She pressed her hand against her corseted waist, willing the familiar ache away, but the telltale dampness between her thighs confirmed her worst fears. Her courses had arrived with their monthly precision, washing away weeks of secret hope in a tide of bitter disappointment.
There is no baby. There never was.
“Your Grace?” Jenny appeared in the doorway, holding pressed gloves. “His Grace is asking if you’re nearly ready. The carriage is waiting.”
Sybil straightened slowly, forcing her face into careful composure. Through the bedroom window, she could see Hugo pacing the front steps, checking his pocket watch with that particular restless energy that meant his patience was wearing thin.
The Pemberton ball. Rosalie’s future might hang in the balance tonight, and here I am, wallowing in self-pity.
“Tell His Grace I’ll be down momentarily,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
“Shall I fetch some laudanum for the… discomfort? You look rather pale.”
Laudanum. Yes, that would dull more than just the physical pain.
“No, thank you. I need my wits about me tonight.”
Jenny helped her into her silk gloves, the familiar ritual giving Sybil precious moments to compose herself. In the mirror, she looked every inch the duchess—diamonds at her throat, hair perfectly arranged, gown that cost more than most families saw in a year. No one would guess that beneath all that finery, her heart was breaking.
“You look magnificent, Your Grace,” Jenny said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “His Grace won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
“Thank you, Jenny. That will be all.”
Alone, Sybil allowed herself one moment of raw grief. She’d been so careful not to hope, so determined to guard her heart against disappointment. But somewhere in the past weeks, as Hugo’s touches grew more tender and his smiles more genuine, she’d begun to dream of tiny hands and sleepy sighs, of giving him the heir he deserved.
Foolish. So utterly foolish.
Another sharp cramp doubled her over, and she gritted her teeth against the pain. Physical discomfort she could manage—she’d endured far worse during her years at the orphanage—but this hollow ache in her chest threatened to undo her completely.
Pull yourself together. Rosalie needs this evening to be perfect.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted her moment of weakness.
“Sybil? We’re going to be late.” Hugo’s voice carried that edge of controlled impatience she’d grown to recognize. “Lord Pemberton specifically requested we arrive early. He mentioned wanting to discuss Rosalie’s debut plans with us privately.”
“Coming!” she called then took one last steadying breath before opening the door.
Hugo stood in the hallway adjusting his cufflinks, magnificent in black evening dress that emphasized his broad shoulders andlean frame. When he looked up and saw her, his expression shifted from irritation to something much warmer.
“Christ,” he breathed, his amber eyes traveling from her face to her gown and back again. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you,” she managed, accepting his offered arm. “You look rather handsome yourself.”
His smile was boyish, pleased. “Trying to make a good impression on the future in-laws.”
Future in-laws. Yes, focus on that. On Rosalie’s happiness instead of your own disappointment.
They made their way downstairs, where Rosalie waited in the foyer, radiant in pink silk that complemented her skin. She practically bounced with nervous excitement.
“Don’t I look presentable enough?” she asked anxiously. “Lady Pemberton is said to be quite particular about appearances.”
“You look beautiful,” Sybil assured her, meaning it completely. At eighteen, Rosalie glowed with youth and possibility—everything Sybil had thought she might help create. “Any mother would be delighted to welcome you into her family.”
“Do you really think so? Because I’ve heard she can be rather… formidable.”
“Formidable women usually respect other formidable women,” Hugo said dryly. “And you, my dear daughter, are definitely formidable.”
They settled into the carriage, Rosalie chattering nervously about the evening ahead while Sybil struggled to focus on anything beyond the cramping in her abdomen. Every jolt of the carriage wheels over cobblestones sent fresh waves of discomfort through her body.
