“Who was it?” she asked though something in her tone suggested she already suspected.
“Lord Worthington. He made some crude observations about your appearance, and I found myself wanting to defend your honor in the most dramatic way possible.”
Still do, actually. The memory of him speaking about you like that makes my blood boil.
“Hugo.” Sybil rose from the bed, moving toward him with that graceful walk that always commanded his complete attention. “You can’t challenge every man who says something inappropriate. We’d run out of ammunition.”
We’d run out of gentlemen in London first.
“I know that,” he said stiffly. “Which is why I walked away instead of calling him out. But it took every ounce of self-control I possess.”
“Why?” She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he could smell the lavender soap she used, could see the gold flecks in her blue eyes. “Why does it matter what other men think or say?”
Because you deserve better than crude speculation. Because the thought of anyone disrespecting you makes me want to commit violence. Because you’re precious to me in ways I don’t know how to express.
“Because you’re my wife,” he said instead.
“Is that all?”
No. It’s because I’m falling in love with you, and it terrifies me more than anything I’ve ever experienced.
“Isn’t that enough?”
Sybil searched his face for a long moment, and Hugo had the uncomfortable feeling she could see straight through his careful deflections to the truth he wasn’t ready to voice.
She knows. Somehow, she knows exactly what she’s done to me.
“I suppose it will have to be,” she said finally though something in her voice suggested disappointment.
Disappointment. Because I can’t give her the words she wants to hear.
Because admitting how much I care about her would mean acknowledging how completely she controls my happiness now.
“Sybil,” he started then stopped, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t reveal too much.
“It’s all right, Hugo.” She turned back toward the bed, beginning to turn down the covers. “I understand what this is for you. What I am to you.”
“Do you?” he asked quietly.
“You’re a man who finds his wife agreeable enough for companionship.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but Hugo caught the slight tremor in her voice. “It’s more than many marriages have.”
Agreeable companionship. Is that what she thinks this is?
“Sybil—”
“It’s more than I expected when I agreed to marry you,” she continued, not meeting his eyes, “so I’m grateful for whatever affection you’re willing to give.”
Grateful. She thinks she should be grateful for scraps of my attention.
The idea that she might doubt her own worth, might think she deserved only whatever leftover emotion he was willing to spare, made something twist painfully in his chest.
How can she not see what she’s become to me? How can she not know that she’s the most important thing in my world now?
But saying that would mean admitting how much power she held over him. How completely she could destroy him if she chose to.
And that’s a vulnerability I’m not ready to hand her. Not yet.
“You should get some rest,” he said instead, moving toward his dressing room. “Tomorrow will be busy with Rosalie’s callers and the usual social obligations.”
