God help me, I still want him. Despite everything, I still want him.
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous realization of all.
Chapter Thirteen
Sybil’s hands shook as she tore the diamond pins from her hair, letting the elaborate wedding coiffure tumble down her back in auburn waves.
The moment her bedchamber door had closed behind her, the careful composure she’d maintained all evening cracked like glass.
Hairpins scattered across the Persian carpet as she worked frantically to free herself from the trappings of her new role—the duchess she was supposed to be, the wife she’d never planned to become.
How dare he invite them without telling me? How dare he make that choice for me?
Her wedding dress, so beautiful just hours ago, now felt like a costume she was desperate to escape. She fumbled with the pearlbuttons Beverly had fastened so carefully, her fingers clumsy with rage and betrayal.
You started to believe it, didn’t you? Started to think maybe this could be more than just business.
The knock at her door came exactly when she’d expected it—firm, authoritative, completely lacking in apology.
“Come in,” she called, not bothering to turn from her dressing table.
Hugo entered without ceremony, still in his formal wedding attire though he’d loosened his cravat. His amber eyes swept over her—taking in her disheveled hair, her half-unbuttoned gown, the scattered pins at her feet—with the calculating assessment of a man trying to solve a puzzle.
“Well,” he said, closing the door behind him with deliberate calm, “that was dramatic.”
Dramatic.As if her feelings were some sort of theatrical performance for his amusement.
“Was it?” she yanked another pin free, not caring that it caught in her hair. “I thought it was rather restrained, actually.”
“Restrained.” His voice held that familiar note of dry humor that made her want to throw something at his perfectly composedface. “Yes, fleeing your own wedding reception certainly qualifies as subtle.”
“I didn’t flee. I left when my duties as hostess were complete.”
“Your duties as hostess would have been complete after you met with your parents.”
There it is. The real reason he’s here.
She finally turned to face him, noting how he stood with military precision near the door—close enough to block her exit if she tried to run again, far enough away to maintain the pretense of propriety.
Always calculating. Always in control.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “The moment I realized that you invited my parents without bothering to inform me.”
“I invited them because I thought?—”
“You thought.” She rose from her chair so quickly that it scraped against the floor. “You thought what, exactly? That you could orchestrate some touching family reunion by ambushing me at my own wedding?”
Hugo’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I thought you might want them there.”
“You thought wrong.”
“So I’m beginning to understand.” He moved deeper into the room, his presence filling the space in that infuriating way of his. “The question is why.”
“Perhaps because I don’t appreciate having decisions made for me,” she snapped. “Perhaps because I expected my husband to discuss matters that affect me before taking action.”
“Your husband.” He repeated the words with something that might have been satisfaction. “Yes, I suppose I am that now.“
The way he said it—with quiet possession rather than mere acknowledgment—sent an unwelcome flutter through her chest.
