Chapter 14 #2
Hugo’s hand pressed more firmly against her back, and Sybil drew strength from both his support and the intoxicating awareness of his touch.
“I find it fulfilling work, My Lady. There are so many children in need of proper education and care.”
“Indeed. Though surely your time would be better spent on more traditional pursuits? Managing the household, supporting your husband’s political interests?”
Traditional pursuits. Because heaven forbid a duchess should care about anything beyond domestic arrangements.
“I believe,” Hugo said quietly, his voice carrying that note of ducal authority that could silence a room while his fingers splayed wider against her back, claiming her, “that my wife’s compassion and intelligence are precisely what make her suited to such important work.
Any political interests I might have are enhanced by her insights into social problems I might otherwise overlook. ”
He’s defending me. And the way his hand tightens possessively…
The combination of his public support and the private intimacy of his touch made her feel powerful, desired, cherished.
As they processed to dinner, Sybil was acutely aware of Hugo beside her—the brush of his sleeve against her arm, the way he bent close to murmur observations that made her laugh, the subtle possession in how he guided her to her seat.
Seated beside Hugo at the head of the table, Sybil found herself drawn into conversations that ranged from estate management to the latest political developments.
And to her surprise, Hugo consistently sought her opinions, his hand occasionally finding hers beneath the table—brief, electric contacts that made her pulse race.
“I disagree entirely,” Lord Worthington was saying about proposed factory reforms. “Such regulations would destroy British competitiveness.”
“Would they?” Sybil asked politely, her confidence bolstered by the way Hugo’s fingers traced patterns against her palm. “Or would they simply ensure that workers have adequate conditions to maintain productivity?”
A brief silence fell over the table. Ladies weren’t supposed to contradict lords, particularly not about political matters.
“An interesting perspective,” Lord Worthington said stiffly. “Though I hardly think—”
“I think my wife raises an excellent point,” Hugo interrupted smoothly, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a gesture that sent fire racing up her arm. “Worker productivity depends largely on worker health, does it not? And worker health depends on safe, reasonable conditions.”
My wife. Said with such quiet pride while his touch burns through my gloves.
The evening continued with Hugo’s subtle touches—his hand at her back when she rose, his fingers briefly covering hers when she reached for her wine glass, the way his knee pressed against hers beneath the table.
Each contact was proper, unnoticed by their guests, but they left her breathless with awareness.
As the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Hugo caught her hand, his lips brushing her knuckles in what appeared to be a courtly gesture but felt like something far more intimate.
“Magnificent,” he murmured against her gloves, his breath warm and devastating.
Later, as the last guests departed, Sybil found herself alone with Hugo in the drawing room, her skin still humming from hours of his subtle touches.
“That went well, I think,” she said, settling into her chair with relief—and disappointment that the evening’s delicious tension was ending.
“Better than well. You were magnificent tonight.” Hugo moved to the sideboard, and she watched the way his shoulders moved beneath his evening coat, remembering how those shoulders had looked in his rolled-up shirtsleeves that afternoon.
Magnificent. The second time he’s used that word, and the way he says it…
“I was myself. You made it safe for me to be myself.”
Hugo moved to settle beside her, closer than propriety strictly allowed, close enough that she could smell his cologne and feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Is that unusual for you? Being yourself in company?”
“More unusual than it should be.” She accepted the brandy gratefully, her fingers trembling slightly when they brushed his. “For years, I felt like I had to hide my opinions, apologize for my interests. Tonight… tonight, I felt like they might actually be valuable.”
“They are valuable. More than valuable—they’re necessary.” Hugo’s free hand came up to trace her jaw, and she leaned into the touch despite every rational thought. “Sybil, I need you to understand something.”
“What?” The word came out breathless.
“I didn’t marry you for your compliance.
I married you for your strength, your intelligence, and your refusal to be intimidated by conventions that make no sense.
” His amber eyes held hers intently while his thumb traced maddening circles against her cheek.
“What I saw tonight—the way you engaged with complex issues, the way you held your own in political discussions—that’s exactly why I knew you were perfect for this family. ”
Perfect for this family. Not convenient, not adequate—perfect. And the way he touches me like he can’t help himself…
“Hugo…” she started then stopped, unsure how to voice the hope blooming in her chest—or acknowledge the desire pooling low in her belly at his continued caresses.
“Yes?”
“Are we… that is, do you think we might be building something more than we originally planned?”
His hand found hers, fingers intertwining with gentle certainty while his other hand continued its devastating assault on her senses, tracing from her cheek to her throat where her pulse hammered visibly.
“I think we’re building exactly what we were meant to build. We just didn’t know it at the time.”
What we were meant to build. Not a business arrangement, but something that makes me tremble at his touch.
“I should retire,” she said softly though every nerve ending screamed at her to stay, to lean closer, to discover what would happen if she surrendered to this growing attraction.
“Should you?” His voice had gone rough, and she felt rather than saw him lean closer. “Because you look like you might have other ideas.”
Her breath caught at the accuracy of his observation. “Hugo…”
“Yes, Sybil?”
But before she could find words for the want building inside her, before she could voice the dangerous thoughts his touches had inspired, the clock chimed midnight and broke the spell between them.
Hugo pulled back with visible effort, his breathing slightly unsteady. “You’re right. It’s late.”
Late. But not too late for the way you make me feel.
When Hugo finally stood to escort her upstairs, when his lips lingered against her knuckles far longer than courtesy required, Sybil felt the gesture differently than ever before.
Not as polite courtesy but as barely restrained desire.
Tomorrow we’ll continue building whatever this is becoming. Tonight, I’ll dream of touches that last longer, burn deeper.
As she prepared for bed, Sybil caught her reflection in the mirror and saw what Cassandra had noticed earlier. She did look different—but now she understood why.
This is what it feels like to be desired. Not just married but wanted.
Through the wall separating their chambers, she could hear Hugo moving about his room, and for the first time since their wedding, the sound didn’t make her nervous.
It made her wonder what it would be like if that wall weren’t there at all.