Every time Hugo’s hand settled at the small of her back—guiding her through introductions, offering subtle support—she felt that touch like fire through the silk of her gown.
Breathe. You belong here. You’re the Duchess of Vestiaire.
“Sybil, darling!” Cassandra swept forward in a rustle of rose silk, her blonde curls perfectly arranged. “You look absolutely radiant. Married life clearly agrees with you.”
“Thank you, Cassandra. You’re very kind.”
“Not kind—truthful. There’s something different about you tonight. More… settled, perhaps?”
Before Sybil could respond, Anthea appeared at Cassandra’s elbow, elegant in deep blue that complemented her dark hair.
“Your Grace,” Anthea curtsied precisely. “A lovely evening for such an occasion.”
“Indeed, it is. And please, both of you—when we’re among friends, I’m still just Sybil.”
“Absolutely not,” Cassandra laughed. “You’re a duchess now. We must show proper respect, even if we’ve known you since you were hiding in corners at debutante balls.”
Hiding in corners. Was I really so obviously uncomfortable in society?
“Lady Cassandra speaks truly,” Hugo interjected smoothly, his hand moving to rest possessively at Sybil’s waist. The warmth of his palm through her gown made her breath catch. “Though I suspect my wife’s natural grace would have asserted itself eventually, with or without a title.”
The casual compliment, delivered with such quiet certainty while his fingers traced small circles against her back, sent heat spiraling through her chest.
“Your Grace flatters me.”
“Your Grace states facts,” he replied, and something in his tone—rough, almost possessive—made her look at him sharply.
He means it. And the way he’s looking at me…
“If I may interrupt,” Lord Pemberton approached with his usual genial manner, Lady Pemberton on his arm. “Your Grace, the house looks magnificent tonight. And might I say, the two of you make a most distinguished couple.”
“You’re very kind, My Lord,” Sybil replied, noting how Lady Pemberton’s sharp eyes assessed everything from the flower arrangements to the quality of the crystal—and the way Hugo’s thumb continued its maddening caress against her spine.
“I confess myself curious about your charitable work, Your Grace,” Lady Pemberton said with the air of someone conducting a subtle interview. “Such an… interesting undertaking for a woman of your position.”
Hugo’s hand pressed more firmly against her back, and Sybil drew strength from both his support and the intoxicating awareness of his touch.
“I find it fulfilling work, My Lady. There are so many children in need of proper education and care.”
“Indeed. Though surely your time would be better spent on more traditional pursuits? Managing the household, supporting your husband’s political interests?”
Traditional pursuits. Because heaven forbid a duchess should care about anything beyond domestic arrangements.
“I believe,” Hugo said quietly, his voice carrying that note of ducal authority that could silence a room while his fingers splayed wider against her back, claiming her, “that my wife’s compassion and intelligence are precisely what make her suited to such important work. Any political interests I might have are enhanced by her insights into social problems I might otherwise overlook.”
He’s defending me. And the way his hand tightens possessively…
The combination of his public support and the private intimacy of his touch made her feel powerful, desired, cherished.
As they processed to dinner, Sybil was acutely aware of Hugo beside her—the brush of his sleeve against her arm, the way he bent close to murmur observations that made her laugh, the subtle possession in how he guided her to her seat.
Seated beside Hugo at the head of the table, Sybil found herself drawn into conversations that ranged from estate management to the latest political developments. And to her surprise, Hugo consistently sought her opinions, his hand occasionally finding hers beneath the table—brief, electric contacts that made her pulse race.
“I disagree entirely,” Lord Worthington was saying about proposed factory reforms. “Such regulations would destroy British competitiveness.”
“Would they?” Sybil asked politely, her confidence bolstered by the way Hugo’s fingers traced patterns against her palm. “Or would they simply ensure that workers have adequate conditions to maintain productivity?”
A brief silence fell over the table. Ladies weren’t supposed to contradict lords, particularly not about political matters.
