Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Sybil stared at the calendar on her writing desk, counting backwards for the third time in as many minutes. Her fingers traced the dates with increasing excitement, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Two weeks. Nearly three, actually.
She’d been so caught up in the whirlwind of her new marriage, so distracted by Hugo’s heated looks and stolen kisses, that she’d barely noticed time passing. But now, sitting in the morning sunlight streaming through their bedroom windows, the realization hit her like a thunderbolt.
I might be carrying his child.
The thought sent pure joy racing through her veins.
A baby. Hugo’s baby.
After years of convincing herself she didn’t deserve such happiness, the possibility seemed almost too wonderful to believe.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. It could be nothing. Stress, the upheaval of marriage, any number of things could explain the delay.
But even as she tried to temper her expectations, she couldn’t suppress the smile that kept tugging at her lips. Her hand drifted unconsciously to her still-flat stomach.
What would Hugo say? Would he be pleased? Worried? He already has three daughters…
“Sybil?” Hugo’s voice from the dressing room made her jump, snatching her hand away from her belly like she’d been caught stealing. “Are you ready for breakfast? Cook’s prepared those kippers you enjoy.”
“Coming!” she called back, hastily closing the calendar and tucking it into the drawer. She needed to be certain before saying anything. No point in raising hopes that might come to nothing.
But oh, what if it’s true? What if we’re going to have a child together?
The secret hummed inside her chest as she made her way downstairs, making everything seem brighter somehow.
The way Hugo pulled out her chair at the breakfast table, the casual brush of his fingers against hers when he passed the jam, even Rosalie’s animated chatter about Lord Pemberton’s latest visit—it all felt touched with magic.
“You’re unusually cheerful this morning,” Hugo observed, studying her face with those perceptive amber eyes. “Something’s put you in an excellent mood.”
If only you knew.
“Can’t a woman simply be happy without cause for suspicion?” she replied, spreading marmalade on her toast with perhaps more enthusiasm than the task warranted.
“She can. But you’re practically glowing, and I’m curious about the source.”
Glowing. Oh, wouldn’t that be fitting?
“Perhaps it’s the pleasure of your charming company at breakfast,” she said then immediately blushed at her own boldness.
Hugo’s mouth curved in that slow smile that always made her stomach flutter. “Charming company, is it? I must be improving with practice.”
“You’re improving at many things with practice,” she said then turned crimson as she realized how that sounded.
Rosalie looked up from her correspondence with obvious interest. “What sort of practice? Are we talking about Papa’s attempts at dancing? Because those have been quite entertaining to watch.”
“Dancing?” Sybil looked at Hugo with surprise. “You’ve been practicing dancing?”
“I have not been practicing dancing,” Hugo said firmly, shooting his daughter a warning look. “I’ve been… reviewing certain social skills to ensure I don’t embarrass my duchess at public events.”
“He’s been waltzing with Mrs. Crawford in the ballroom,” Rosalie continued with obvious delight. “Yesterday, she stepped on his foot so hard he limped for an hour.”
“Rosalie,” Hugo’s voice held that particular parental tone that suggested dangerous territory.
“What? It’s sweet! Papa wants to be a better dance partner for you, Sybil. Though perhaps he should practice with someone closer to your height. Mrs. Crawford is rather… substantial.”
He’s been practicing dancing. For me.
The thought made Sybil’s chest tight with affection. This gruff, powerful man who could intimidate half of London with a look had been stumbling around his ballroom with his housekeeper, trying to improve his steps for her sake.
How can I not tell him about the baby? How can I keep such joy to myself when he’s working so hard to make me happy?
But caution won out over impulse. She’d wait until she was certain, until there could be no doubt.
“Well,” she said, reaching over to squeeze Hugo’s hand, “I think any lady would be honored to dance with a gentleman who cares enough to practice.”
“Even if he occasionally steps on her toes?”
“Especially then. It shows commitment.”
Their eyes met across the breakfast table, and for a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade away. Until Rosalie cleared her throat pointedly.
“Should I leave you two alone? Because the way you’re looking at each other is making me rather uncomfortable.”
“Finish your breakfast,” Hugo said without taking his eyes off Sybil. “And then you can tell us about this letter that’s had you smiling all morning.”
“It’s from Lord Pemberton,” Rosalie said, her cheeks turning pink. “He’s asked if I’d like to attend the opera with his family next week. With proper chaperones of course.”
Hugo’s expression shifted, the softness disappearing behind ducal authority. “The opera.”
“Yes, Papa. You know, that place where people sing loudly in Italian while wearing ridiculous costumes? Perfectly respectable entertainment.”
“I’m familiar with opera, thank you. I’m less familiar with this young man’s intentions toward my daughter.”
And here we go.
“His intentions seem to be asking me to cultural events with his mother present,” Rosalie replied with admirable patience. “Unless you suspect Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro of being particularly scandalous?”
“I suspect young men of being particularly optimistic about what constitutes adequate supervision.”
Sybil decided to intervene before this escalated into another battle of wills. “What did you tell him, Rosalie?”
“That I’d need to discuss it with Papa, naturally. Though I was hoping for a more reasonable response than immediately assuming the worst of everyone involved.”
“I don’t assume the worst,” Hugo protested. “I simply prepare for likely outcomes.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a young man using a dark opera box and emotional music to attempt liberties with my daughter.”
Good heavens, the man has an imagination.
“Hugo,” Sybil said gently, “Lord Pemberton is the son of a marquess. I hardly think he’s planning to compromise Rosalie during the Marriage of Figaro.”
“You don’t know young men like I do.”
“I was young once myself, you know. And I survived multiple opera performances without being ravished in a box seat.”
Rosalie snorted with laughter which she quickly covered with her napkin. “Did you just say ‘ravished’ at the breakfast table?”
“I did, and I’m not taking it back. Your father is being ridiculous.”
Hugo’s eyes narrowed. “Ridiculous?”
“Completely ridiculous. Lord Pemberton is a perfectly respectable young man from a good family who’s shown nothing but proper behavior toward your daughter. And you’re acting like he’s some sort of libertine planning elaborate seductions.”
Though given how thoroughly you’ve seduced me without even trying, perhaps you have some insight into the male mind.
“Fine,” Hugo said after a long moment. “She can attend. With conditions.”
“What conditions?” Rosalie asked warily.
“You’ll sit in a box where you’re clearly visible to the rest of the theater. You’ll remain with Lord and Lady Pemberton at all times. And you’ll be home by midnight.”
“Papa, the opera won’t even start until eight—”
“Midnight,” Hugo repeated firmly. “Those are my terms.”
Rosalie looked at Sybil pleadingly. “Can you talk sense into him?”
Not when he gets that particular set to his jaw.
“I think your father’s conditions are reasonable,” Sybil said diplomatically. “Public venue, proper chaperones, reasonable hours. What more could you ask for?”
“A father who doesn’t think every man in London is a potential villain?”
“That may be beyond my powers of persuasion,” Sybil admitted.
“I don’t think every man in London is a villain,” Hugo protested. “Just the ones who show interest in my daughters.”
Oh, this poor man. Wait until Leah and Melanie are old enough for suitors.
“In any case,” Sybil said, rising from the table, “I have appointments this morning. The committee meeting for the charity fundraiser is at ten.”
“Ah, yes,” Hugo stood as well, moving to hold her chair. “Your project to establish more orphanages. How is that progressing?”
The question sent a thrill of purpose through her. This was her project, her vision for expanding the work she’d started. Not filling a void in her heart but building something larger and more lasting than she’d ever imagined possible.
“Very well. Lady Pemberton has agreed to host the event at Pemberton House next month. We’re expecting over two hundred guests, and the initial pledges have been quite encouraging.”
More than encouraging. They’ve been astounding.
“And you’re certain this is how you want to spend your time? You don’t have to take on such an enormous undertaking simply because you feel obligated.”
Sybil paused in gathering her correspondence, struck by the question. A year ago, she might have taken on such a project out of guilt or a desperate need to be useful. But now…
“I want to do this,” she said, surprised by the certainty in her own voice. “Not because I need to be needed but because I can help. Because I have resources now and connections and the ability to make a real difference.”
And because maybe our child will grow up in a world with fewer orphaned children. Maybe they’ll see their mother as someone who built something meaningful.
“Good,” Hugo said simply. “I’m proud of you for taking this on. And I’m proud of the way you’re approaching it—strategically, with clear goals and sustainable plans.”
Proud of me. When was the last time someone said they were proud of me?