Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lamplight flickered through the drawing room windows as Sybil pushed through the front door, her mind still reeling from everything that had happened with her parents. The house should’ve been quiet—servants gone to bed, Hugo probably asleep hours ago.
Except he wasn’t.
There he sat in that big leather chair of his, book propped open but obviously forgotten.
His hair looked like he’d been dragging his fingers through it all evening.
Cravat hanging loose, sleeves shoved up past his elbows.
It made him look… younger somehow. Less like the intimidating Duke everyone feared.
He’s been sitting here. Waiting. Worrying about me.
Something twisted in her chest at that thought. All that gruff exterior, all the barked orders and protective anger—underneath it beat the heart of a man who actually cared what happened to her.
“You’re back,” he said, setting his book aside. Those amber eyes of his swept over her face like he was searching for clues. “How’d it go?”
How’d it go? Christ, where do I even start?
Instead of trying to explain with words, she crossed the room and kissed his cheek. Just a soft press of her lips against his skin, but she felt him relax under her touch.
“It went well,” she murmured, breathing in that familiar scent—cologne and something purely him that always made her stomach flutter.
“Well.” He let out a long breath, hands settling on her shoulders for just a moment before dropping away. “You look different. Lighter, maybe.”
“I feel it. They… they told me things I didn’t know. About what really happened after Emmie left.” She stepped back, already missing the warmth of his hands. “About why everyone believes what they do.”
Hugo was already moving toward the sideboard, pouring drinks. “Whiskey?”
“Please.”
Their fingers brushed when he handed her the glass. Such a small thing, but it sent heat shooting straight up her arm.
“Want to talk about it?” his voice was careful, giving her room to say no if she wasn’t ready.
Sybil took a sip, letting the burn settle her nerves. “Father killed Lord Hartwell in a duel two days after Emmie ran. That’s why everyone thinks she eloped.”
Hugo’s eyebrows shot up. “Well. That explains a few things.”
“They’ve been trying to make up for it in their way. Cut ties with all the friends who pushed them to be so harsh. Been giving money to places that help women like… like Emmie was.” Another sip. “I’ve been so angry for so long, but it’s more complicated than I thought.”
“And now?”
“Now, I think… I think she would’ve wanted forgiveness. Not me carrying this poison around forever.” The words came easier than expected. “We’re going to try to be a family again.”
“Good.” Simple word but the warmth in it made her chest tight. “Family’s worth fighting for when you can get it back.”
“Thank you. For bringing me the letter, for letting me go alone when I needed to.” She settled into the chair across from him. “It mattered.”
Hugo made that dismissive gesture men do when they’re uncomfortable with gratitude.
“How’s Rosalie handling all this London nonsense?”
Safe topic. Something that won’t make either of us squirm.
“Better than I expected, actually. She seems… settled. Maybe your approach is working, or maybe she just needed to get some of that wildness out of her system.” Hugo dropped back into his chair, cradling his glass. “Either way, she’s not trying to swim in freezing lakes anymore.”
“Thank God for small mercies.”
“Exactly.” His mouth twitched—might’ve been a smile. “Though knowing her, she’ll find new ways to terrify me soon enough.”
New ways to terrify him. Poor man.
They sat quietly for a bit, just the fire crackling and the soft clink of glass on glass.
“So what should we talk about?” Sybil heard herself ask.
“Hell if I know.” Hugo looked genuinely stumped. “What do normal married people discuss?”
Normal married people. As if we’re anything close to normal.
“Tell me something about yourself. Something I wouldn’t know from living here.”
“Like what?”
“If you were not born as the heir of a Duke, and you could choose any path for yourself, what would you have chosen?”
Hugo stared into his whiskey like the answer might be floating there. “When I was little, I wanted to be a ship’s captain. Wanted to sail off to places no Englishman had ever seen. Have adventures.”
A captain. I can picture it—young Hugo with wind in his hair and mischief in his eyes.
“What changed?”
“Well, my father made it pretty clear that dukes don’t abandon their duties for romantic nonsense about exploration.” No bitterness in his voice, just facts. “Besides, people needed me here. The estate, tenants, and eventually, my own family. They needed stability, not some fool chasing dreams.”
“Ever regret it? Choosing duty over adventure?”
“Sometimes.” His eyes found hers. “Though lately I’ve been thinking maybe the best adventures happen closer to home than I realized.”
Closer to home. What’s he mean by that?
Heat crept up her neck, but she pushed it down.
“What about you? Before everything went sideways with your family.”
Before Emmie died, and I decided I didn’t deserve dreams.
“I wanted to travel too. Not by sea—overland. Italy, Florence, Vienna. All those libraries and ruins and art.” Strange how easy it was to admit this old dream. “Thought I might write about it. Travel journals for women who couldn’t make those journeys themselves.”
“Travel journals.” Hugo leaned forward. “That’s brilliant. What’s stopping you now?”
Fear. Guilt. The belief that wanting things for myself is selfish.
“Nothing, I suppose. Just… haven’t thought about what I wanted for myself in years.”
“Maybe it’s time to start.”
Maybe it is.
The fire popped, sparks shooting up the chimney. She felt loose, relaxed—whether from the whiskey or the emotional release of the day or just Hugo’s presence, she couldn’t say.
Without thinking, she started tugging off her gloves. God, it felt good to free her hands after that long day.
“Sybil.”
Something in his voice made her look up. He was staring at her hands with an expression she couldn’t read.
Oh hell. He’s seeing them.
She jerked her hands behind her back, face going hot. “They’re not… I mean, all that work at the orphanage. I was always getting my hands dirty, and there are scars from accidents in the kitchen and rough patches from scrubbing floors and…”
Shut up. Stop babbling like an idiot.
But the words kept spilling as Hugo stood and started walking toward her.
“I know they don’t look like a duchess’ hands should, and I’ve been trying to use creams to make them softer, but you can’t undo years of work overnight—”
By the time he reached her, she couldn’t breathe properly. Her heart was hammering so hard it hurt. His gaze locked on hers, intense and burning.
“Let me see them,” he said quietly.
Let him see. The damaged, ugly hands I’ve been hiding.
Hands shaking, she held them out. Hugo took them carefully, turning them to see her palms, the calluses, the little scars that mapped out her life.
Then he lifted them to his mouth and kissed them. Not polite little pecks—real kisses, slow and warm against her palms, her knuckles, even the rough spots she hated most.
“These are the hands of someone incredible,” he said against her skin, breath warm and devastating. “Someone who’s never backed down from caring for others, no matter what it cost her. Don’t you dare hide them from me.”
Incredible. He thinks they’re incredible.
Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was finally making peace with her parents. Maybe it was Anthea’s voice in her head telling her to be brave. Whatever it was, she heard herself whisper:
“Kiss me.”
Hugo’s eyes went dark. He searched her face for doubt, uncertainty. Found none.
His hands framed her face, and his mouth came down on hers.
Gentle at first. Careful. Like he was giving her time to change her mind. But when she pressed closer instead of pulling away, when her fingers twisted in his shirt to drag him nearer, everything shifted.
His mouth became demanding, hungry, and she met him with the same fierce need. All those careful boundaries, all that polite distance—it crumbled under the heat of finally admitting what they both wanted.
When they broke apart, both gasping, she looked up into those burning amber eyes and said the words that terrified and thrilled her.
“I don’t want this to be a marriage on paper anymore.”
Hugo’s smile was slow and satisfied. Purely male. But he didn’t say anything back. Didn’t put his feelings into words that might’ve told her what this meant to him.
He’s pleased. But pleased because he wants a real marriage, or just pleased because he’s getting what any man would want from his wife?
The doubt crept in even as he pulled her closer. Even as his thumb traced her lip with that devastating gentleness.
Does he want me, or does he just want the convenience of a willing wife?
But those were questions for tomorrow. Tonight, she was done being afraid. Done denying herself happiness because of old ghosts.
Tonight, she was taking what she wanted and dealing with the consequences later.