“How?”
Instead of answering, he guided her toward the edge of the ballroom where tall windows opened onto a terrace. The movement brought them even closer together, and she could smell his cologne—something warm and masculine that made her want to bury her face against his neck.
Don’t think about that.
“Better,” he said with satisfaction. “Away from prying eyes.”
“Why do we need to be away from prying eyes?”
“Because,” he said, his hand sliding lower on her back, “I’m finding it difficult to maintain proper distance when you look at me like you want to discover what’s beneath all this civilized behavior.”
The accuracy of his observation stole her breath because that was exactly what she wanted—to strip away his ducal composure and see what lay underneath.
Dangerous thinking. Focus on the practical aspects of this arrangement.
“I want nothing of the sort,” she lied.
“No?” he stopped dancing entirely, backing her gently against one of the tall windows. “Then why are your hands shaking?”
She looked down and realized he was right. Her gloved fingers trembled against his shoulders.
“The excitement of the day,” she said quickly.
“Excitement.” He repeated the word like he was tasting it. “Yes, I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”
Before she could ask what he meant, she caught sight of movement near the ballroom entrance. Two familiar figuresstood just inside the doors, scanning the crowd with obvious purpose.
Her parents.
The Earl and Countess of Keats, looking older than she remembered but unmistakably the same people who had failed Emmie so completely.
He invited them. Hugo invited my parents without telling me.
Her face must have changed dramatically because Hugo immediately followed her gaze.
“Sybil—” he began.
But she was already moving, pushing past him toward the nearest exit. She needed air, space, somewhere to think that didn’t include watching her parents approach with those careful, hopeful expressions.
How could he? How could he invite them without asking me first?
Behind her, she heard Hugo call her name, but she didn’t stop. She made it to the terrace before the anger truly hit—hot, fierce rage at being manipulated by the one man she’d started to trust.
So much for our honest arrangement. So much for mutual respect.
Through the glass doors, she could see Hugo speaking with her parents, their faces grave and apologetic. They looked frail somehow, as though the years of separation had worn on them.
But that doesn’t give him the right to make decisions about my life.
The cool evening air helped clear her head, but it couldn’t ease the sense of betrayal burning in her chest. Because the worst part wasn’t that Hugo had overstepped—it was that she’d started to believe their partnership might become something more than business.
Fool. When will you learn that men always think they know what’s best for you?
She gripped the terrace railing, staring out at the darkening London sky. Behind her, she could hear the faint sounds of music and laughter from the ballroom—her wedding celebration continuing without the bride.
What am I doing? What have I gotten myself into?
But even as she asked the question, she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret the vows she’d spoken or the ring that now graced her finger.
