And that terrified her more than anything else.
“This marriage,” she said firmly, “will serve our separate, unromantic goals. Nothing more.”
Her friends exchanged one final look—longer this time, weighted with shared knowledge and barely contained amusement.
“Whatever you say, dear,” Cassandra said sweetly.
But as Sybil stood in her wedding dress, surrounded by silk and lace and the scent of expensive perfume, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her friends saw something she was desperately trying not to acknowledge.
Something that might destroy all her careful plans and reasonable arrangements.
Something that felt dangerously like desire.
Chapter Twelve
“Hold still, or I’ll stab you with this pin,” Beverly warned, her fingers working to secure the final pearl buttons along Sybil’s spine.
“I am holding still,” Sybil protested though her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the dressing table. Through the window of her temporary chambers at Claridge’s, she could hear the clatter of carriages arriving at St. George’s Hanover Square.Half of London society is coming to witness my marriage of convenience.
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Beverly observed, stepping back to examine her handiwork. “There. Perfect.”
Sybil turned toward the mirror and barely recognized herself. The ivory silk gown Hugo had selected transformed her into someone elegant, refined—someone who looked capable of being a duchess instead of a woman who’d spent eight years running an orphanage.
It’s just a costume. A role I’m playing for practical reasons.
“Oh, Sybil.” Cassandra burst through the door in a rustle of pale blue silk, Anthea following more sedately behind her. “You look absolutely?—”
“Don’t,” Anthea cut her off with a sharp look. “She’s nervous enough without your dramatics.”
“I’m not nervous,” Sybil lied, smoothing her hands over the silk skirts. “This is simply a business transaction. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
Beverly snorted softly. “Business transactions don’t usually require special licenses and archbishops.”
“Or wedding gowns that cost more than most people make in a year,” Cassandra added, circling Sybil like a predator examining prey. “His Grace has exquisite taste.”
“Thetonexpects a certain standard from a ducal wedding,” Sybil replied. “This gown serves that purpose.”
“Of course, it does,” Cassandra said sweetly though her eyes danced with mischief. “He’s establishing our courtship for society’s benefit,” she said weakly.
“Naturally,” Anthea murmured. “Men are famous for their dedication to romantic theater.”
Beverly cleared her throat. “Forgive me, but shouldn’t we be leaving soon? The ceremony?—”
“Starts in thirty minutes,” Cassandra finished, consulting the delicate watch pinned to her bodice. “Sybil, darling, you need to breathe. You’re going quite pale.”
Breathe. Right. Simple enough.
But every time she tried to draw air into her lungs, she thought about Hugo waiting at the altar. About the vows they would speak.His wife.The words sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with cold.
“Perhaps some wine?” Cassandra suggested. “Just a sip to steady your nerves.”
“I don’t have nerves,” Sybil snapped then immediately felt guilty. “I apologize. I simply… this is more complicated than I anticipated.”
“Marriage usually is,” Beverly said gently. “Even practical ones.”
“Oh, I don’t know, the Duke seems quite taken with you,” Cassandra observed, adjusting Sybil’s veil with careful precision. “Every time I’ve seen you together, he watches you like?—”
“Like a man protecting his investment,” Sybil interrupted firmly.
