Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sybil pressed herself further into the corner of Anthea’s drawing room, using her teacup as a shield against her friend’s increasingly penetrating stare.
This was supposed to be a simple social call. Tea, polite conversation, perhaps some discussion of Rosalie’s successful debut. Not… this.
“You’ve been avoiding someone,” Anthea observed with the directness that had made her both feared and respected among the ton’s gossips. “And judging by that particular shade of pink in your cheeks, I’d venture it’s your husband.”
Goodness. Anthea and her ability to read people like open books.
“I haven’t been avoiding anyone,” Sybil protested, setting down her cup with more force than necessary. “I’ve simply been busy. There’s been so much to organize since Rosalie’s debut—”
“Sybil.” Anthea’s words cut through her rambling with surgical precision. “You’ve rearranged your calling schedule three times this week. Even Rosalie has noticed.”
Of course, she noticed. The girl has inherited her father’s unfortunate talent for observation.
“What exactly happened during that Richmond outing?” Cassandra leaned forward from her position on the settee, blue eyes sparkling with curiosity.
Only the most earth-shattering kiss of my entire life, followed by three days of complete confusion about what it means.
“Nothing happened,” Sybil lied. “We had a pleasant drive, enjoyed the countryside, and returned home. Perfectly ordinary.”
“Perfectly ordinary,” Anthea repeated dryly. “Yes, I can see how ordinary it was by the way you’re gripping that saucer like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.”
Sybil looked down to find her knuckles white against the delicate porcelain. She forced her fingers to relax though her pulse continued its frantic rhythm.
Why did I think I could hide anything from these two? They’ve known me for years.
“Perhaps something slightly… unexpected occurred,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Such as?” Cassandra prompted gently.
“We may have…” Sybil stopped, color flooding her face. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I kissed him. There. Are you satisfied?”
The words hung in the air like a confession. Anthea and Cassandra exchanged one of their meaningful looks—the kind that spoke volumes about shared understanding and barely suppressed amusement.
“Kissed him,” Anthea said slowly. “Your husband. The man you married three months ago.”
When she puts it like that, it sounds perfectly reasonable.
“Yes.”
“And this is problematic because?” Cassandra’s confusion was genuine.
“Because we agreed this would be a practical arrangement,” Sybil said finally. “A marriage of convenience with clear boundaries and no romantic complications.”
“Whose idea was it to maintain these boundaries?” Anthea asked. “Yours or his?”
Mine. Definitely mine. Hugo has been remarkably… flexible about boundaries.
“Mine,” Sybil admitted quietly.
“And now you’re confused.” Cassandra’s observation was gentle but pointed. “Because you’ve been remembering that you’re a woman with desires of your own.”
“Desire is precisely what destroys women,” Sybil’s laugh was bitter. “Look what happened to Emmie when she followed her heart instead of her head.”
Silence fell over the drawing room. Both her friends knew the story of Emmie’s tragic end and understood the scars that particular loss had left.
“You can’t possibly believe your situation is comparable to your sister’s,” Cassandra said softly.
“A woman allowing emotion to override practical considerations? It seems remarkably similar to me.”
“How is it similar in any way?” Anthea’s words were sharp now, cutting. “I see a woman whose husband is offering her everything Emmie’s seducer promised and never delivered.”
“I made a vow—”
“A vow made by a grief-stricken girl who blamed herself for tragedies that were never her fault.” Anthea interrupted with unusual heat. “Tell me, Sybil, do you honestly believe Emmie would want you to spend your life punishing yourself for her choices?”
Emmie’s wishes. I never got to hear what she wanted for me.
“I don’t know what she would have wanted,” Sybil whispered.
“I knew Emmie, too. I saw how much she loved you, how proud she was of your strength. Do you really think she’d want you to sacrifice your happiness as penance?”
The question hit harder than it should have. Sybil had spent years assuming her sister’s final thoughts had been of abandonment and betrayal.
“She would want you to be happy,” Cassandra added gently. “To find love and companionship and all the things she was denied.”
“You’ve spent years punishing your parents by denying yourself happiness,” Anthea continued. “How has that served anyone?”
How has it served anyone? It hasn’t. My parents are still distant, still carrying guilt. I’m still carrying mine. Nothing has been resolved.
“I don’t know how to want things for myself,” Sybil admitted in a voice barely above a whisper. “For years, everything I’ve done has been for others. I don’t know how to be selfish.”
“Wanting your husband’s affection isn’t selfish,” Cassandra said firmly. “It’s human.”
“But what if I want more than he’s prepared to give? What if this attraction means something deeper for me than for him?”
The fear that’s been haunting me for days.
“Have you asked him?” Anthea inquired with characteristic bluntness.
“Asked him what?”
“What he wants from this marriage. What his feelings actually are.”
As if I could simply walk up to the Duke of Vestiaire and inquire about the state of his heart.
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“Why not? You’re his wife, Sybil. You have every right to know where you stand.”
“Because what if the answer is that I don’t stand anywhere?” The words came out raw, vulnerable. “What if I’m building this into something it’s not?”
“And what if you’re not?” Anthea challenged. “What if he’s been waiting for you to permit him to care? What if your insistence on boundaries has been preventing him from offering you everything you’re afraid to want?”
Everything I’m afraid to want. Love, partnership, a real marriage.
“I should go,” Sybil said suddenly, rising with unsteady movements. “Rosalie will be wondering where I’ve gone.”
“Sybil—” Cassandra began.
“Thank you for the tea,” Sybil interrupted, already moving toward the door. “It’s been most illuminating.”
She made her escape before either friend could offer more uncomfortable insights though she could feel their concerned gazes following her.
Think about what they said. Really consider whether Emmie would want this self-imposed exile from happiness.
But thinking was treacherous. Thinking led to wanting, and wanting led to the kind of vulnerability that had destroyed her sister.
Safer to maintain distance.
The problem was, after three days of Hugo’s heated looks and careful patience, she wasn’t sure those boundaries were still intact.
Or if she wanted them to be.
Lost in thought, Sybil barely noticed her surroundings as she climbed the front steps of their London townhouse. Anthea’s words echoed with uncomfortable persistence, challenging assumptions she’d held for years.
Do you honestly believe Emmie would want this for you?
The question had shaken something loose inside her chest, some long-held certainty about duty and sacrifice that suddenly felt less solid.
Maybe Anthea is right. Maybe I’ve been punishing myself for crimes I didn’t commit.
She was so absorbed in these treacherous thoughts that she failed to notice the tall figure waiting in the front hall until she’d practically walked directly into him.
“Hugo!” The name escaped as a startled exclamation. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Clearly.” His gaze took in her flustered state with the thoroughness of a man who missed nothing. “How was your visit with Miss Croft?”
Enlightening. Disturbing. Completely devastating to my peace of mind.
“Pleasant,” she said carefully. “Anthea and Cassandra send their regards.”
“I’m sure they do.” Hugo moved closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne. “Sybil, I believe we need to discuss—”
“Actually, I should check on the correspondence,” she interrupted quickly, taking a step toward the stairs. “Mrs. Hartford mentioned several invitations—”
“The correspondence can wait.” Hugo’s hand closed gently around her wrist, not restraining but unmistakably requesting her attention. “My study. Now.”
Now. Not a request, then.
The way he said it—with quiet authority and something that might have been barely leashed patience—sent a shiver down her spine.
He’s been waiting for this as much as I’ve been avoiding it.
“Hugo, I really don’t think—”
“I wasn’t asking what you think.” His eyes held hers with uncomfortable intensity. “I was telling you what’s going to happen. We’re going to my study, and we’re going to have the talk you’ve been avoiding for three days.”
Three days. Has it been that obvious?
The answer was clearly yes, judging by the knowing look he gave her.
“Very well,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “But I don’t see what there is to discuss.”
Hugo’s mouth curved in a smile that held no humor whatsoever. “Don’t you? Then this should be brief indeed.”
Brief. Something tells me this will be anything but brief.
But she followed him toward his study anyway, her heart hammering as she tried to prepare for whatever reckoning awaited.
Because Anthea was right about one thing—avoiding this indefinitely wasn’t an option. And perhaps it was time to discover exactly where she stood with her husband.
Even if the answer terrified her.