“Papa, Your Grace.” Rosalie curtsied slightly, breathless from dancing. “Thomas has asked me to take some air in the garden. With proper chaperones of course.”
Hugo’s expression immediately shifted to paternal suspicion. “What sort of air requires chaperones?”
“The sort that involves respectable conversation in a public garden,” Lord Pemberton said respectfully. “My parents suggested it, actually. They thought Lady Rosalie might enjoy seeing the new rose arbor.”
“Roses,” Hugo repeated dryly. “How romantic.”
“Papa,” Rosalie’s voice held a warning note. “Please don’t embarrass me.”
Sybil touched Hugo’s arm gently. “I’m sure a brief walk would be lovely. We can see the garden from here.”
Hugo looked between his daughter’s pleading face and Sybil’s encouraging nod then sighed in defeat.
“Very well. Fifteen minutes. And stay where we can see you.”
“Thank you, Papa!” Rosalie rose on her toes to kiss his cheek before hurrying away with her young man.
They settled back into their chairs, watching through the tall windows as Rosalie and Lord Pemberton strolled along the lamp-lit paths. Even from a distance, their happiness was evident in every gesture.
“They make a lovely couple,” Sybil said softly.
“They do.” Hugo’s voice held resignation and a father’s protective love. “God help me, but they do.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The crash of porcelain hitting marble echoed through the Pemberton ballroom as a servant stumbled, sending a tray of champagne glasses shattering across the floor. Hugo barely noticed the commotion—his attention was fixed entirely on his wife, who had been declining dance invitations for the better part of an hour.
Something is desperately wrong, and she’s lying about it.
Sybil sat rigidly in her chair along the wall, her gloved hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles appeared white through the silk. Every few minutes, he caught her pressing her hand briefly to her side, a gesture so subtle that anyone else might have missed it.
She’s in pain—physical pain—and pretending otherwise.
When Lord Worthington approached her with a courtly bow, Hugo watched her entire body tense before she accepted hisoffered arm. Even from across the room, he could see the careful way she moved as they took their places for the country dance.
Careful. Guarded. Like every step costs her.
“Your Grace?” Sir Reginald Hartwell was saying something about import tariffs, but Hugo’s attention remained fixed on the dance floor. “Your thoughts on the matter?”
“Forgive me,” Hugo said absently, watching Sybil execute a turn with visible effort. “I’m afraid I’m rather distracted this evening.”
Distracted by my wife, who’s clearly suffering and won’t admit it.
The dance seemed to last an eternity. When it finally ended, Hugo was there immediately, offering his arm before Lord Worthington could escort her back to the chairs.
“Thank you, Worthington,” he said smoothly, his grip protective on Sybil’s elbow. “I believe my wife needs some air.”
“Hugo, I’m perfectly—” Sybil began, but her protest lacked conviction.
“Fine, yes, so you keep saying.” His voice was low enough that only she could hear the steel beneath the courtesy. “Humor me.”
He guided her toward the French doors, noting how she leaned slightly into his support despite her protests. The relief on her face when they stepped into the cool evening air told him everything he needed to know about her condition.
Finally. Somewhere we can speak freely.
The Pemberton garden was elegant in the moonlight with carefully manicured paths winding between beds of late-blooming roses. Gas lamps flickered along the walkways, casting dancing shadows on the gravel.
“Now,” he said, turning to face her fully. “What’s wrong?”
