“I know my daughters, and I know what I’ve seen,” he said simply. “And what I’ve seen convinces me you’re exactly what they need.”
What we all need.
The thought came unbidden, followed by a surge of longing so intense, it took his breath away. When was the last time he’d felt like this about a woman? When was the last time he’d wanted someone not just physically but emotionally? When was the last time he’d met someone who made him think about partnership rather than mere convenience?
Never. The answer is never.
“I need more time,” she said quietly.
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.” She rose from her chair, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled slightly. “This isn’t a decision I can make lightly.”
No. It isn’t.
“Take all the time you need,” he said though every instinct screamed at him to press for an immediate answer. “But don’t take so long that the opportunity passes us by.”
She paused at the door, looking back at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.
“Your Grace? Your daughters are lucky to have a father who cares so deeply about their welfare. Don’t let one moment of frustration make you forget that.”
And then she was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that he was in far deeper than he’d intended to be.
She’s going to say yes. She has to say yes.
Because the alternative—watching his daughters grow into the same reckless, self-destructive patterns that had killed their mother—was simply unthinkable.
And because I’m not sure I can let her go.
The admission hit him like a physical blow. This was supposed to be a practical arrangement, a mutually beneficial partnership that would solve problems for both of them.
When had it become something more?
When she looked at me like I was a man worth saving instead of just a title worth pursuing.
The realization should have alarmed him. Instead, as he stared at the door she’d just walked through, Hugo found himself smiling for the first time in days.
Whatever this is, wherever it leads, I’m not sorry it’s happening.
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous thought of all.
The letter burst into flames with a satisfying hiss, the wax seal melting into nothing as orange tongues devoured her father’s familiar handwriting.
Sybil watched the expensive parchment curl and blacken in the fireplace, feeling a grim satisfaction as smoke carried away whatever reproaches or false concern the Earl of Keats had deemed appropriate to send his disgraced daughter.
Two days. It took them exactly two days to hear about the fire and decide they needed to intervene.
“Miss Sybil? What are you doing?”
Sybil spun around to find Lady Rosalie standing in the doorway of the drawing room, her arm still bound in the sling from her riding accident. The girl’s pale blue eyes were fixed on the fireplace where the last remnants of the letter were turning to ash.
“Nothing of consequence,” Sybil said quickly, turning back to the makeshift beds she’d been straightening. “How are you feeling this morning? Any pain in your arm?”
“A little stiffness but nothing terrible.” Rosalie moved into the room, her curiosity clearly piqued. “Was that a letter you just burned? Seemed rather dramatic for routine correspondence.”
Dramatic. The girl has no idea.
“Some letters aren’t worth reading,” Sybil replied, shaking out a small blanket with perhaps more force than necessary. “I could tell from the handwriting what it would contain.”
