Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
The melody escaped Sybil’s lips before she even realized she was whistling—a cheerful little tune that seemed to dance through the morning air as she made her way to the breakfast room.
When was the last time I whistled? The thought struck her with surprise. Years, certainly. Perhaps not since before Emmie’s death when the world had still seemed full of possibilities rather than obligations.
But this morning felt different somehow. Lighter. As though the weight she’d been carrying for so long had shifted just enough to let her breathe properly again.
The garden. It had to be the garden. She could already envision the herbs flourishing under her care, the satisfaction of creating something useful and beautiful with her own hands. And the way Hugo had worked beside her, his usual stern demeanor softening as they’d labored together in the dirt…
“My goodness, Sybil, you sound positively cheerful this morning.”
Rosalie’s amused voice startled her from her reverie. Hugo’s eldest daughter sat at the breakfast table, already dressed for the day in a morning dress of pale yellow that complemented her auburn hair perfectly.
“Do I?” Sybil settled into her chair, accepting a cup of tea from the footman with a smile. “I hadn’t realized.”
“You were whistling,” Rosalie observed with barely concealed delight. “Quite melodiously, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you whistle before.”
Because I’ve had little to whistle about until now.
“I suppose I must be in good spirits,” Sybil admitted, helping herself to eggs and toast.
“Any particular reason?” Rosalie’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “You’ve seemed rather… contemplative since you and Papa returned from London.”
Contemplative. Such a diplomatic way to describe my recent mood.
“Your father and I spent yesterday afternoon establishing an herb garden,” Sybil said, surprised by the warmth that crept into her voice at the memory. “I find gardening quite… restorative.”
“How lovely! Papa mentioned something about purchasing plants though he was rather cryptic about the details.” Rosalie leaned forward with interest. “What sorts of herbs are you growing?”
“Medicinal ones, mostly. Chamomile, lavender, comfrey…” Sybil found herself describing their selections with enthusiasm, her hands gesturing as she spoke. “By midsummer, we should have enough variety to prepare most common remedies.”
“How practical of you both,” Rosalie said warmly. “Though I must say, you’re absolutely glowing this morning. Gardening clearly agrees with you.”
Glowing. Was she? Sybil caught her reflection in the silver teapot and was startled to see that Rosalie was right—her cheeks were flushed with color, her eyes bright with an animation she hadn’t felt in months.
It wasn’t just the gardening, though, was it? It was the way Hugo looked at you when he brushed that dirt from your cheek. The way his touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary…
Heat crept up her neck at the memory. The gentle pressure of his thumb against her skin, the intensity in his amber eyes, the way she’d found herself leaning into his touch like a flower seeking sunlight…
“Sybil?” Rosalie’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Are you quite all right? You’ve gone rather pink.”
“Have I?” Sybil pressed her hands to her cheeks, feeling the telltale warmth there. “It must be the tea. It’s rather hot this morning.”
Liar. You’re thinking about your husband’s hands on your face and wondering what it would feel like if he touched you like that again.
The realization sent another wave of heat through her, and she quickly took a large gulp of tea to cover her embarrassment.
“Indeed,” came a familiar deep voice from the doorway. “The morning does seem unusually… warm.”
Hugo entered the breakfast room with his characteristic unhurried grace though Sybil noticed his amber eyes fixed immediately on her face.
Something in his expression suggested he’d been observing her for longer than she’d realized, taking in her flushed cheeks and the way her fingers worried at her teacup.
How long has he been standing there? What did he see?
“Good morning, Papa,” Rosalie said brightly. “Sybil was just telling me about your gardening expedition yesterday. How romantic of you to surprise her with an herb garden.”
“Romantic?” Hugo’s eyebrow arched as he settled into his chair, though his gaze never left Sybil’s face. “I’d hardly call horticulture romantic.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Rosalie’s tone was innocently teasing. “Planning a surprise outing based on someone’s personal interests, working together to create something beautiful… it sounds quite romantic to me.”
Stop talking, Rosalie. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop talking.
“I’m sure your father had purely practical motivations,” Sybil said quickly though she could feel Hugo’s attention like a physical weight. “Having fresh herbs available will benefit the entire household.”
“Practical,” Hugo repeated, his voice holding that familiar note of dry amusement. “Yes, I’m famously practical in all my endeavors.”
Why does he say it like that? As though there’s some hidden meaning I’m missing?
Sybil risked a glance at him and immediately regretted it. His amber eyes held that knowing look she was beginning to recognize—the one that suggested he could read thoughts she didn’t even realize she was having.
Does he know what I was thinking about? Can he tell that I was remembering…
Almost without conscious thought, her tongue darted out to wet her suddenly dry lips. It was a nervous gesture, nothing more, but she saw the exact moment Hugo’s gaze dropped to her mouth.
The temperature in the room seemed to rise by several degrees.
Hugo’s eyes lingered on her lips for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed before returning to meet her gaze. The corner of his mouth curved in what might have been a smile though it held far too much masculine satisfaction to be entirely innocent.
How does he always know what effect he has on me?
“Speaking of practical matters,” Hugo said, his voice carefully neutral as he turned his attention to his daughter, “you’ve received several invitations that require our attention.”
“Invitations?” Rosalie’s eyes lit up with excitement. “From London?”
“Indeed. Three balls, two garden parties, and what appears to be a musical evening at the Worthington estate.” Hugo consulted a small stack of correspondence beside his plate. “Your debut is generating considerable interest.”
“How wonderful!” Rosalie clasped her hands together with delight. “Oh, Papa, this is everything I hoped for. London society, grand ballrooms, elegant gowns…”
Such innocent enthusiasm. If only she knew what awaits her.
“I can hardly wait to experience a proper London ball,” Rosalie continued, her voice bubbling with anticipation. “The dancing, the music, the opportunity to meet so many interesting people. I’ve heard that Lady Pemberton’s events are particularly lavish.”
“Lady Pemberton does know how to throw a memorable party,” Hugo agreed carefully.
“And I’m especially eager to attend a masquerade,” Rosalie added with sparkling eyes. “There’s something so deliciously mysterious about dancing with someone whose identity you don’t know. So romantic!”
Sybil felt Hugo tense beside her though his expression remained composed.
“Masquerades can be… unpredictable,” he said mildly. “Perhaps we should focus on more traditional entertainments for your first season.”
“Oh, but Papa,” Rosalie protested, “surely there’s no harm in a little mystery? Besides, I’ve heard that one can’t truly be considered a success in London society unless they are mentioned in the scandal sheets!”
Oh, dear. This is not going to end well.
Sybil watched Hugo’s jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, waiting for the sharp rebuke she was certain would follow. Instead, he simply continued buttering his toast with methodical precision.
“Is that so?” he asked with deceptive calm.
“Absolutely,” Rosalie declared, oblivious to the danger.
“I once heard Lady Worthington say that a small scandal can actually enhance one’s reputation, provided it’s the right sort of scandal.
Nothing truly improper, of course, but perhaps being caught in a private conversation with an eligible gentleman or dancing one too many sets with the same partner… ”
The right sort of scandal. As if there were such a thing.
“I see,” Hugo said, his voice remaining perfectly level. “And you believe that courting scandal would benefit your social standing?”
“Well, within reason,” Rosalie said though something in her father’s tone was finally registering as she spoke. “That is, I wouldn’t want to do anything truly shocking. But surely a little excitement, a little mystery…”
“Pursuing scandal,” Hugo said with quiet authority, “will only earn you a reputation. One that will follow not only you but both your younger sisters as well.”
Rosalie’s enthusiasm dimmed slightly as the implications sank in. “I… I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You should have.” Hugo’s gaze held hers steadily. “Because every choice you make this Season will reflect on your family. Every whisper, every raised eyebrow, every mention in those scandal sheets you find so appealing will become part of your sisters’ legacy as well as your own.”
“I was only joking, Papa,” Rosalie said quickly though her voice had lost its earlier certainty. “I don’t actually want to cause a scandal. I simply meant… that is, I thought perhaps…”
“You thought that reputation was something you could gamble with and still emerge unscathed,” Hugo said, not unkindly. “Many young ladies make that mistake. Most live to regret it.”
Most. But not all. Some don’t live long enough to even do that.
The memory of Emmie’s fate hung unspoken in the air, a reminder of just how completely scandal could destroy a young woman’s life.
“I understand, Papa,” Rosalie said quietly. “I’ll be more careful with my words. And my wishes.”