When Hugo finally stood to escort her upstairs, when his lips lingered against her knuckles far longer than courtesy required, Sybil felt the gesture differently than ever before.
Not as polite courtesy but as barely restrained desire.
Tomorrow we’ll continue building whatever this is becoming. Tonight, I’ll dream of touches that last longer, burn deeper.
As she prepared for bed, Sybil caught her reflection in the mirror and saw what Cassandra had noticed earlier. She did look different—but now she understood why.
This is what it feels like to be desired. Not just married but wanted.
Through the wall separating their chambers, she could hear Hugo moving about his room, and for the first time since their wedding, the sound didn’t make her nervous.
It made her wonder what it would be like if that wall weren’t there at all.
Chapter Fifteen
The ancient stones of Vestiaire Castle seemed to welcome Hugo with silent approval.
He stood at the window of his study, watching the morning mist rise from the carefully manicured gardens his great-grandfather had designed.
Three weeks in London for wedding festivities and business had felt like three months—too long away from the place that defined him, too long surrounded by the artificial bustle of the capital when all he truly wanted was this—the rolling hills of his ancestral estate, the quiet efficiency of a household that had served his family for generations, and the deep satisfaction of being exactly where he belonged.
This is what I was born for.
Not the marriage marts and drawing rooms of London though he navigated them with ducal precision when necessary. Notthe endless parade of social obligations that came with his title though he fulfilled them dutifully. This—the land, the legacy, the unbroken chain of Rothburn stewardship that stretched back three centuries.
“Your Grace?”
Hugo turned from the window to find Mrs. Crawford, his housekeeper, standing in the doorway with the deferential posture of a woman who’d managed his household for the better part of two decades. Her graying hair was pulled back in its customary severe bun, her black dress immaculate despite the early hour.
“Mrs. Crawford. Come in.” He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “I trust everything proceeded smoothly in my absence?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” She settled herself with the practiced ease of a woman comfortable in her authority. “Though there are several matters requiring your attention.”
Hugo moved to his desk, noting the neat stack of correspondence, the precisely arranged ledgers, the way everything had been maintained exactly as he preferred.Caroline had never quite grasped the complexity of it all. Too interested in London society to care about inventory lists and staff schedules.
“The roof repairs to the east wing have been completed,” Mrs. Crawford continued, consulting the small notebook shealways carried. “At a cost of forty-three pounds, well within the budget you approved. The new parlor maid, Jenny, has proven satisfactory though she requires additional training in housekeeping.”
“Of course.” Hugo settled into his chair, only half-listening as she recited the familiar litany of household concerns. Staff changes, maintenance issues, supply inventories—the endless details that kept an estate of this size functioning.
“The wine cellar inventory shows we’re running low on the claret you prefer for important dinners. Shall I arrange to purchase additional cases?”
“Actually,” Hugo interrupted, an idea forming, “I believe such decisions will no longer be your sole responsibility.”
Mrs. Crawford’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Your Grace?”
“My wife will be taking over management of the household.” The words felt strange on his tongue—not because he doubted Sybil’s capabilities but because he’d grown accustomed to handling such matters himself. “The Duchess will need to be consulted on all significant purchases and staffing decisions.”
If she’s to be mistress of this house, she needs to actually run it.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Crawford made a note in her book. “Shall I arrange to meet with Her Grace this afternoon to review current procedures?”
“Tomorrow morning would be better.” Hugo picked up his pen, already thinking ahead to the conversation he needed to have with Sybil about her new responsibilities. “She’s still settling in.”
The truth was more complicated. They’d returned to Vestiaire under the guise of a honeymoon—thetonexpected newlyweds to disappear from London for several weeks of marital bliss.
But their actual reasons had been practical. Sybil wanted to ensure the orphanage girls were properly settled, and he wanted her to have time to get to know Rosalie before the Season began in earnest. His eldest daughter needed a calming influence, someone who could channel her spirited nature without crushing it entirely.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
