Parents.The casual assumption sent an unexpected pang through Sybil’s chest.
“Yes,” she managed. “You are.”
The ballgowns were waiting in her chamber when they arrived at Hugo’s London townhouse—three of them, each more stunning than the last, arranged on the bed like a rainbow of silk and satin.
Sybil stood in the doorway, staring at the unexpected bounty with something approaching shock. She’d expected many things upon their return to London, but not this. Not evidence that Hugo had been thinking about her comfort and appearance even while maintaining his arctic silence.
A peace offering. It has to be.
The first gown was deep sapphire blue, cut in the latest fashion with intricate beadwork that caught the afternoon light. The second was pale gold, elegant and understated, with delicate embroidery at the bodice and sleeves. The third…
Dear Heavens.
The third was the color of burgundy wine, rich and dramatic, with a neckline that was daring without being scandalous and a silhouette that would emphasize every curve.
He chose these. Personally selected each one based on what he thought would suit me.
The realization sent heat spiraling through her chest, followed immediately by irritation at her own reaction.
Don’t read too much into it. He simply wants his duchess to look appropriate for London society.
But even as she tried to rationalize the gesture, she couldn’t quite suppress the flutter of pleasure at evidence that he’d been thinking about her appearance with such attention to detail.
Ordered to my precise measurements from the same dressmaker who created my wedding dress.
The intimacy of it—the fact that he knew her measurements, her preferences, her coloring—was both thrilling and unsettling.
Focus on practical matters. You have a ball to attend and a stepdaughter to chaperone.
But as she examined the exquisite craftsmanship of each gown, she couldn’t help wondering which one he’d envisioned her wearing. Which colors he’d thought would best complement her complexion, which styles he’d imagined draping her figure.
Dangerous thinking. Especially when you’re still furious with him.
And she was still furious. The gowns might be a peace offering, but they didn’t change the fundamental issue between them. He still wanted to control her choices, still believed he had the right to dictate her behavior.
But he also wanted me to feel beautiful tonight.
The thought came unbidden, accompanied by a traitorous warmth that had nothing to do with gratitude and everything to do with feminine vanity.
Fine. I’ll look.
The burgundy gown fit like a glove.
Sybil studied her reflection in the full-length mirror, noting how the rich color brought out the auburn highlights in her hair and made her pale skin glow. The neckline was lower than anything she’d worn in years, elegant but undeniably alluring. The waist emphasized her figure without being obvious about it, and the way the silk draped made her feel graceful and feminine in ways she’d almost forgotten.
When was the last time I felt beautiful?
Not at her wedding, despite the stunning dress. She’d been too nervous, too uncertain about Hugo’s motivations and her own feelings. But tonight…
Tonight, I look like a woman worth pursuing. Worth fighting for.
The thought should have alarmed her. Instead, it sent a thrill of anticipation through her that had nothing to do with the evening’s social obligations.
She descended the stairs slowly, one hand trailing along the polished banister, acutely aware of the way the silk rustled with each step. The front hall below was empty except for a few servants making final preparations, but she could hear voices from the drawing room—Hugo and Rosalie discussing the evening’s schedule.
Time to make an entrance.
She paused at the drawing room doorway, noting how Hugo’s back was turned as he consulted his pocket watch. Rosalie saw her first, her face lighting up with delight.
