Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The crystal chandelier cast dancing shadows across the Pemberton ballroom as Hugo’s amber eyes tracked his wife’s every movement with the predatory focus of a man on the edge of violence.
She was going to be the complete and utter death of him.
That burgundy gown had been a catastrophic error in judgment—precisely because it hugged her curves with sinful perfection and made her pale skin glow like moonlight.
Every gentleman in the ballroom could see exactly what he saw, and the appreciative glances following her graceful form made his hands clench into fists.
Mine, his mind growled with primitive possessiveness. She’s mine.
“Magnificent turnout tonight, wouldn’t you say, Vestiaire?” Lord Blackwood appeared at his elbow, brandy snifter in hand. “Lady Pemberton has outdone herself.”
“Indeed,” Hugo replied tersely, not taking his eyes off Sybil as she navigated the crowd with Rosalie at her side.
“I say, who is that absolute vision in burgundy?” Lord Worthington joined their circle, his gaze following Hugo’s line of sight. “Good God, she’s stunning. Those eyes, that figure—is she unmarried? I don’t believe I’ve been introduced.”
Breathe. Do not commit murder at a society ball.
“That,” Hugo said with deadly calm, “is my wife.”
The color drained from Worthington’s face. “Your wife? But I thought… that is, I hadn’t heard she was—”
“The Duchess of Vestiaire,” Hugo clarified, his voice carrying enough ice to freeze the Thames. “Perhaps you might direct your admiration elsewhere.”
“Of course! My deepest apologies, Your Grace. No offense intended.”
“None taken,” Hugo lied smoothly though his amber eyes promised swift retribution if the man so much as looked at Sybil again.
Worthington retreated with obvious haste, leaving Hugo to resume his surveillance.
Across the ballroom, Sybil was laughing at something Cassandra had said, her face animated with genuine pleasure.
The sight should have pleased him—she looked radiant, confident, utterly at ease in surroundings that had once caused her such pain.
Instead, it made him want to throw her over his shoulder and carry her somewhere private where no other man could look at her.
Control yourself. You’re a duke, not a caveman.
But when he saw a tall, fair-haired gentleman approach their little group with obvious intent, Hugo’s civilized veneer cracked completely.
“Blackwood,” he said abruptly, “if you’ll excuse me.”
“Sybil,” Anthea’s voice held its usual note of cool composure, “you look absolutely radiant this evening. Marriage clearly agrees with you.”
If only she knew how complicated that agreement had become.
“Thank you, Anthea,” Sybil replied, adjusting her gloves with nervous precision. “I must say, I’m surprised by how warmly everyone has received me. I expected… well, considerably more hostility.”
“Hostility?” Cassandra laughed, the sound bright and musical. “Darling, you’re a duchess now. Society has remarkably short memories when substantial titles are involved.”
“Besides,” Anthea added quietly, “most people with any sense always knew the whispers about your family were grossly exaggerated. Your reputation was built on gossip and speculation, not facts.”
Facts. If only they knew all the facts about her current situation—the marriage of convenience, the ongoing battle of wills with her infuriating husband, the way her pulse raced every time he looked at her with those burning amber eyes.
“I’m simply grateful for the warm reception,” Sybil said diplomatically. “And delighted to introduce you both to my stepdaughter. Lady Rosalie Rothburn, may I present Miss Anthea Croft and Lady Cassandra Burrow.”
Rosalie curtsied gracefully, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m so pleased to meet you both. Sybil has spoken of you with such affection.”
“The pleasure is entirely ours,” Cassandra said warmly. “And might I say, you look lovely this evening. That shade of pink is perfection on you.”
She does look lovely, Sybil thought with fierce pride. And so young and hopeful.
“Thank you,” Rosalie replied though Sybil caught the slight tremor in her voice that betrayed her nervousness. “I confess I’m rather overwhelmed by it all. Everything is so grand, so sophisticated.”
“Your first London ball?” Anthea inquired with surprising gentleness.
“Yes, and I’m terrified I’ll make some dreadful error and embarrass myself—or worse, embarrass Papa and Sybil.”
Papa and Sybil. As if they were truly a united front instead of two people locked in a battle of wills.
“Nonsense,” Sybil said firmly. “You’re perfectly prepared for this. Remember what we practiced—be yourself but mind your tongue around gossips.”
“And avoid private conversations with gentlemen you don’t know well,” Anthea added with meaningful emphasis.
“Oh yes,” Cassandra chimed in. “Though I must say, the young men this Season seem particularly charming.”
“Charming young men are precisely what one should be most wary of,” Anthea said dryly. “In my experience, charm and trustworthiness are inversely related.”
In all our experience, Sybil thought grimly, remembering Emmie’s fate and Anthea’s narrow escape.
“Your Grace.”
The unfamiliar masculine voice made them all turn. A tall, fair-haired gentleman stood at Sybil’s elbow, his blue eyes warm with admiration as he executed a perfect bow.
“Lord Pemberton,” he continued, “son of our gracious hostess. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
Here we go.
“Lord Pemberton,” Sybil replied with careful politeness. “How lovely to meet you. I’m the Duchess of Vestiaire.”
“Likewise, Your Grace. Your reputation for beauty precedes you though I must say the reality far exceeds any description.” His smile was practiced, confident—the smile of a man accustomed to female admiration. “Might I request the honor of the next dance?”
Sybil felt a familiar flutter of anxiety. She should accept—it was the polite thing to do, the socially expected response. But something about his too-smooth manner, his practiced charm, reminded her uncomfortably of the men who had destroyed her sister and nearly ruined Anthea.
Don’t be ridiculous. Not every charming man is a villain.
“I would be—” she began.
“I’m afraid my wife’s first dance is promised to me.”
The deep, authoritative voice cut through her polite acceptance like a blade through silk. Hugo materialized beside her with predatory grace, his amber eyes fixed on Lord Pemberton with barely concealed menace.
When did he get here? How does he move so quietly for such a large man?
“Your Grace,” Lord Pemberton said though his easy confidence had faltered slightly under Hugo’s stare. “I hadn’t realized… that is, I was merely requesting—”
“Of course,” Hugo replied with deadly courtesy. “Perhaps another time.”
Perhaps never, his tone clearly implied.
“Naturally. Your Grace, ladies.” Lord Pemberton bowed stiffly and retreated with as much dignity as he could muster.
“That was unnecessary,” Sybil said quietly though she couldn’t quite suppress a thrill at Hugo’s possessive intervention.
“Was it?” His voice held that familiar note of challenge that always made her pulse quicken. “You seemed disinclined to accept his invitation.”
He noticed. Of course, he noticed.
“I was being polite.”
“You were being cautious. There’s a difference.” His amber eyes held hers with uncomfortable intensity. “Shall we dance, wife?”
The endearment, spoken in that intimate register that made her stomach flutter, sent heat spiraling through her chest. She was still furious with him about their argument, still determined not to let him control her choices—but the way he was looking at her made rational thought remarkably difficult.
“Very well,” she said, proud of how steady her voice sounded.
Hugo offered his arm with formal courtesy, but when she placed her gloved hand on his sleeve, she felt the tension coiled beneath the civilized surface. He was wound tight as a spring, barely restrained energy humming through his frame.
He’s still angry, too. Good.
The opening strains of a waltz filled the ballroom as Hugo led her onto the dance floor. His hand settled at her waist with possessive firmness, pulling her closer than was strictly proper as they began to move.
“You’re causing quite a stir this evening,” he said quietly, his breath warm against her ear.
“Am I?” She kept her voice carefully neutral though being this close to him was making concentration difficult. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Liar.” His thumb brushed against her waist through the silk, sending fire racing along her nerves. “Half the men in this ballroom are staring at you.”
“Are you jealous, Your Grace?” she asked with deliberate sweetness.
“Jealous?” his eyes darkened with something that made her breath catch. “I’m territorial. There’s a difference.”
Territorial. The word sent a dangerous thrill through her.
“How very… primitive of you.”
“You have no idea,” he murmured, spinning her through a complicated turn that brought her even closer against his chest for a moment before releasing her back to proper distance.
“Are you flirting with me, husband?” The question escaped before she could stop it, echoing with surprising accuracy the teasing challenge she’d thrown at him weeks ago in his library.
Hugo’s mouth curved in a smile that was pure predatory male satisfaction. “Perhaps.”
Perhaps. The same answer she’d given him then when she’d been trying to deny her attraction to him.
“We’re in public,” she reminded him though her voice came out breathless.
“I’m aware.” His hand tightened fractionally on her waist. “Though I’m finding it difficult to care about propriety when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to discover what’s beneath all this civilized behavior.” His voice dropped to a register that made her pulse race. “Like you’re remembering what it felt like when we were in the garden.”
He’s doing it again. Making me forget why I’m angry with him.