“If you say so,” Cassandra replied though her tone suggested she thought otherwise. “Though I’ve never seen a man look at an investment the way he looked at you during your engagement dinner.”
The engagement dinner.Where Hugo had seated her beside him and spent the entire evening murmuring observations that made her laugh despite herself. Where his hand had brushed hers while reaching for the wine, sending electricity shooting up her arm.
Stop remembering things like that.
“We should go,” Anthea said suddenly, rising from her chair. “The carriage is waiting.”
“Yes,” Sybil agreed quickly, grateful for the distraction. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Over with?” Beverly looked hurt. “Sybil, it’s your wedding day.”
“It’s a ceremony,” Sybil corrected. “A necessary formality to legalize our arrangement.”
But even as she said it, her pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Hugo again. Of standing beside him while promises were made and vows spoken.
It’s just physical attraction. Nothing more complicated than that.
Still, the moment Sybil entered St. George’s Hanover Square, she forgot how to breathe.
The church was packed with London’s elite—a sea of feathers and jewels and curious faces all turned toward her. But she saw none of them. Her entire world had narrowed to the man standing at the altar.
Hugo waited in formal black, his dark hair perfectly arranged, amber eyes fixed on the doors as though willing her to appear. When their gazes met across the crowded church, something shifted in his expression—satisfaction, perhaps, or possession.
He looks like a man who’s gotten exactly what he wanted.
The thought should have steadied her. Instead, it made her stomach flutter traitorously as she walked down the aisle on shaking legs.
This is happening. I’m actually marrying him.
Hugo stepped forward as she reached the altar, offering his arm with practiced gallantry. But when their eyes met, she caught a flash of something in his eyes before his usual control reasserted itself.
“You look beautiful,” he said quietly, his voice pitched for her ears alone.
Don’t say things like that.
“Thank you,” she managed then added in an undertone, “I thought we agreed there would be none of this.”
“None of what?” His mouth quirked slightly, that familiar hint of amusement that made her want to either slap him or kiss him.
“You know perfectly well what.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” He moved closer under the pretense of taking her hand.
The way he said it—with that edge of challenge that always made her pulse race—sent a blush racing down her neck.
“I’m referring to unnecessary flattery,” she whispered back.
“Ah.” His fingers tightened around hers. “And here I thought I was simply stating facts.”
Facts.As if her appearance was a matter of objective truth rather than his opinion.
“Your Grace.” The Archbishop cleared his throat pointedly. “Shall we proceed?”
Hugo’s eyes glinted with something that might have been triumph. “By all means.”
He’s enjoying this. The impossible man is actually enjoying watching me squirm.
“Dearly beloved,” the Archbishop began, his voice carrying across the packed church, “we are gathered here today to witness the union of Hugo Alexander Rothburn, Duke of Vestiaire, and Lady Sybil Margaret Gillies…”
