Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Keats townhouse stood before Hugo like a fortress, its familiar facade now unwelcoming. He’d ridden hard through London’s morning streets, his horse lathered with sweat, his own appearance disheveled in ways that would have horrified his valet.
The butler who answered his knock was thin, austere, and disapproving.
“Your Grace.” The butler’s tone was coolly correct. “Her Grace is not receiving callers today.”
“Tell her it’s her husband. Tell her I won’t leave until she speaks with me.”
“Her Grace was quite specific about not wishing to be disturbed—”
“Then I’ll wait.” Hugo stepped past him into the foyer. “All day if necessary.”
The man’s disapproval was palpable, but he was too well-trained to argue with a duke. “Very well, Your Grace. I shall inform Her Grace of your… persistence.”
Hugo found himself alone in the morning room of the Keats family, where his wife grew up.
Footsteps on the stairs made him turn, hope flaring. But it was Lady Keats who entered, not her daughter.
“Your Grace.” Her curtsy was perfectly correct but notably cool. “How unexpected.”
“Lady Keats. I’ve come to speak with my wife.”
“Have you? How curious, since you seemed content to let her leave without a word three days ago.”
The accusation stung. He’d let his pride keep him from following her immediately.
“I made a mistake. Several mistakes. I’m here to make amends.”
Lady Keats studied his face with that penetrating gaze her daughter had inherited. “And what sort of amends might those be?”
“The sort that requires me to speak with Sybil directly.”
“Suppose she doesn’t wish to speak with you?”
Hugo felt something twist in his chest. “Then I’ll wait until she does. I’ll camp on your doorstep if necessary.”
“How romantic. Though I doubt romantic gestures will repair the damage you’ve done.”
“What damage? What has she told you?”
“Enough.” Lady Keats settled into a chair. “She’s told me that you made it clear that children with her would be an inconvenience. That you see her as little more than a useful acquisition.”
Each word was like a blade to his skin. Had he really been so callous?
“I was afraid,” he admitted quietly. “Afraid of admitting how much she’d come to mean to me.”
“Fear is understandable, Your Grace. Cruelty is not.”
Before Hugo could respond, soft footsteps announced another arrival. His heart nearly stopped when Sybil appeared in the doorway.
She looked pale, thinner. Her blue eyes were guarded, wary in a way that made his chest tight.
“Mama, the butler said—” She stopped short when she saw him. “Hugo.”
“Sybil.” He rose, drinking in the sight of her. “You look…”
“Tired,” she said flatly. “I look tired.”
“I was going to say lovely. You always look lovely to me.”
Sybil’s expression didn’t soften. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to apologize. To explain.” Hugo glanced at Lady Keats. “To tell you the things I should have said long ago.”
“I don’t think there’s anything left to say between us.”
“There’s everything left to say. Please, Sybil. Give me a chance.”
She hesitated. “Five minutes.”
“Thank you.” Hugo looked meaningfully at her mother.
Lady Keats rose with obvious reluctance. “I’ll be just outside. Call if you need me, my dear.”
When they were alone, Hugo struggled for words. How did one begin to repair such damage?
“Sybil, I need you to understand something about my first marriage. Something I’ve never told anyone.”
Her expression remained guarded, but he caught a flicker of interest.
“I didn’t marry Caroline for love. She trapped me through a carefully orchestrated scandal.”
Sybil’s eyes widened. “Trapped you?”
“She arranged for us to be discovered alone together in compromising circumstances. There were witnesses, whispers, the threat of social ruin if I didn’t offer for her.”
Hugo moved closer, noting how she tensed but didn’t retreat.
“I was young, naive enough to believe marriage based on duty could become something more. It never did. Caroline made it clear she’d achieved her goal—a title and position. My feelings were irrelevant.”
“And then?” Sybil’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Then I met you.” Hugo’s voice grew rough. “And everything I thought I knew about marriage, about what I wanted—all of it crumbled the moment you smiled at me.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do mean it. Sybil, from the moment you saved Rosalie, from that first conversation where you refused to be intimidated—I was lost.”
Hugo reached for her hand, relieved when she didn’t pull away.
“The night we argued about children, when you told me your courses had come and you were disappointed—do you know what my first emotion was?”
Sybil shook her head.
“Relief. Not because I didn’t want children with you, but because the thought of you carrying my child terrified me.”
“Terrified you?”
“Completely. Because wanting a child with you meant admitting I loved you. Admitting you had the power to destroy me the way Caroline never could.”
Hugo’s grip tightened. “When you hoped you might be pregnant, when I saw the joy on your face—I realized I wanted that child as desperately as you did. But I also realized that loving you meant risking everything I’d spent years protecting myself from.”
“So, you pushed me away,” Sybil said quietly.
“I pushed you away because I’m a coward. Because admitting I loved you meant admitting I’d rather die than lose you.”
The words hung between them, raw and honest.
“Hugo…” Sybil’s voice was thick with unshed tears.
“I love you.” The words came out fierce, desperate. “I love your courage, your compassion, your refusal to be intimidated by anyone. I love the way you’ve transformed my daughters from obedient children into confident young women. I love the way you’ve made our house a home.”
“I love you so much that when you left, when I woke up alone in our bed, I thought I might die from the loss of you.”
Sybil’s tears were falling freely now.
“The duel,” she whispered. “You were going to kill Thomas over a kiss.”
“I called it off. Rosalie made me understand that I was repeating your father’s mistakes, choosing pride over the happiness of the people I love most.”
“You called it off?”
“The moment I realized I was willing to destroy Rosalie’s happiness rather than admit I might be wrong. Just like I was willing to convince you that you meant nothing to me rather than admit you’d become everything to me.”
Hugo brought her hand to his lips, pressing a desperate kiss to her palm.
“Sybil, I know I’ve hurt you terribly. I know you have every reason not to trust me. But if you’ll give me another chance—if you’ll let me prove that I can be the husband you deserve—I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt my feelings again.”
“I want to build a family with you,” he continued urgently. “Not because it’s expected, but because I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than children who combine your kindness with your intelligence.”
“But I also want to enjoy every step of that process. I want to take you on the honeymoon we never had; I want to show you how much I treasure you before we’re busy with nurseries and midnight feedings.”
Sybil was studying his face intently.
“I want to wake up beside you every morning and fall asleep holding you every night. I want to argue with you about estate management and watch you intimidate London society into supporting your charitable causes. I want to grow old with you, Sybil.”
“Hugo.” His name was barely a breath on her lips.
“I know it may take time for you to trust me again. I know you have every right to make me prove myself worthy. But please, Sybil—please don’t give up on us entirely.”
For a long moment, they stood in silence, Hugo’s heart hammering as he waited for her response.
“Hugo.” Sybil’s voice was soft, wondering. “Do you really love me?”
“With everything I am. With everything I have.”
He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the tears on her cheeks.
“Sybil, you are not a convenient acquisition. You are not a useful addition to my household. You are the woman who taught me what it means to truly live. You are my heart, my home.”
“I love you too,” she whispered, and Hugo felt something inside his chest break open with relief.
“Thank God,” he breathed then claimed her lips in a kiss that tasted of tears and forgiveness and new beginnings.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Sybil smiled through her tears.
“Take me home, Hugo.”
“With pleasure, my darling wife.”
And as he held her close, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender, Hugo knew that this time—this time he would get it right.