"With a mother who chose cruelty over kindness?" Sybil finished. "Yes. That is tragic. But again—not your fault. Beatrice could have been kind to her daughters. She chose not to be. That speaks to her character, not yours."
Before Anthea could respond, the door opened.
"My dear, I apologize for the intrusion—oh." Sybil’s husband stood in the doorway, tall and elegant, his cravat tied withcasual perfection. His gaze moved from Sybil to Anthea, and understanding dawned in his expression. "You have a guest. Forgive me."
"Hugo, you remember Miss Croft?" Sybil's entire demeanor softened as she looked at her husband.
"Of course." Hugo, the Duke of Vestiaire, bowed slightly. "It is good to see you again, Miss Croft, though I hope the circumstances are pleasant ones?"
"Pleasant enough, Your Grace," Anthea managed, though her voice emerged smaller than she intended.
Hugo crossed the room to his wife, and what happened next made Anthea's chest constrict with something that might have been longing. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sybil's forehead—gentle, unconscious, utterly natural. His hand came to rest briefly on her shoulder, and Sybil tilted her head up toward him with a smile so tender it hurt to witness.
"The meeting went well?" Sybil asked.
"Tedious but successful." Hugo's thumb brushed against her shoulder in an absent caress. "Though I found myself wondering if you had murdered Lady Pemberton yet for that dinner invitation."
"Not yet. But the evening is young." Sybil's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Will you rescue me if she begins discussing her daughter's pianoforte skills again?"
"Always." Hugo pressed another quick kiss to her temple, then straightened. "I shall leave you ladies to your conversation. Miss Croft, I do hope whatever troubles brought you here find swift resolution."
When the door closed behind him, the room felt somehow emptier. Anthea stared at the space where he had stood, her throat tight with an emotion she could not name.
That was what marriage could be. Should be. Not just passionate declarations or grand romantic gestures, but quiet tenderness. Casual affection. The certainty that someone would always be there, would always choose to stay.
"You are wondering if you will ever have that," Sybil said quietly.
Anthea could not meet her friend's gaze. "I am happy for you. Truly. You deserve every bit of happiness."
"That is not what I asked."
"Perhaps that kind of love is not meant for everyone." The words emerged before Anthea could stop them. "Perhaps some of us are meant for practical arrangements and sensible compromises, and that is simply how it is."
Sybil was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was carefully neutral. "Would that be such a terrible thing? A practical arrangement? My marriage also started with a practical arrangement, remember?"
"Yours was fortunately a match made in heaven, but for me? I do not know," Anthea admitted. "Part of me thinks it would be easier. Safer. If neither of us expected more than what we explicitly agreed to, then neither of us could be disappointed."
"Or pleasantly surprised."
Anthea's head snapped up. "What?"
"You are so focused on protecting yourself from disappointment that you have forgotten that surprises can be pleasant too." Sybil tilted her head, studying Anthea with that penetrating gaze that always saw too much. "Do you remember what Hugo and I discussed before we married?"
"What?"
"Everything. Our expectations. Our fears. What we needed from the arrangement and what we absolutely could not tolerate." Sybil smiled, but there was something wistful in it. "I told him I needed my own rooms, my own pursuits, and that I would not pretend to emotions I did not feel. He told me he needed a wife to teach his daughters, someone who would not demand constant attention or declarations."
"Now that I remember, that sounds terribly unromantic."
"It was. It was also the most honest conversation I had ever had with anyone." Sybil leaned back in her chair. "And having that foundation—knowing exactly where we stood—made it possible for other things to develop later. Small things at first. Conversations over breakfast. Shared laughter at someone's ridiculous behavior. Discovering we liked the same books."
"And then?" Anthea whispered.
"And then one day I realized I had fallen in love with my own husband without ever meaning to." Sybil's expression turned rueful. "Terrifying, really. I had been so careful, so protected, and somehow he had slipped past every defense I had built."
"What if that does not happen?" Anthea's voice emerged barely audible. "What if I marry the Duke, and we have our practical arrangement, and it simply... stays that way? What if I am content with that and he is not? Or worse—what if I start to want more and he still only sees me as a convenient solution to his social difficulties?"
"Those are legitimate fears," Sybil acknowledged. "But Anthea—is it not equally frightening to refuse because of what might not happen? To spend your life wondering what you missed because you were too afraid to try?"
