Shut up. Stop babbling like an idiot.
But the words kept spilling as Hugo stood and started walking toward her.
“I know they don’t look like a duchess’ hands should, and I’ve been trying to use creams to make them softer, but you can’t undo years of work overnight?—”
By the time he reached her, she couldn’t breathe properly. Her heart was hammering so hard it hurt. His gaze locked on hers, intense and burning.
“Let me see them,” he said quietly.
Let him see. The damaged, ugly hands I’ve been hiding.
Hands shaking, she held them out. Hugo took them carefully, turning them to see her palms, the calluses, the little scars that mapped out her life.
Then he lifted them to his mouth and kissed them. Not polite little pecks—real kisses, slow and warm against her palms, her knuckles, even the rough spots she hated most.
“These are the hands of someone incredible,” he said against her skin, breath warm and devastating. “Someone who’s never backed down from caring for others, no matter what it cost her. Don’t you dare hide them from me.”
Incredible. He thinks they’re incredible.
Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was finally making peace with her parents. Maybe it was Anthea’s voice in her head telling her to be brave. Whatever it was, she heard herself whisper:
“Kiss me.”
Hugo’s eyes went dark. He searched her face for doubt, uncertainty. Found none.
His hands framed her face, and his mouth came down on hers.
Gentle at first. Careful. Like he was giving her time to change her mind. But when she pressed closer instead of pulling away, when her fingers twisted in his shirt to drag him nearer, everything shifted.
His mouth became demanding, hungry, and she met him with the same fierce need. All those careful boundaries, all that polite distance—it crumbled under the heat of finally admitting what they both wanted.
When they broke apart, both gasping, she looked up into those burning amber eyes and said the words that terrified and thrilled her.
“I don’t want this to be a marriage on paper anymore.”
Hugo’s smile was slow and satisfied. Purely male. But he didn’t say anything back. Didn’t put his feelings into words that might’ve told her what this meant to him.
He’s pleased. But pleased because he wants a real marriage, or just pleased because he’s getting what any man would want from his wife?
The doubt crept in even as he pulled her closer. Even as his thumb traced her lip with that devastating gentleness.
Does he want me, or does he just want the convenience of a willing wife?
But those were questions for tomorrow. Tonight, she was done being afraid. Done denying herself happiness because of old ghosts.
Tonight, she was taking what she wanted and dealing with the consequences later.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The silk nightgown landed in a whisper-soft heap at the foot of the bed, followed immediately by the sound of Hugo’s sharp intake of breath from where he stood frozen in the doorway of what had once been his private chambers.
Hischambers. Which were now, apparently,theirchambers.
“Oh!” Sybil spun around from the armoire where she’d been selecting a fresh nightgown, one hand flying to her chest. “Hugo! You could knock, you know.”
“In my own bedroom?” he held up a stack of letters like a peace offering. “I brought your correspondence.”
“Ourbedroom,” she corrected, pulling a fresh nightgown over her head. “And thank you. Anything interesting?”
