Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sybil found Hugo in his study at half past midnight, standing before the cold fireplace with a glass of brandy in his hand. The ride home from the Pemberton ball had passed in suffocating silence, broken only by Rosalie’s muffled sobs from the corner of the carriage.
He looks like a stranger. Like the cold, intimidating duke I first met all those months ago.
“Hugo,” she said softly, closing the door behind her. “We need to discuss what happened tonight.”
He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge her presence beyond a slight stiffening of his shoulders. In the lamplight, his reflection in the dark window showed a face carved from stone.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” he said finally, his voice flat and emotionless. “I will receive satisfaction for Lord Pemberton’s insult, and that will be the end of it.”
“Hugo, this isn’t the medieval ages. You can’t solve every problem with violence.”
“Perhaps that’s been my mistake all along. Being too soft, too willing to compromise.” He turned then, and the look in his amber eyes made her take an involuntary step backward. There was nothing of warmth there, nothing of the man who’d held her tenderly just that morning.
“I should have maintained proper discipline from the beginning,” he continued, moving to his desk. “Should have kept Rosalie on a tighter rein instead of listening to your advice about giving her freedom.”
The accusation hit Sybil like a physical blow. “You’re blaming me for what happened tonight?”
“You’re the one who convinced me to be less strict with her.”
“I said she needed guidance, not imprisonment. There’s a difference between discipline and tyranny.”
“Tyranny?” Hugo’s laugh was harsh. “I’m her father. It’s my responsibility to protect her.”
“She’s eighteen years old, not a child.”
“She’s my child. And tonight proved that she’s not ready for the responsibilities of adulthood.”
Sybil stared at him, seeing clearly for the first time the man beneath the charming facade. This was who Hugo truly was—a duke who brooked no opposition, who demanded absolute control.
“What happened tonight wasn’t about Rosalie being immature,” she said quietly. “It was about a young woman so desperate for approval that she felt she had to hide her feelings.”
“She should have come to me directly.”
“When you’ve made it clear that you view every young man as a threat? When you’ve created an atmosphere where she’s afraid to trust you with her happiness?”
Hugo’s face darkened. “I’ve given her everything.”
“Everything except the chance to make her own choices.” Sybil moved closer to his desk. “She felt she had to accept a proposal in secret because she knew you’d find reasons to reject any man she chose.”
“I would have evaluated Pemberton on his merits—”
“No man will ever be good enough for your daughter in your eyes.”
Hugo went very still, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of his desk.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice deadly quiet.
“You want to know why Rosalie couldn’t come to you? Because you’ve made it clear that your approval must be earned through absolute obedience.”
“I’ve made it clear that actions have consequences.”
“Whose actions, Hugo? Yours or hers?”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Hugo looked at her as if seeing a stranger.
“I think,” he said finally, “that you’ve forgotten your place in this family.”
The words hit her like ice water.
“And what exactly is my place, Your Grace?”
“You’re my wife. Your role is to support my decisions, not undermine them.”
“Even when your decisions are wrong?”
“My decisions are made with the best interests of this family in mind.”
Sybil felt the last of her illusions crumble away. “You’re behaving exactly like my father did.”
“Your father, who tried to protect his family’s reputation?”
“My father, who cared more about appearances than his daughter’s happiness. Who drove Emmie away rather than show compassion.”
“Your father was trying to prevent a scandal—”
“My father was a rigid, unforgiving man who chose his pride over his child’s life.” Sybil’s voice was shaking now. “And if you go through with this duel, you’ll be doing exactly the same thing.”
Hugo’s face had gone white, but his eyes remained hard as granite.
“If you fight Lord Pemberton in a duel, you will lose Rosalie forever,” she pressed on. “She’ll never forgive you for destroying the man she loves.”
“She’ll come to understand—”
“She’ll come to hate you. Just like I came to hate my father.”
Hugo turned away from her, walking back to the window.
“You don’t understand the situation.”
“I understand that you’re so terrified of losing control that you’d rather destroy your daughter’s happiness than trust her judgment.”
His shoulders were rigid with tension. “She’s my daughter. It’s my responsibility to protect her.”
“Then protect her happiness, not your pride. Trust that you’ve raised her well enough to make good choices.”
“And if she’s wrong? If Pemberton proves unworthy?”
“Then she’ll learn. But if you kill him, she’ll never have that chance.”
Hugo looked older in the lamplight, worn down by his own rigid expectations.
“I can’t risk her future on the chance that she knows better than I do.”
“Then you’ve already lost her.”
Sybil turned toward the door, knowing there was nothing more she could say.
“Where are you going?” Hugo asked sharply.
“Somewhere I can think clearly. Somewhere I don’t have to watch you destroy everything good in your life.”
She reached for the door handle, but Hugo’s voice stopped her.
“Sybil, wait. You can’t simply leave—”
“I’m not your daughter, Hugo. I’m not subject to your authority.”
“You’re my wife—”
“I’m a woman who made the mistake of thinking you were capable of more than cold calculation.” She turned back to face him. “I was wrong.”
With that, she left him standing in his study, utterly alone.
Three days later, Sybil sat in her childhood bedroom, staring out at the London streets. The room felt smaller than she remembered, shabby compared to the luxury she’d grown accustomed to.
How quickly one’s world can collapse.
A soft knock interrupted her brooding. Her mother entered with tea.
“I thought you might like some refreshment. You’ve barely eaten since you arrived.”
“I’m not particularly hungry, Mama.”
“Nevertheless, you must keep up your strength.” Her mother poured tea with practiced precision. “Have you heard from your husband?”
“No. And I don’t expect to.”
“He seemed quite devoted to you at your wedding.”
“He was devoted to the idea of a convenient wife who would manage his household without questioning his authority.”
Lady Keats studied her daughter’s face. “And that’s not what you wanted to be?”
“I wanted to be his partner. His equal. I was foolish enough to think that’s what we were becoming.”
Her mother settled across from her. “What exactly happened between you and your husband?”
The story poured out—Hugo’s reaction to her hopes for a child, his dismissal of her feelings, the scene with Rosalie, and his willingness to destroy his daughter’s happiness rather than bend.
“I see,” Lady Keats said when Sybil finished. “And you believe Hugo’s behavior proves he never cared for you?”
“Doesn’t it? He made it clear that children with me would be an inconvenience. That my role is to support his decisions without question.”
“Men can be remarkably obtuse about expressing their feelings. Particularly men who’ve been hurt before.”
“That doesn’t give him the right to treat me like a servant.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it might explain why he’s so determined to maintain control.” Lady Keats reached across to take Sybil’s hand. “My dear, I think you might be making the same mistake your father and I made all those years ago.”
“What mistake?”
“Assuming the worst about someone’s motivations instead of trying to understand them.”
Sybil pulled her hand away. “I understand Hugo perfectly. He wants a convenient wife who won’t challenge him.”
“Does he? Or does he want a wife he can trust not to manipulate him like his first wife did?”
The suggestion was unwelcome in its implications.
“If he trusted me, he would have listened to me about Rosalie. He wouldn’t have dismissed my feelings about wanting children.”
“Perhaps he was frightened by the intensity of his feelings for you. Perhaps he retreated into familiar patterns.”
“Mama, Hugo told me explicitly that children would complicate things.”
“And that surprised you? A man suddenly faced with the possibility of genuine happiness after years of managing grief over a loveless marriage?”
The words hit closer to home than Sybil wanted to admit, but it didn’t change the fundamental problem.
“Even if that were true, it doesn’t change what he’s doing to Rosalie.”
Lady Keats rose, moving to the window. In the afternoon light, she looked older, worn by years of regret.
“Your father was a good man. Stubborn, proud, often wrong—but good. He loved Emmie desperately, and his fear drove him to make terrible choices.”
“Choices that killed her.”
“Yes. But the fear came from love, even if he expressed it badly.”
“Are you suggesting I should forgive Hugo for being willing to kill Lord Pemberton?”
“I’m suggesting you might consider that his willingness to fight comes from the same place as your father’s mistakes—desperate need to protect the people he loves, even when his methods are wrong.”
The question hung unanswered. Outside, London continued its existence, indifferent to human drama.
“Even if that were true, it doesn’t change the fact that he made it clear I’m not a partner. I’m a convenience.”
“Did he say that explicitly?”
“He didn’t need to. His actions spoke clearly enough.”
Lady Keats turned back to face her, sympathy in her expression.
“Sybil, walking away from your marriage without giving Hugo a chance to explain… isn’t that exactly what your father did when he refused to listen to Emmie?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it? Or are you so hurt that you’ve decided he’s incapable of change?”
Images intruded—Hugo’s gentle touch when he thought she was sleeping, his pride in her work, his vulnerability when speaking of his first wife’s death.
“It doesn’t matter. The fact remains that he doesn’t want the same things I want. He doesn’t want a real marriage, a real family.”
“And you’re certain of that?”
“As certain as I can be.”
Lady Keats nodded slowly, accepting a decision she didn’t agree with but understood.
“Very well. You’ll stay here as long as you need. Your father and I are grateful to have you home.”
As her mother left, Sybil found herself staring out at London with new uncertainty.
Somewhere out there, Hugo is preparing for a duel that will destroy everything he claims to love. And I’m sitting here, telling myself I’m better off without him.
The question was whether either of them was right.