“I suppose I hadn’t thought much about the ceremony itself,” Sybil admitted.
“Hadn’t thought much about it?” Anthea’s voice held a note of sharp skepticism. “You agreed to marry one of the most powerful men in England without pondering the… implications?”
The implications. Like the way my pulse races when he says my name.
Like the way his hands felt framing my face.
Like the way he made me want things I’ve sworn never to want.
“The marriage serves mutual interests,” Sybil said firmly. “The details of the ceremony seem rather beside the point.”
Anthea and Cassandra exchanged a look—one of those wordless communications that spoke volumes.
“Mutual interests,” Anthea repeated quietly. “How very… businesslike.”
But Sybil caught the slight tightening around her friend’s eyes, the way her fingers gripped her reticule a fraction too tightly. Anthea had her own reasons for being wary of men who swept women off their feet with grand romantic gestures.
She’s worried about me. They both are.
“Now then,” Cassandra said brightly, “you simply must tell us everything. How did he propose? I do hope it was properly romantic.”
He backed me against a bookshelf and made me admit I wanted him.
“It was… direct,” Sybil said carefully. “He explained what marriage between us could accomplish, and I agreed it made sense.”
“Direct.” Cassandra’s face fell slightly. “Oh. How wonderfully… efficient.”
“Efficient marriages often prove most successful,” Anthea observed though something in her tone suggested she didn’t entirely believe it. “No false hopes to shatter later.”
False hopes. Like believing a man actually loves you when he’s simply using you for his own ends.
Sybil remembered the stories—whispered fragments about Anthea’s near-escape from some scandal years ago. The details were never discussed among them, but the wariness in her friend’s eyes whenever the subject of male sincerity arose spoke volumes.
“Precisely,” Sybil agreed. “We both understand what we’re gaining from the arrangement.”
“And what are you gaining?” Cassandra asked gently. “Besides resources for the orphanage, I mean.”
A husband who makes me forget my own name when he touches me. A man who looks at me like I’m the most fascinating woman in the world. A chance at something I never dared dream of.
“Security for the children,” Sybil said instead. “Stability. A chance to expand our work.”
“Noble goals,” Anthea murmured, and Sybil couldn’t tell if the comment was sincere or sardonic.
“Turn slightly,s’il vous plaît,” Madame Dubois instructed, her fingers working to adjust the bodice. “The fit, she is almost perfect, but we must show your figure to advantage,non?”
Sybil complied, trying to ignore how the snug fabric emphasized the swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist. When was the last time she’d worn something that actually fit? When was the last time she’d cared how she looked?
When was the last time a man looked at you like the Duke did in the library?
“You know,” Cassandra said thoughtfully, “seeing you like this brings back memories. Before…” She trailed off, glancing at Anthea.
“Before Emmie,” Sybil finished quietly.
A moment of silence fell over the group. All three women had been there during Emmie’s debut Season—had watched her fall under the spell of a charming rake, had tried to warn her, had been among the few to show her kindness when the scandal broke.
And when that cad abandoned her, they were the ones who publicly cut him. The ones who called out the ton’s hypocrisy in accepting his behavior while condemning hers.
The memory of their loyalty still had the power to move her.
