Taken.Not married by arrangement, not wed for convenience, but taken. Claimed. Possessed.
“Hugo—”
“I know,” he said quietly, his thumb still tracing patterns against her skin. “I know you’re angry with me. I know you think I’m trying to control you. But in that dress, you are only mine.“
The words hit her, stealing her breath and making her knees weak. Because he was right—she did want to forget every rational objection. She wanted to stop fighting this attraction, wanted to surrender to whatever was building between them.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
“I need some air,” she said abruptly, stepping back from his intoxicating presence.
“Sybil—”
But she was already moving, pushing through the crowd toward the terrace doors with the desperate urgency of a woman fleeing temptation itself.
Because that’s exactly what I’m doing. Running from the most dangerous man I’ve ever met—the one who makes me want things I swore I’d never want again.
Behind her, she could feel Hugo’s gaze burning into her back, could sense his barely leashed impulse to follow her. But she didn’t look back.
Couldn’t look back.
Because if she did, she might do something truly reckless.
Something like admitting he was absolutely right.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The small ceramic pot slipped from Sybil’s fingers, clattering against the marble surface of her dressing table with a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet chamber.
She’d been so lost in thought—replaying every moment of the evening, every heated glance Hugo had given her, every possessive word he’d spoken—that the simple task of applying hand cream had become impossible. Her fingers trembled as she retrieved the pot, and she couldn’t seem to stop the smile that had been curving her lips since they’d returned from the ball.
Rosalie was magnificent tonight. Every bit the success I hoped she’d be.
But that wasn’t what had her glowing with satisfaction as she prepared for bed. It was the memory of Hugo’s face when she’d descended the stairs in that burgundy gown. The way his eyes had darkened with something that made her pulse quicken. The possessive edge in his voice when he’d claimed her first dance.
‘In that dress, you are only mine.’
Warmth spiraled through her at the memory. She’d fled to the terrace to escape the intensity of her own response, but even now, alone in her chamber, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted between them tonight.
Stop being foolish. It was just a dance. Just words spoken in the heat of the moment.
But her treacherous heart refused to listen to reason.
The soft knock at her door made her start. “Come in, Mary,” she called, expecting her lady’s maid to appear with her nightgown and offer to help her prepare for bed.
Instead, Hugo filled the doorway.
Sybil’s breath caught at the sight of him. He’d discarded his formal evening coat and waistcoat, his white shirt open at the throat, and his dark hair slightly disheveled. The casual disarray made him look younger somehow, less ducal and more simply… male.
Dangerously, devastatingly male.
“Oh!” She instinctively moved her hands behind her back, suddenly self-conscious about the rough texture normally hidden beneath her evening gloves. “I thought you were Mary.”
“Clearly.” His gaze took in her state of undress—her hair loose around her shoulders, her gown partially unlaced—and something flickered in their golden depths that made her skin burn. “Forgive the intrusion. I brought you something.”
He stepped into the room carrying a small silver tray with a delicate porcelain cup, steam rising from whatever it contained. The gesture was so unexpected, so thoughtful, that it reminded her painfully of the night she’d brought him tea in his study.
When I was trying to apologize for accusing him of breaking his promises.
