Lady Keats turned back to face her, sympathy in her expression.
“Sybil, walking away from your marriage without giving Hugo a chance to explain… isn’t that exactly what your father did when he refused to listen to Emmie?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it? Or are you so hurt that you’ve decided he’s incapable of change?”
Images intruded—Hugo’s gentle touch when he thought she was sleeping, his pride in her work, his vulnerability when speaking of his first wife’s death.
“It doesn’t matter. The fact remains that he doesn’t want the same things I want. He doesn’t want a real marriage, a real family.”
“And you’re certain of that?”
“As certain as I can be.”
Lady Keats nodded slowly, accepting a decision she didn’t agree with but understood.
“Very well. You’ll stay here as long as you need. Your father and I are grateful to have you home.”
As her mother left, Sybil found herself staring out at London with new uncertainty.
Somewhere out there, Hugo is preparing for a duel that will destroy everything he claims to love. And I’m sitting here, telling myself I’m better off without him.
The question was whether either of them was right.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hugo stared at the dueling pistol laid out on his desk, its polished surface gleaming in the morning light. The weight felt familiar in his hands—he’d been an excellent shot at university, had even fought one duel in his youth over a matter that now seemed trivial.
This is necessary. Pemberton needs to understand there are consequences for taking liberties with my daughter.
The past three days had been torture. The house felt empty without Sybil’s presence, without her laughter from the morning room, without the soft rustle of her skirts as she moved through the halls.
It’s better this way. I allowed myself to become too distracted, too invested.
He’d barely seen his daughters since the night of the ball. Rosalie had taken to her room, emerging only for meals where she sat instony silence. Leah and Melanie sensed the tension but seemed afraid to ask questions.
They’ll understand eventually. When they’re older, when they have daughters of their own to protect.
A soft knock interrupted his brooding. “Come,” he called, expecting his valet.
Instead, Rosalie stepped into the room, her face pale but determined. She wore a simple morning dress of blue muslin, her dark hair pulled back severely—so different from the radiant young woman who’d danced at the Pemberton ball.
“Papa, I need to speak with you.”
“Rosalie, this is not the time?—”
“When will be the time? After you’ve killed the man I love? After you’ve destroyed any chance I might have had for happiness?”
Hugo set down the pistol, studying his daughter’s face.
“He should never have put you in a position where such behavior seemed acceptable.”
“He didn’t put me anywhere. I chose to kiss him because I love him, and he loves me.” Rosalie’s voice was steady, without thetears he’d expected. “Papa, will you listen to me? Really listen, not just wait for me to finish so you can tell me why I’m wrong?”
The request caught him off guard. When was the last time he’d simply listened to one of his daughters?
When Sybil suggested I actually talk to them instead of commanding them.
