Our bedroom. She says it so casually, as though this arrangement is the most natural thing in the world.
It had been a shock as well.
Their arrangement had evolved naturally since the night after she spoke to her parents. What had begun as Sybil occasionally staying late in his chambers after their conversations had gradually become her bringing her personal effects, then her evening clothes, until one morning, Sybil had decided there was no more reason to go back to her old room. Neither had formally discussed the change—it had simply happened, as natural as breathing.
“Invitations, mostly. Lady Pemberton wants to know if we’ll attend her soiree next week.” Hugo set the letters on the small writing desk, grateful for something to do with his hands. “And Rosalie mentioned at dinner that some young man has been calling on her rather frequently.”
“Lord Pemberton?” Sybil settled onto the edge of the bed, beginning to brush her long auburn hair. “He seems pleasant enough.”
“He seems young and eager and entirely too interested in my daughter for my peace of mind.”
“You can’t lock her away forever, you know.” The brush moved through her hair in long, hypnotic strokes. “She’s eighteen, Hugo. Old enough to receive callers.”
“Old enough to make mistakes she’ll regret for the rest of her life,” he corrected grimly.
“Is that what you think this is?” Sybil’s voice had gone quiet, careful. “A mistake you’ll regret?”
This. Us. Whatever we’ve become since that kiss in Richmond.
Hugo turned to face her fully, noting the way her hands had stilled on the brush, the neutral expression that didn’t quite hide the vulnerability beneath.
“No,” he said quietly. “But I think it’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
Dangerous because you’ve gotten under my skin in ways I never expected. Because I find myself thinking about you when I should be focused on estate business. Because you have power over me that I don’t know how to control.
“Because I’m not good at this,” he admitted instead.
Sybil set down the brush, her blue eyes studying his face. “Not good at what, exactly?”
“This. Caring about someone this much.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended. “I told you from the beginning this was supposed to be practical. Convenient. I wasn’t supposed to?—”
He stopped himself before he could finish that thought. Before he could admit just how completely she’d turned his carefully ordered world upside down.
“You weren’t supposed to what?” she prompted gently.
Feel like my entire world revolves around you. Think about your happiness before my own. Wonder what you’re doing every moment we’re apart.
“I wasn’t supposed to lose perspective,” he said instead. “I have responsibilities. Daughters to protect. An estate to manage. I can’t afford to be distracted by?—”
“By your wife?”
By my wife, who makes me question every decision I make. Who makes me want to be a better man than I am.
“By feelings that make me act like a fool.”
Sybil was quiet for a long moment, her gaze never leaving his face. When she spoke, her voice was soft but pointed.
“And what exactly have you done that’s so foolish?”
“I nearly challenged a man to a duel because he made an inappropriate comment about you at Lady Pemberton’s ball,” Hugo said dryly.
“You what?” Sybil’s eyes widened. “Hugo, you didn’t mention?—”
“Because it was ridiculous. Completely irrational. The sort of behavior I’d expect from a jealous boy, not a grown man with responsibilities.”
But that’s what you do to me. Make me lose all sense of proportion and dignity.
