“Thank you,” Rosalie replied though Sybil caught the slight tremor in her voice that betrayed her nervousness. “I confess I’m rather overwhelmed by it all. Everything is so grand, so sophisticated.”
“Your first London ball?” Anthea inquired with surprising gentleness.
“Yes, and I’m terrified I’ll make some dreadful error and embarrass myself—or worse, embarrass Papa and Sybil.”
Papa and Sybil.As if they were truly a united front instead of two people locked in a battle of wills.
“Nonsense,” Sybil said firmly. “You’re perfectly prepared for this. Remember what we practiced—be yourself but mind your tongue around gossips.”
“And avoid private conversations with gentlemen you don’t know well,” Anthea added with meaningful emphasis.
“Oh yes,” Cassandra chimed in. “Though I must say, the young men this Season seem particularly charming.”
“Charming young men are precisely what one should be most wary of,” Anthea said dryly. “In my experience, charm and trustworthiness are inversely related.”
In all our experience,Sybil thought grimly, remembering Emmie’s fate and Anthea’s narrow escape.
“Your Grace.”
The unfamiliar masculine voice made them all turn. A tall, fair-haired gentleman stood at Sybil’s elbow, his blue eyes warm with admiration as he executed a perfect bow.
“Lord Pemberton,” he continued, “son of our gracious hostess. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
Here we go.
“Lord Pemberton,” Sybil replied with careful politeness. “How lovely to meet you. I’m the Duchess of Vestiaire.”
“Likewise, Your Grace. Your reputation for beauty precedes you though I must say the reality far exceeds any description.” His smile was practiced, confident—the smile of a man accustomed to female admiration. “Might I request the honor of the next dance?”
Sybil felt a familiar flutter of anxiety. She should accept—it was the polite thing to do, the socially expected response. But something about his too-smooth manner, his practiced charm, reminded her uncomfortably of the men who had destroyed her sister and nearly ruined Anthea.
Don’t be ridiculous. Not every charming man is a villain.
“I would be—” she began.
“I’m afraid my wife’s first dance is promised to me.”
The deep, authoritative voice cut through her polite acceptance like a blade through silk. Hugo materialized beside her with predatory grace, his amber eyes fixed on Lord Pemberton with barely concealed menace.
When did he get here? How does he move so quietly for such a large man?
“Your Grace,” Lord Pemberton said though his easy confidence had faltered slightly under Hugo’s stare. “I hadn’t realized… that is, I was merely requesting?—”
“Of course,” Hugo replied with deadly courtesy. “Perhaps another time.”
Perhaps never,his tone clearly implied.
“Naturally. Your Grace, ladies.” Lord Pemberton bowed stiffly and retreated with as much dignity as he could muster.
“That was unnecessary,” Sybil said quietly though she couldn’t quite suppress a thrill at Hugo’s possessive intervention.
“Was it?” His voice held that familiar note of challenge that always made her pulse quicken. “You seemed disinclined to accept his invitation.”
He noticed. Of course, he noticed.
“I was being polite.”
“You were being cautious. There’s a difference.” His amber eyes held hers with uncomfortable intensity. “Shall we dance, wife?”
