New ways to terrify him. Poor man.
They sat quietly for a bit, just the fire crackling and the soft clink of glass on glass.
“So what should we talk about?” Sybil heard herself ask.
“Hell if I know.” Hugo looked genuinely stumped. “What do normal married people discuss?”
Normal married people. As if we’re anything close to normal.
“Tell me something about yourself. Something I wouldn’t know from living here.”
“Like what?”
“If you were not born as the heir of a Duke, and you could choose any path for yourself, what would you have chosen?”
Hugo stared into his whiskey like the answer might be floating there. “When I was little, I wanted to be a ship’s captain. Wanted to sail off to places no Englishman had ever seen. Have adventures.”
A captain. I can picture it—young Hugo with wind in his hair and mischief in his eyes.
“What changed?”
“Well, my father made it pretty clear that dukes don’t abandon their duties for romantic nonsense about exploration.” No bitterness in his voice, just facts. “Besides, people needed me here. The estate, tenants, and eventually, my own family. They needed stability, not some fool chasing dreams.”
“Ever regret it? Choosing duty over adventure?”
“Sometimes.” His eyes found hers. “Though lately I’ve been thinking maybe the best adventures happen closer to home than I realized.”
Closer to home. What’s he mean by that?
Heat crept up her neck, but she pushed it down.
“What about you? Before everything went sideways with your family.”
Before Emmie died, and I decided I didn’t deserve dreams.
“I wanted to travel too. Not by sea—overland. Italy, Florence, Vienna. All those libraries and ruins and art.” Strange how easy it was to admit this old dream. “Thought I might write about it. Travel journals for women who couldn’t make those journeys themselves.”
“Travel journals.” Hugo leaned forward. “That’s brilliant. What’s stopping you now?”
Fear. Guilt. The belief that wanting things for myself is selfish.
“Nothing, I suppose. Just… haven’t thought about what I wanted for myself in years.”
“Maybe it’s time to start.”
Maybe it is.
The fire popped, sparks shooting up the chimney. She felt loose, relaxed—whether from the whiskey or the emotional release of the day or just Hugo’s presence, she couldn’t say.
Without thinking, she started tugging off her gloves. God, it felt good to free her hands after that long day.
“Sybil.”
Something in his voice made her look up. He was staring at her hands with an expression she couldn’t read.
Oh hell. He’s seeing them.
She jerked her hands behind her back, face going hot. “They’re not… I mean, all that work at the orphanage. I was always getting my hands dirty, and there are scars from accidents in the kitchen and rough patches from scrubbing floors and…”
