Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The silk nightgown landed in a whisper-soft heap at the foot of the bed, followed immediately by the sound of Hugo’s sharp intake of breath from where he stood frozen in the doorway of what had once been his private chambers.
His chambers. Which were now, apparently, their chambers.
“Oh!” Sybil spun around from the armoire where she’d been selecting a fresh nightgown, one hand flying to her chest. “Hugo! You could knock, you know.”
“In my own bedroom?” he held up a stack of letters like a peace offering. “I brought your correspondence.”
“Our bedroom,” she corrected, pulling a fresh nightgown over her head. “And thank you. Anything interesting?”
Our bedroom. She says it so casually, as though this arrangement is the most natural thing in the world.
It had been a shock as well.
Their arrangement had evolved naturally since the night after she spoke to her parents.
What had begun as Sybil occasionally staying late in his chambers after their conversations had gradually become her bringing her personal effects, then her evening clothes, until one morning, Sybil had decided there was no more reason to go back to her old room.
Neither had formally discussed the change—it had simply happened, as natural as breathing.
“Invitations, mostly. Lady Pemberton wants to know if we’ll attend her soiree next week.” Hugo set the letters on the small writing desk, grateful for something to do with his hands. “And Rosalie mentioned at dinner that some young man has been calling on her rather frequently.”
“Lord Pemberton?” Sybil settled onto the edge of the bed, beginning to brush her long auburn hair. “He seems pleasant enough.”
“He seems young and eager and entirely too interested in my daughter for my peace of mind.”
“You can’t lock her away forever, you know.” The brush moved through her hair in long, hypnotic strokes. “She’s eighteen, Hugo. Old enough to receive callers.”
“Old enough to make mistakes she’ll regret for the rest of her life,” he corrected grimly.
“Is that what you think this is?” Sybil’s voice had gone quiet, careful. “A mistake you’ll regret?”
This. Us. Whatever we’ve become since that kiss in Richmond.
Hugo turned to face her fully, noting the way her hands had stilled on the brush, the neutral expression that didn’t quite hide the vulnerability beneath.
“No,” he said quietly. “But I think it’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
Dangerous because you’ve gotten under my skin in ways I never expected. Because I find myself thinking about you when I should be focused on estate business. Because you have power over me that I don’t know how to control.
“Because I’m not good at this,” he admitted instead.
Sybil set down the brush, her blue eyes studying his face. “Not good at what, exactly?”
“This. Caring about someone this much.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended. “I told you from the beginning this was supposed to be practical. Convenient. I wasn’t supposed to—”
He stopped himself before he could finish that thought. Before he could admit just how completely she’d turned his carefully ordered world upside down.
“You weren’t supposed to what?” she prompted gently.
Feel like my entire world revolves around you. Think about your happiness before my own. Wonder what you’re doing every moment we’re apart.
“I wasn’t supposed to lose perspective,” he said instead. “I have responsibilities. Daughters to protect. An estate to manage. I can’t afford to be distracted by—”
“By your wife?”
By my wife, who makes me question every decision I make. Who makes me want to be a better man than I am.
“By feelings that make me act like a fool.”
Sybil was quiet for a long moment, her gaze never leaving his face. When she spoke, her voice was soft but pointed.
“And what exactly have you done that’s so foolish?”
“I nearly challenged a man to a duel because he made an inappropriate comment about you at Lady Pemberton’s ball,” Hugo said dryly.
“You what?” Sybil’s eyes widened. “Hugo, you didn’t mention—”
“Because it was ridiculous. Completely irrational. The sort of behavior I’d expect from a jealous boy, not a grown man with responsibilities.”
But that’s what you do to me. Make me lose all sense of proportion and dignity.
“Who was it?” she asked though something in her tone suggested she already suspected.
“Lord Worthington. He made some crude observations about your appearance, and I found myself wanting to defend your honor in the most dramatic way possible.”
Still do, actually. The memory of him speaking about you like that makes my blood boil.
“Hugo.” Sybil rose from the bed, moving toward him with that graceful walk that always commanded his complete attention. “You can’t challenge every man who says something inappropriate. We’d run out of ammunition.”
We’d run out of gentlemen in London first.
“I know that,” he said stiffly. “Which is why I walked away instead of calling him out. But it took every ounce of self-control I possess.”
“Why?” She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he could smell the lavender soap she used, could see the gold flecks in her blue eyes. “Why does it matter what other men think or say?”
Because you deserve better than crude speculation. Because the thought of anyone disrespecting you makes me want to commit violence. Because you’re precious to me in ways I don’t know how to express.
“Because you’re my wife,” he said instead.
“Is that all?”
No. It’s because I’m falling in love with you, and it terrifies me more than anything I’ve ever experienced.
“Isn’t that enough?”
Sybil searched his face for a long moment, and Hugo had the uncomfortable feeling she could see straight through his careful deflections to the truth he wasn’t ready to voice.
She knows. Somehow, she knows exactly what she’s done to me.
“I suppose it will have to be,” she said finally though something in her voice suggested disappointment.
Disappointment. Because I can’t give her the words she wants to hear.
Because admitting how much I care about her would mean acknowledging how completely she controls my happiness now.
“Sybil,” he started then stopped, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t reveal too much.
“It’s all right, Hugo.” She turned back toward the bed, beginning to turn down the covers. “I understand what this is for you. What I am to you.”
“Do you?” he asked quietly.
“You’re a man who finds his wife agreeable enough for companionship.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but Hugo caught the slight tremor in her voice. “It’s more than many marriages have.”
Agreeable companionship. Is that what she thinks this is?
“Sybil—”
“It’s more than I expected when I agreed to marry you,” she continued, not meeting his eyes, “so I’m grateful for whatever affection you’re willing to give.”
Grateful. She thinks she should be grateful for scraps of my attention.
The idea that she might doubt her own worth, might think she deserved only whatever leftover emotion he was willing to spare, made something twist painfully in his chest.
How can she not see what she’s become to me? How can she not know that she’s the most important thing in my world now?
But saying that would mean admitting how much power she held over him. How completely she could destroy him if she chose to.
And that’s a vulnerability I’m not ready to hand her. Not yet.
“You should get some rest,” he said instead, moving toward his dressing room. “Tomorrow will be busy with Rosalie’s callers and the usual social obligations.”
Coward. You’re being a complete coward.
“Hugo?” Her voice stopped him at the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Are you… are you happy? With how things have changed between us?”
Happy? I’m terrified and exhilarated and completely out of my depth. I’ve never cared about anyone as much as I care about you, and it’s driving me half mad.
“Yes,” he said simply because it was true even if it was incomplete.
“Good.” The smile she gave him was soft, genuine. “So am I.”
So am I. As if this is enough for her. As if she doesn’t need more than I’m giving.
But as Hugo retreated to his dressing room, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t be enough forever. That eventually she’d want words he wasn’t sure he could say, promises he wasn’t certain he could keep.
Because caring this much means risking everything. And I’ve never been good at risks when it comes to matters of the heart.
Through the thin wall separating them, he could hear her moving about the bedroom, preparing for sleep in the space they now shared. His space that had become theirs without any formal discussion or agreement.
She just… moved in. Brought her things, arranged them next to mine, acted as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
And I let her. More than let her—welcomed it, even as it terrified me.
Because having her here, in his private sanctuary, felt both like coming home and like standing on the edge of a precipice.
She’s under my skin now. In my thoughts constantly. And I don’t know how to protect myself from that.
Or if I even want to anymore.
The sounds from the bedroom had gone quiet, suggesting she’d settled for the night. Hugo finished his own preparations mechanically, his mind still churning with everything unsaid between them.
Tomorrow I’ll try to find the words. Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to explain what she means to me without admitting how completely she owns my peace of mind.
But as he finally made his way back to their shared bed, as he saw her sleeping form curled on what had become her side, Hugo suspected tomorrow would bring the same reluctance that had silenced him tonight.
He slipped into bed beside her, careful not to wake her, and stared at the ceiling for a long time before sleep finally claimed him.
And in his dreams, he found the courage he lacked when awake.