A baby. Hugo’s baby.
After years of convincing herself she didn’t deserve such happiness, the possibility seemed almost too wonderful to believe.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. It could be nothing. Stress, the upheaval of marriage, any number of things could explain the delay.
But even as she tried to temper her expectations, she couldn’t suppress the smile that kept tugging at her lips. Her hand drifted unconsciously to her still-flat stomach.
What would Hugo say? Would he be pleased? Worried? He already has three daughters…
“Sybil?” Hugo’s voice from the dressing room made her jump, snatching her hand away from her belly like she’d been caught stealing. “Are you ready for breakfast? Cook’s prepared those kippers you enjoy.”
“Coming!” she called back, hastily closing the calendar and tucking it into the drawer. She needed to be certain before saying anything. No point in raising hopes that might come to nothing.
But oh, what if it’s true? What if we’re going to have a child together?
The secret hummed inside her chest as she made her way downstairs, making everything seem brighter somehow. The way Hugo pulled out her chair at the breakfast table, the casualbrush of his fingers against hers when he passed the jam, even Rosalie’s animated chatter about Lord Pemberton’s latest visit—it all felt touched with magic.
“You’re unusually cheerful this morning,” Hugo observed, studying her face with those perceptive amber eyes. “Something’s put you in an excellent mood.”
If only you knew.
“Can’t a woman simply be happy without cause for suspicion?” she replied, spreading marmalade on her toast with perhaps more enthusiasm than the task warranted.
“She can. But you’re practically glowing, and I’m curious about the source.”
Glowing. Oh, wouldn’t that be fitting?
“Perhaps it’s the pleasure of your charming company at breakfast,” she said then immediately blushed at her own boldness.
Hugo’s mouth curved in that slow smile that always made her stomach flutter. “Charming company, is it? I must be improving with practice.”
“You’re improving at many things with practice,” she said then turned crimson as she realized how that sounded.
Rosalie looked up from her correspondence with obvious interest. “What sort of practice? Are we talking about Papa’s attempts at dancing? Because those have been quite entertaining to watch.”
“Dancing?” Sybil looked at Hugo with surprise. “You’ve been practicing dancing?”
“I have not been practicing dancing,” Hugo said firmly, shooting his daughter a warning look. “I’ve been… reviewing certain social skills to ensure I don’t embarrass my duchess at public events.”
“He’s been waltzing with Mrs. Crawford in the ballroom,” Rosalie continued with obvious delight. “Yesterday, she stepped on his foot so hard he limped for an hour.”
“Rosalie,” Hugo’s voice held that particular parental tone that suggested dangerous territory.
“What? It’s sweet! Papa wants to be a better dance partner for you, Sybil. Though perhaps he should practice with someone closer to your height. Mrs. Crawford is rather… substantial.”
He’s been practicing dancing. For me.
The thought made Sybil’s chest tight with affection. This gruff, powerful man who could intimidate half of London with a look had been stumbling around his ballroom with his housekeeper, trying to improve his steps for her sake.
How can I not tell him about the baby? How can I keep such joy to myself when he’s working so hard to make me happy?
But caution won out over impulse. She’d wait until she was certain, until there could be no doubt.
“Well,” she said, reaching over to squeeze Hugo’s hand, “I think any lady would be honored to dance with a gentleman who cares enough to practice.”
“Even if he occasionally steps on her toes?”
“Especially then. It shows commitment.”
