Dangerous thinking, Sybil. Men make promises easily. Keeping them is another matter entirely.
“Thank you for saying so, Your Grace.” She clutched her basket tighter. “If you’ll excuse me…”
“Papa, you’re frightening her,” Rosalie chided. “Can’t you see she’s trying to escape?”
A flash of something that might have been amusement crossed the Duke’s features. “My apologies, Lady Sybil. I don’t mean to detain you. But my words stand—when the time comes, I will find a way to repay what I owe.”
Sybil curtsied quickly, not trusting herself to speak. Her heart was hammering against her ribs in the most ridiculous fashion, and she needed distance from those penetrating amber eyes before she did something foolish.
Like believe him.
“Good day, Your Grace. Lady Rosalie.” She turned and walked away with as much dignity as she could muster, acutely aware that he was watching her go.
I’ll never see him again,she told herself as she reached the tree line.Men like that don’t venture into the world of orphanages and spinsters. Whatever debt he thinks he owes will be forgotten by tomorrow.
But even as she tried to convince herself, she couldn’t shake the memory of those amber eyes or the quiet certainty in his voice.
I never leave my debts unpaid.
She’d learned long ago not to trust the promises of men, especially titled men who saw women as pawns in their games of power and politics. Her sister had believed such promises once, and look how that had ended.
Never again,she reminded herself firmly.I know better now.
Yet as she walked back toward the orphanage, her pulse still racing wildly, she couldn’t quite forget the way the Duke of Vestiaire had looked at her—as though she were someone worth remembering.
Chapter Two
“Now, what herb would you use for a fever that simply won’t break?”
Sybil looked expectantly at the circle of older girls gathered around the wooden table in the orphanage’s makeshift classroom. At seventeen and eighteen, these young women would soon be seeking positions as governesses or maids, and she was determined they’d leave with practical knowledge that might save lives.
“Willow bark, Miss Sybil,” said Margaret, a serious girl with ink-stained fingers. “Steeped in hot water until the liquid turns bitter.”
“Excellent. And for digestive troubles?”
“Chamomile,” chimed in Sarah then she added with a grin, “though Cook swears by ginger root when she can get it.”
“Both are correct.” Sybil picked up a dried bundle of herbs from the table. “Remember, ladies, knowledge is power. The more you understand about healing, the more valuable you become to any household fortunate enough to employ you.”
And the more likely you are to survive whatever this world throws at you,she thought grimly.
“Miss Sybil,” piped up Jane, the youngest of the group, at barely sixteen. “My cousin works at Vestiaire Castle, and she says the Duke has a garden that’s bigger than our entire orphanage. There are all sorts of exotic plants and herbs from foreign places.”
Sybil’s hand stilled on the herbs.Vestiaire Castle. The Duke.
Stop it. You haven’t thought about him in days.
That was a lie of course. She’d thought about those amber eyes far more than was proper for a spinster dedicated to her work. The way he’d looked at her as though she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. The quiet authority in his voice when he’d promised to repay his debt.
Ridiculous romantic nonsense. He has probably forgotten you exist.
“Miss Sybil?” Jane was looking at her curiously. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine.” Sybil forced her attention back to the lesson. “Now, as I was saying about chamomile…”
“Oh, I heard he’s got roses from India,” Sarah added dreamily. “Can you imagine? Roses that bloom in colors we’ve never seen.”
“And medicinal plants too,” Margaret chimed in. “Plants that could cure anything if you knew how to use them properly.”
