Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
The afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Hugo’s library as Sybil ran her finger along the leather spines, searching for the botanical reference she needed. The scent of old parchment and leather bindings surrounded her like a familiar embrace.
“Looking for something specific?” Hugo’s voice came from behind her, warm with genuine curiosity rather than the teasing tone she’d grown accustomed to.
“Actually, yes.” She turned, noting how he’d rolled up his sleeves and loosened his cravat—clearly, he’d been working in his study.
The casual disarray made him look younger somehow, less ducal and more simply…
male. “I wanted to research companion planting for the herb garden. Some combinations can enhance medicinal properties.”
“Ah.” Hugo moved to a section she hadn’t yet explored, and she caught a hint of his cologne as he passed—something clean and masculine that made her pulse quicken. “Botanical partnerships. Rather fitting, wouldn’t you say?”
The gentle humor in his tone made her smile. “I suppose it is. Though plants are generally more cooperative than people.”
“Are they? I find people can be quite cooperative when they share common goals.” He pulled down a thick volume bound in green leather, his movements graceful despite his height. “This might help—Whitmore’s ‘Medicinal Gardens of England.’ Rather comprehensive.”
Their fingers brushed as he handed her the book, and Sybil felt that now-familiar flutter in her chest intensify into something warmer. The simple contact sent awareness racing up her arm, making her acutely conscious of how close he stood.
“Thank you.” She opened to the index though her concentration wavered with his proximity. “Hugo, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you agree to estblish a herb garden for me? I mean, beyond the practical benefits.”
Hugo was quiet for a moment, settling into the chair across from where she’d perched on the window seat. The movement drew her attention to the way his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, and she had to force herself to focus on his words.
“Honestly? I wanted to see you light up the way you did when you talked about healing. You become someone different when you discuss your work—more animated, more yourself.”
More myself. As if he sees something in me that I don’t even recognize.
The way he looked at her as he spoke—with genuine interest and something that might have been admiration—made her heart race in ways that had nothing to do with the afternoon warmth.
“I’ve noticed you do the same thing when you talk about estate improvements,” she said softly, her voice slightly breathless. “Your whole demeanor changes. You’re not the intimidating Duke of Vestiaire anymore—you’re just a man who cares deeply about his responsibilities.”
“Is that how you see me? Intimidating?”
Sybil considered the question seriously, studying his face in the golden light. The strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead—everything about him spoke of controlled power.
“At first, yes. But now… now, I see someone who uses that intimidation to protect the people he loves. It’s rather like armor, isn’t it?”
Hugo’s amber eyes held hers with surprising vulnerability, and she felt her breath catch at the intensity of his gaze.
“You see too much, Sybil Gillies.”
“Sybil Rothburn,” she corrected gently then blushed at how the name sounded on her lips—like a claim she was finally ready to make. “And I think I see exactly what you allow me to see.”
The moment stretched between them, charged with something deeper than understanding.
When Hugo leaned forward slightly, Sybil became acutely aware of everything—the way the afternoon light caught the gold flecks in his eyes, the warmth radiating from his body, the way her pulse hammered against her throat.
“We should prepare for this evening,” Hugo said finally though his voice had gone rough around the edges. “Our wedding celebration dinner.”
“Yes, about that—who exactly will be attending?” Her own voice came out higher than usual, and she saw his eyes darken in response.
“The Pembertons, of course. Lord and Lady Worthington. Your friends Miss Croft and Lady Cassandra. A few others.” Hugo’s mouth curved slightly, and she found herself staring at his lips. “I thought it important that London society see us as a united front.”
A united front. Not just a convenient arrangement.
“Hugo, are you nervous about tonight?”
“Nervous? No. Curious, perhaps.”
“Curious about what?”
“About how we’ll fare as partners in public. Whether this—” He gestured between them, and she felt heat spiral through her at the acknowledgment of whatever was building between them. “—will translate beyond private conversations.”
This. Whatever this growing attraction might be.
“I suppose we’ll find out,” she said, closing the botanical reference with trembling fingers. “Though I should warn you, I have strong opinions about several topics that aren’t considered appropriate for ladies to discuss.”
“Such as?”
“Women’s education. Prison reform. The working conditions in factories.”
Hugo’s smile was genuine, transforming his entire face in a way that made her stomach flutter dangerously. “How delightfully scandalous. I look forward to watching you horrify the dinner guests.”
He looks forward to it. The way he says it—like he finds my outspokenness appealing rather than troublesome.
“You might regret saying that when Lady Worthington faints into her soup.”
“Lady Worthington is made of sterner stuff than that. Besides, I rather suspect our guests will find you far more interesting than they expect.”
The clock on the mantel chimed four, and Sybil rose reluctantly, intensely aware of how his gaze followed her movement.
“I should begin preparing for the evening.”
“As should I.” Hugo stood as well, moving closer with that fluid grace she was learning to appreciate. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the way his shirt clung to his chest.
“Sybil?”
“Yes?” The word came out breathless.
“Thank you. For agreeing to this dinner, for being willing to let society see us together. I know it can’t be easy, returning to the world that once… disappointed you.”
Disappointed. Such a gentle way to describe the scandal that drove me into exile.
“It’s easier with you,” she admitted quietly, her heart hammering as he stepped closer still. “Knowing you’ll be there.”
Something shifted in Hugo’s expression—surprise, perhaps, or gratification. He reached out, fingers brushing her cheek with devastating gentleness, and she felt her knees go weak at the simple contact.
“We make a good team, don’t we?”
“We do,” she whispered, leaning unconsciously into his touch.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other in the golden afternoon light, the air between them crackling with possibility. Sybil became aware of her own breathing, shallow and quick, of the way Hugo’s thumb traced her cheekbone with maddening softness.
Then footsteps in the corridor broke the spell, and they stepped apart with visible effort.
“Until tonight, then,” Hugo said formally, though his eyes held promises that made her pulse race.
“Until tonight.”
The dining room at Vestiaire House gleamed with crystal and candlelight as guests began arriving for the wedding celebration dinner. Sybil stood beside Hugo in the drawing room, accepting congratulations and well-wishes with what she hoped appeared to be gracious composure.
Every time Hugo’s hand settled at the small of her back—guiding her through introductions, offering subtle support—she felt that touch like fire through the silk of her gown.
Breathe. You belong here. You’re the Duchess of Vestiaire.
“Sybil, darling!” Cassandra swept forward in a rustle of rose silk, her blonde curls perfectly arranged. “You look absolutely radiant. Married life clearly agrees with you.”
“Thank you, Cassandra. You’re very kind.”
“Not kind—truthful. There’s something different about you tonight. More… settled, perhaps?”
Before Sybil could respond, Anthea appeared at Cassandra’s elbow, elegant in deep blue that complemented her dark hair.
“Your Grace,” Anthea curtsied precisely. “A lovely evening for such an occasion.”
“Indeed, it is. And please, both of you—when we’re among friends, I’m still just Sybil.”
“Absolutely not,” Cassandra laughed. “You’re a duchess now. We must show proper respect, even if we’ve known you since you were hiding in corners at debutante balls.”
Hiding in corners. Was I really so obviously uncomfortable in society?
“Lady Cassandra speaks truly,” Hugo interjected smoothly, his hand moving to rest possessively at Sybil’s waist. The warmth of his palm through her gown made her breath catch. “Though I suspect my wife’s natural grace would have asserted itself eventually, with or without a title.”
The casual compliment, delivered with such quiet certainty while his fingers traced small circles against her back, sent heat spiraling through her chest.
“Your Grace flatters me.”
“Your Grace states facts,” he replied, and something in his tone—rough, almost possessive—made her look at him sharply.
He means it. And the way he’s looking at me…
“If I may interrupt,” Lord Pemberton approached with his usual genial manner, Lady Pemberton on his arm. “Your Grace, the house looks magnificent tonight. And might I say, the two of you make a most distinguished couple.”
“You’re very kind, My Lord,” Sybil replied, noting how Lady Pemberton’s sharp eyes assessed everything from the flower arrangements to the quality of the crystal—and the way Hugo’s thumb continued its maddening caress against her spine.
“I confess myself curious about your charitable work, Your Grace,” Lady Pemberton said with the air of someone conducting a subtle interview. “Such an… interesting undertaking for a woman of your position.”