“Perhaps it does. But until it does, young women like Rosalie need guidance from someone who understands both the value of intelligence and the necessity of discretion.”
And there it is. The proposal again, dressed up as concern for his daughter.
“Your Grace?—”
“Have you given any more thought to our conversation?” His amber eyes held hers with uncomfortable intensity. “About the arrangement I proposed?”
Every waking moment. And most of the sleeping ones too.
“Some thought, yes.”
“And?”
The simple question hung between them like a sword about to fall. Sybil could feel the weight of it, the knowledge that her answer would determine not just her own future but the futures of thirty-seven girls who deserved better than what she could give them on her own.
Tell him no. Tell him you can’t accept his offer and walk away with what’s left of your dignity.
But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she found herself thinking about Emma’s nightmare, about the way the girls’ faces had lit up at the mention of honey, about the comfortable beds and warm rooms that had already begun to heal the trauma of the fire.
About the way the Duke had ordered hot chocolate for children he barely knew, simply because he thought it might make them happy.
“I…” She stopped, cleared her throat, and tried again. “The situation is more complicated than I initially realized.”
Coward. You’re being a complete coward.
“How so?”
“The girls. They’re… they’re thriving here. In ways I never managed to provide for them before.” The admission felt liketearing out a piece of her heart. “And I’m not certain I can give them what they need on my own.”
Something shifted in Hugo’s expression—relief, perhaps, or satisfaction.
“You don’t have to be on your own,” he said quietly. “That’s rather the point of partnership.”
Partnership. Is that what this is?
“But it’s not really a partnership, is it?” The words escaped before she could stop them. “It’s a transaction. You need someone to manage your daughters, and I need resources to care for mine. Mutual benefit as you said.”
“Is that so terrible?”
Yes. No. I don’t know anymore.
“It’s practical,” she said instead.
“Practicality has its merits.”
“And its limitations.”
They stared at each other across the small space, the air thick with tension and unspoken desires neither of them seemed willing to voice.
What are we doing? What is this conversation really about?
“Lady Sybil,” the Duke said finally, his voice dropping to that intimate register that made her pulse flutter, “may I ask what you’re truly afraid of?”
Everything. I’m afraid of everything.
“I’m not afraid,” she lied. “I’m simply… cautious.”
“About accepting help? About trusting me? About allowing yourself to want something beyond mere survival?”
