Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
The sharp cramp that seized Sybil’s lower abdomen as she fastened her emerald earrings felt like a dagger through her heart.
No. Please, not tonight.
She pressed her hand against her corseted waist, willing the familiar ache away, but the telltale dampness between her thighs confirmed her worst fears. Her courses had arrived with their monthly precision, washing away weeks of secret hope in a tide of bitter disappointment.
There is no baby. There never was.
“Your Grace?” Jenny appeared in the doorway, holding pressed gloves. “His Grace is asking if you’re nearly ready. The carriage is waiting.”
Sybil straightened slowly, forcing her face into careful composure. Through the bedroom window, she could see Hugo pacing the front steps, checking his pocket watch with that particular restless energy that meant his patience was wearing thin.
The Pemberton ball. Rosalie’s future might hang in the balance tonight, and here I am, wallowing in self-pity.
“Tell His Grace I’ll be down momentarily,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
“Shall I fetch some laudanum for the… discomfort? You look rather pale.”
Laudanum. Yes, that would dull more than just the physical pain.
“No, thank you. I need my wits about me tonight.”
Jenny helped her into her silk gloves, the familiar ritual giving Sybil precious moments to compose herself.
In the mirror, she looked every inch the duchess—diamonds at her throat, hair perfectly arranged, gown that cost more than most families saw in a year.
No one would guess that beneath all that finery, her heart was breaking.
“You look magnificent, Your Grace,” Jenny said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “His Grace won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
“Thank you, Jenny. That will be all.”
Alone, Sybil allowed herself one moment of raw grief.
She’d been so careful not to hope, so determined to guard her heart against disappointment.
But somewhere in the past weeks, as Hugo’s touches grew more tender and his smiles more genuine, she’d begun to dream of tiny hands and sleepy sighs, of giving him the heir he deserved.
Foolish. So utterly foolish.
Another sharp cramp doubled her over, and she gritted her teeth against the pain. Physical discomfort she could manage—she’d endured far worse during her years at the orphanage—but this hollow ache in her chest threatened to undo her completely.
Pull yourself together. Rosalie needs this evening to be perfect.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted her moment of weakness.
“Sybil? We’re going to be late.” Hugo’s voice carried that edge of controlled impatience she’d grown to recognize. “Lord Pemberton specifically requested we arrive early. He mentioned wanting to discuss Rosalie’s debut plans with us privately.”
“Coming!” she called then took one last steadying breath before opening the door.
Hugo stood in the hallway adjusting his cufflinks, magnificent in black evening dress that emphasized his broad shoulders and lean frame. When he looked up and saw her, his expression shifted from irritation to something much warmer.
“Christ,” he breathed, his amber eyes traveling from her face to her gown and back again. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you,” she managed, accepting his offered arm. “You look rather handsome yourself.”
His smile was boyish, pleased. “Trying to make a good impression on the future in-laws.”
Future in-laws. Yes, focus on that. On Rosalie’s happiness instead of your own disappointment.
They made their way downstairs, where Rosalie waited in the foyer, radiant in pink silk that complemented her skin. She practically bounced with nervous excitement.
“Don’t I look presentable enough?” she asked anxiously. “Lady Pemberton is said to be quite particular about appearances.”
“You look beautiful,” Sybil assured her, meaning it completely. At eighteen, Rosalie glowed with youth and possibility—everything Sybil had thought she might help create. “Any mother would be delighted to welcome you into her family.”
“Do you really think so? Because I’ve heard she can be rather… formidable.”
“Formidable women usually respect other formidable women,” Hugo said dryly. “And you, my dear daughter, are definitely formidable.”
They settled into the carriage, Rosalie chattering nervously about the evening ahead while Sybil struggled to focus on anything beyond the cramping in her abdomen. Every jolt of the carriage wheels over cobblestones sent fresh waves of discomfort through her body.
At least the physical pain gives me something concrete to focus on.
“Are you quite well, Sybil?” Rosalie asked suddenly. “You seem rather quiet.”
Quiet. Yes, that’s one way to describe the sound of dreams dying.
“Just thoughtful about tonight. I want everything to go perfectly for you.”
“It will,” Hugo said confidently. “The Pembertons would be fools to reject a connection to our family.”
“What if they ask about my mother?” Rosalie’s voice went small, uncertain. “What if they’ve heard things?”
Hugo’s expression darkened. “Your mother was the daughter of an earl. If anyone suggests otherwise, they’ll answer to me.”
Protective papa. He’ll be just as fierce defending any children we might have.
Sybil turned quickly toward the window to hide her expression. In the glass, she caught a reflection of Hugo watching her with concern.
He knows something’s wrong. He always knows.
“Sybil?” his voice was gentle. “You’re certain you’re feeling well?”
“Perfectly fine,” she lied smoothly. “Just excited for Rosalie.”
The carriage drew to a halt outside Pemberton House which blazed with light from every window. Other carriages lined the street, disgorging London’s finest in their evening splendor.
Lord and Lady Pemberton waited in their elegant foyer, both dressed immaculately and wearing expressions of cautious welcome. Lady Pemberton was a handsome woman in her fifties with sharp eyes that seemed to catalog every detail of their appearance.
“Your Graces,” she curtsied precisely. “How honored we are to welcome you to our home.”
“The honor is entirely ours,” Hugo replied with ducal courtesy. “You’ve created a magnificent evening.”
“Lady Rosalie, how lovely to see you again,” Lady Pemberton turned her welcoming gaze on Hugo’s daughter. “You look absolutely radiant this evening.”
Rosalie curtsied beautifully. “Your Ladyship is very kind to include me tonight.”
“Nonsense. You’re practically family already.” Lady Pemberton’s smile grew genuinely warm. “Thomas speaks of little else these days.”
“Your Grace, you’re positively glowing this evening. How are the new orphanages progressing?”
“Very well, thank you for asking, My Lord. The Southwark location should open next month as we discussed.”
“Excellent news. Lady Pemberton has been quite inspired by your approach to systematic charity work.”
They moved into the main ballroom, where couples were already forming sets for country dances. The music was lively, the conversation animated, the entire scene radiating joy and celebration.
Rosalie was immediately claimed by young Lord Pemberton, who looked absurdly pleased to escort her onto the dance floor. They made a handsome couple—he fair and earnest, she dark and vivacious.
They look happy. That’s what matters tonight.
“She’s doing beautifully,” Hugo murmured beside her. “Look how naturally she moves in society.”
“She’s a credit to your raising,” Sybil replied, meaning it completely.
“Our raising,” he corrected gently. “She’s flourished under your guidance these past months.”
Another cramp seized her, sharp enough to make her catch her breath. Hugo noticed immediately, his hand moving to her elbow.
“Sybil? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing at all. Just admiring how well Rosalie dances.”
But Hugo’s amber eyes were too perceptive, noticing the tightness around her mouth, the careful way she held herself.
He’ll keep pushing until I tell him something. Better to give him a partial truth.
“I am feeling a bit unsettled,” she said finally. “Nothing serious.”
“Would you like to sit down? I can fetch you some refreshment.”
“That might be wise.”
He guided her to a chair along the wall, his touch gentle and solicitous. When he returned with a glass of lemonade, his brow was creased with concern.
“Perhaps we should go home early? If you’re unwell—”
“Absolutely not.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended. “Rosalie needs us here tonight.”
“Rosalie will understand if you’re not feeling well.”
“I’m perfectly fine, Hugo. Just tired.”
He studied her face for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. “You’d tell me if something was truly wrong?”
Would I? Can I explain that I spent weeks dreaming of your son growing in my womb? That I imagined tiny dark-haired babies with your amber eyes?
“Of course, I would.”
Another lie to add to tonight’s collection.
“Good.” But his expression remained troubled as he settled beside her. “Because you look… fragile tonight. Unlike yourself.”
Fragile. Yes, that’s exactly what I am—a fragile woman pretending to be strong.
They sat in companionable silence, watching the dancers swirl past in a kaleidoscope of silk and jewels. Rosalie laughed at something her partner said, her face glowing with happiness.
“She really is doing beautifully,” Sybil said softly.
“Thanks to you.” Hugo’s voice was warm with gratitude. “I could never have guided her through society like this. She needed a woman’s touch.”
That comment brightened Sybil’s mood a bit. Sybil loved being a mother to Rosalie.
“She needed confidence,” Sybil said firmly but with a sweet smile now on her face. “And you gave her that long before I came along.”
“Did I? Because there were times I wondered if I was failing her completely.”
“You’re a wonderful father, Hugo. Don’t doubt that.”
He turned to look at her fully, something unreadable in his amber eyes. “You are a natural with children, almost as if you were made for it.”
The words hit her like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs. For a moment, she could only stare at him, wondering if he somehow knew about her monthly disappointment.
As if I were made for it.
“Sybil? Did I say something wrong?”
“Not at all,” she managed. “I just… We should focus on Rosalie tonight.”
Hugo looked like he wanted to say more, but young Lord Pemberton was approaching with Rosalie on his arm, both of them flushed and laughing.
“Papa, Your Grace.” Rosalie curtsied slightly, breathless from dancing. “Thomas has asked me to take some air in the garden. With proper chaperones of course.”
Hugo’s expression immediately shifted to paternal suspicion. “What sort of air requires chaperones?”
“The sort that involves respectable conversation in a public garden,” Lord Pemberton said respectfully. “My parents suggested it, actually. They thought Lady Rosalie might enjoy seeing the new rose arbor.”
“Roses,” Hugo repeated dryly. “How romantic.”
“Papa,” Rosalie’s voice held a warning note. “Please don’t embarrass me.”
Sybil touched Hugo’s arm gently. “I’m sure a brief walk would be lovely. We can see the garden from here.”
Hugo looked between his daughter’s pleading face and Sybil’s encouraging nod then sighed in defeat.
“Very well. Fifteen minutes. And stay where we can see you.”
“Thank you, Papa!” Rosalie rose on her toes to kiss his cheek before hurrying away with her young man.
They settled back into their chairs, watching through the tall windows as Rosalie and Lord Pemberton strolled along the lamp-lit paths. Even from a distance, their happiness was evident in every gesture.
“They make a lovely couple,” Sybil said softly.
“They do.” Hugo’s voice held resignation and a father’s protective love. “God help me, but they do.”