invited my parents without bothering to inform me.”
“I invited them because I thought—”
“You thought.” She rose from her chair so quickly that it scraped against the floor. “You thought what, exactly? That you could orchestrate some touching family reunion by ambushing me at my own wedding?”
Hugo’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I thought you might want them there.”
“You thought wrong.”
“So I’m beginning to understand.” He moved deeper into the room, his presence filling the space in that infuriating way of his. “The question is why.”
“Perhaps because I don’t appreciate having decisions made for me,” she snapped. “Perhaps because I expected my husband to discuss matters that affect me before taking action.”
“Your husband.” He repeated the words with something that might have been satisfaction. “Yes, I suppose I am that now.“
The way he said it—with quiet possession rather than mere acknowledgment—sent an unwelcome flutter through her chest.
Don’t let him distract you with that voice.
“Being my husband doesn’t give you the right to orchestrate my personal relationships.“
“Doesn’t it?” he stepped closer, and she caught the scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine. “Because from where I stand, your personal relationships became my concern the moment we exchanged vows.”
“That’s not how this arrangement works.”
“Then perhaps you should explain to me how it does work.” His amber eyes fixed on hers with uncomfortable intensity. “Because I seem to be missing something crucial about why the sight of your parents sent you fleeing like they had the plague.”
He really doesn’t know. The realization hit her with surprising force. He has no idea what they did to Emmie.
“Our relationship is… complicated.”
“Complicated.” Hugo moved to the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the darkened street. “Most family relationships are complicated. That doesn’t usually inspire such dramatic exits.”
Dramatic exits. There was that word again.
“I don’t owe you explanations about my family history.”
“Don’t you?” He turned back to face her, and something in his expression had shifted. “Because it seems to me that a wife who can’t be in the same room as her parents without causing a scene might want to enlighten her husband about the nature of the problem.”
The cold practicality in his voice sparked her temper like flint on steel.
“A scene?” she took a step toward him, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “You think I was making a scene?”
“What would you call it?”
“I would call it a perfectly reasonable reaction to being blindsided by the two people I least wanted to see on what was supposed to be a simple ceremony.”
Hugo’s eyes narrowed.
There was nothing simple about tonight, and we both know it. But she couldn’t admit that without revealing how much his attention had affected her, how the way he’d looked at her during their vows had made her forget why their marriage was supposed to be purely practical.
“The ceremony was exactly what we agreed upon,” she said stiffly.
“Was it? Because I seem to recall you responding rather enthusiastically to elements that weren’t part of our original business arrangement.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” his mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The way you looked at me during the ceremony. The way you trembled when I kissed you. The way you smiled during our dance as though you were actually enjoying yourself.”
Stop noticing things like that. Stop making me aware of my own reactions.
“Physical responses to ritual and ceremony,” she said dismissively. “Nothing more significant than that.”
“If you say so.” But his tone suggested he thought otherwise. “Now tell me why seeing your parents upset you so dramatically.“
“Because—” She stopped herself, struggling with how much to reveal. “Because they did some unforgivable things.”
“What things?“
The direct question hung in the air between them like a challenge. Hugo stood perfectly still, waiting for her answer with the patience of a predator who knew his prey had nowhere left to run.
Tell him. He’s your husband now. You owe him some measure of honesty.
“My sister,” she said finally, the words scraping her throat raw. “Emmie. Lady Emmeline Gillies.”
Something shifted in Hugo’s expression—recognition, perhaps, or confusion.
“She didn’t elope,” Sybil said quietly.
“Then what happened to her?”
She trusted the wrong man. She believed his promises. She paid for that trust with her life.
But she couldn’t say that. Not without revealing too much about her own fears, her own reasons for distrusting charming men who made pretty speeches.
“She found herself in an… unfortunate situation,” Sybil said carefully. “Unwed and expecting a child.”
Hugo’s expression didn’t change, but she caught the slight tension in his jaw. “And your parents?”
“Were horrified.” The bitterness in her voice surprised even her. “Not by her situation, mind you, but by the potential damage to their reputation.”
“What did they do?”
“What any respectable family does when faced with scandal.” She moved to the window, staring out at the darkened street. “They tried to make it disappear.”
“They wanted her to go away somewhere quiet and discreet, have the child, give it up for adoption, and return as if nothing had happened.” The memories came flooding back—Emmie’s tear-stained face, her desperate pleas, their parents’ cold indifference. “She refused.”
“So they cast her out.”
“They threw her out like refuse.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended. “Cut her off completely. Forbade anyone in the family from contacting her.”
Hugo was quiet for a long moment, processing this information. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral.
“And you went after her.”
“I tried to.” Old guilt clawed at her chest. “But I was too late. She’d gotten ill—consumption, the physicians said. Weakened by exposure and malnutrition. By the time I found her…”
She couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t voice the image that still haunted her dreams—Emmie lying in that squalid boarding house room, burning with fever, calling for their mother who would never come.
“She died,” Hugo said quietly.
“She died.” The words felt like confessing to murder. “Alone, frightened, abandoned by everyone who should have protected her.”
Including me. Especially me.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of old tragedy. Hugo moved closer, his footsteps silent on the carpet.
“So when you see your parents,” he said slowly, “you remember that they chose their reputation over their daughter’s life.”
“I remember that they killed her through their cruelty,” she corrected harshly. “And that they’ve spent eight years allowing everyone to believe she was some romantic fool who eloped rather than admit what they really did.”
“Which explains why you’ve avoided London society.”
“I have no desire to reconcile with murderers, no matter how hopeful they looked when you extended your invitation.”
Hugo’s expression had gone cold, calculating. “I didn’t know. About any of it. I heard the same story as everyone else—that she’d run away to Gretna Green, and you’d left London to be closer to her.”
“My parents’ version of events, no doubt.” Sybil let out a bitter laugh. “How convenient for them that everyone believes Emmie chose to disappear rather than being thrown out for inconveniencing them.”
“Christ.” The word was barely audible. “If I had known, I never would have invited them.”
“But you didn’t know because you didn’t bother to ask.” She turned to face him fully, her anger flaring bright and hot. “You simply assumed you understood the situation and acted accordingly.”
Hugo’s jaw tightened dangerously. “I was attempting to do something thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful would have been consulting me first.“
“Very well. I was wrong.” The admission came out clipped, formal. “I misjudged the situation.”
“You misjudged me,” she corrected. “You assumed I was being petty or stubborn rather than protecting myself from people who proved they can’t be trusted.”
“And now?” His amber eyes fixed on hers with uncomfortable intensity. “What happens now?”
“Now, nothing changes.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “They made their choice eight years ago. I see no reason to pretend otherwise simply because I’ve married a duke.”
“No reason?” Hugo stepped closer, his voice dropping to that dangerous register she was learning to recognize. “Even though you’re no longer alone in facing them? Even though you now have resources they can’t ignore?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that you’re under my protection now.” His gaze held hers captive. “My duchess doesn’t hide from problems. She faces them.”
My Duchess. The possessive claim sent heat spiraling through her despite her irritation.
“So, this is about your reputation now?”
“This is about you learning that your problems are now my problems.” His voice brooked no argument. “I have a right to know what threatens your peace of mind.”
The words should have offended her. Instead, they sent an unwelcome thrill through her chest.
“I don’t need protection from my parents. I know how to handle them.”
“You ran away. That’s not handling it—that’s surrender.”
“Then what would you suggest, Your Grace?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “That I smile before the ton and pretend to be the dutiful daughter while they take credit for my success?”
“I suggest you remember what you are now.” His gaze fixed on hers with uncomfortable intensity. “You’re not their abandoned daughter anymore. You’re my wife. My Duchess. Act like it.”
“And what exactly does that entail?”
“It means you don’t let them see weakness.
You don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they can still hurt you.
” He was close enough now that she could see the gold flecks in his amber eyes.
“You face them with your head high and remind them exactly what they lost when they chose reputation over their daughter.”
What they lost. The phrase hit something deep in her chest.
“You make it sound like a battle.”
“Most things are.” His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The question is whether you’re going to fight or surrender.”
She studied his face, noting the sharp intelligence in his amber eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw. This was Hugo at his most ducal—commanding, protective, utterly certain of his own authority.
And utterly certain that his authority now extends to me.
“Very well,” she said finally. “We’ll face them. But I refuse to have private moments alone with them. No tearful reunions. No pretending that eight years of silence can be erased with polite conversation.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else.
“And Duchess? Never keep information from me that affects this arrangement. I can’t protect what I don’t understand.”
Protect. There was that word again, spoken with such quiet conviction that she almost believed he meant it.
“This changes nothing between us,” she said firmly. “This is still a business arrangement.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” But something in his tone suggested he thought otherwise. “Now get some rest. Tomorrow you’ll need all your strength to show your parents exactly who they’re dealing with.”
Who they’re dealing with. Not their lost daughter but the Duchess of Vestiaire.
As Hugo moved toward the door, Sybil found herself calling after him.
“Hugo?”
He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”
“Thank you. For offering to stand with me.”
His smile was sharp, predatory. “Don’t thank me yet.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving her alone with the uncomfortable realization that she was looking forward to finding out exactly what her formidable husband had in mind.