And she intended to play them beautifully.
Chapter Twenty-One
The crystal chandelier cast dancing shadows across the Pemberton ballroom as Hugo’s amber eyes tracked his wife’s every movement with the predatory focus of a man on the edge of violence.
She was going to be the complete and utter death of him.
That burgundy gown had been a catastrophic error in judgment—precisely because it hugged her curves with sinful perfection and made her pale skin glow like moonlight. Every gentleman in the ballroom could see exactly what he saw, and the appreciative glances following her graceful form made his hands clench into fists.
Mine,his mind growled with primitive possessiveness.She’s mine.
“Magnificent turnout tonight, wouldn’t you say, Vestiaire?” Lord Blackwood appeared at his elbow, brandy snifter in hand. “Lady Pemberton has outdone herself.”
“Indeed,” Hugo replied tersely, not taking his eyes off Sybil as she navigated the crowd with Rosalie at her side.
“I say, who is that absolute vision in burgundy?” Lord Worthington joined their circle, his gaze following Hugo’s line of sight. “Good God, she’s stunning. Those eyes, that figure—is she unmarried? I don’t believe I’ve been introduced.”
Breathe. Do not commit murder at a society ball.
“That,” Hugo said with deadly calm, “is my wife.”
The color drained from Worthington’s face. “Your wife? But I thought… that is, I hadn’t heard she was?—”
“The Duchess of Vestiaire,” Hugo clarified, his voice carrying enough ice to freeze the Thames. “Perhaps you might direct your admiration elsewhere.”
“Of course! My deepest apologies, Your Grace. No offense intended.”
“None taken,” Hugo lied smoothly though his amber eyes promised swift retribution if the man so much as looked at Sybil again.
Worthington retreated with obvious haste, leaving Hugo to resume his surveillance. Across the ballroom, Sybil was laughing at something Cassandra had said, her face animated with genuine pleasure. The sight should have pleased him—she looked radiant, confident, utterly at ease in surroundings that had once caused her such pain.
Instead, it made him want to throw her over his shoulder and carry her somewhere private where no other man could look at her.
Control yourself. You’re a duke, not a caveman.
But when he saw a tall, fair-haired gentleman approach their little group with obvious intent, Hugo’s civilized veneer cracked completely.
“Blackwood,” he said abruptly, “if you’ll excuse me.”
“Sybil,” Anthea’s voice held its usual note of cool composure, “you look absolutely radiant this evening. Marriage clearly agrees with you.”
If only she knew how complicated that agreement had become.
“Thank you, Anthea,” Sybil replied, adjusting her gloves with nervous precision. “I must say, I’m surprised by how warmlyeveryone has received me. I expected… well, considerably more hostility.”
“Hostility?” Cassandra laughed, the sound bright and musical. “Darling, you’re a duchess now. Society has remarkably short memories when substantial titles are involved.”
“Besides,” Anthea added quietly, “most people with any sense always knew the whispers about your family were grossly exaggerated. Your reputation was built on gossip and speculation, not facts.”
Facts.If only they knew all the facts about her current situation—the marriage of convenience, the ongoing battle of wills with her infuriating husband, the way her pulse raced every time he looked at her with those burning amber eyes.
“I’m simply grateful for the warm reception,” Sybil said diplomatically. “And delighted to introduce you both to my stepdaughter. Lady Rosalie Rothburn, may I present Miss Anthea Croft and Lady Cassandra Burrow.”
Rosalie curtsied gracefully, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m so pleased to meet you both. Sybil has spoken of you with such affection.”
“The pleasure is entirely ours,” Cassandra said warmly. “And might I say, you look lovely this evening. That shade of pink is perfection on you.”
She does look lovely,Sybil thought with fierce pride.And so young and hopeful.
