“I told you, nothing’s?—”
“Sybil.” His voice cut through her denial like a blade. “You’ve been moving like you’re made of glass all evening. You’ve declined every invitation to dance except one, and you looked ready to collapse during that. Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise.”
She looked away, her teeth worrying her lower lip in that way that meant she was fighting some internal battle. In the lamplight, he could see the strain etched around her eyes, the careful control she was maintaining over her expression.
She’s going to lie again. I can see it on her face.
“It’s nothing serious,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just… monthly discomfort. It will pass.”
Monthly discomfort. Her courses.
Understanding hit him hard The careful way she’d been moving all evening, the pallor beneath her rouge, the brittle brightness of her forced smiles.
She’s in pain and has been hiding it. Suffering through this entire evening for Rosalie’s sake.
“Christ, Sybil. Why didn’t you say so? We could have stayed home, sent our regrets to the Pembertons?—”
“And disappoint Rosalie?” Her voice was sharp with something that sounded almost like fury. “When tonight might determine her entire future? When this could be her chance at the happiness she deserves? Absolutely not.”
There it is again. That edge I don’t understand.
“Rosalie would have understood if you were unwell. She’s not so selfish as to demand you suffer for her entertainment.”
“Wouldn’t she? Or would she have spent the evening wondering if her stepmother’s weakness cost her the match she wanted? If my inability to manage a simple social obligation ruined her prospects?”
Hugo studied her face in the moonlight, noting the way her hands were clenched at her sides and the tremor in her voice that spoke of emotions barely held in check.
“There’s more to this than physical discomfort, isn’t there?”
For a moment, she looked like she might deny it again. Then her shoulders sagged slightly, as if the weight of whatever she was carrying had finally become too much to bear alone.
“I thought I might be with child,” she whispered, the words barely audible in the evening air. “I thought I was carrying your child.”
The silence that followed felt eternal. Hugo went completely still, his face draining of color as though she’d struck him. His mouth opened slightly then closed again without sound. She watched him blink once, twice, as if trying to process words in a foreign language.
“You… what?” His voice came out hoarse, strangled.
“I thought I was with child,” she repeated, each word feeling like shards of glass in her throat. “For weeks, I hoped… I dreamed of telling you, of seeing your face when you learned we were going to have a son or daughter together.”
Hugo’s hand moved unconsciously to grip the garden railing, his knuckles white in the lamplight. She could see him struggling, could practically watch the thoughts racing behind his ambereyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled—too controlled.
“Sybil, this… we never discussed such possibilities. Our arrangement was meant to be practical, convenient?—”
There it was. The word that cut through her like a blade.
“Convenient.” She felt something die inside her chest. “Yes, I suppose a child would have been terribly inconvenient for your perfectly ordered life.”
She watched his shoulders relax slightly, saw the subtle easing of tension in his jaw, and her heart shattered completely. Relief. He was actually relieved that she wasn’t carrying his child.
“It’s not that simple,” he said, running a hand through his hair in that gesture she’d come to know meant he was retreating behind his ducal composure. “I have responsibilities, three daughters already?—”
“Of course, you do.” The bitterness in her own voice surprised her. “Why would you want more children? Particularly with someone like me.”
“What do you mean, someone like you?”
The question hung between them, and suddenly every cruel whisper, every pitying glance, every reminder that she was damaged goods came flooding back. She was the Earl’s disgraceddaughter who should be grateful for any husband at all. How had she been foolish enough to forget?
“Someone whose very name is a scandal,” she said, her voice growing stronger even as her heart broke further. “Someone whose family is stained with shame and whispers. You already have three perfect daughters with your first wife—your real wife, the woman you actually chose to love. Why would you want to taint your noble bloodline with children from me?”
