“Chamomile,” he said, setting the tray on the small table near her fireplace. “I thought you might have difficulty sleeping after the excitement of the evening.”
“That’s very kind of you.” She moved closer, noting how he stood with military precision despite his casual attire. “Though I should warn you, I was quite wound up. Rosalie was such a success tonight.”
“She was indeed.” Something that might have been pride crossed his features. “You prepared her well. She conducted herself with perfect grace and propriety.”
“She’s naturally charming,” Sybil replied, accepting the cup when he offered it. “I merely gave her confidence in her own instincts.”
“Is that what you call it?” Hugo’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Because from where I stood, it looked like you’d taught her to navigate social complexities with the skill of a seasoned diplomat.”
The unexpected praise warmed her more than the tea. “You make it sound like I performed some sort of miracle.”
“Didn’t you?” His burning gaze held hers with uncomfortable intensity. “Six months ago, Rosalie was climbing trees and swimming in lakes. Tonight, she was waltzing with the heir to an earldom and charming dowagers who’ve destroyed debutantes for far lesser infractions.”
Six months ago, I was a spinster running an orphanage. Tonight, I was dancing with a duke who claims I belong to him.
“She simply needed guidance,” Sybil said with care. “Someone to show her how to channel her natural spirit within society’s expectations.”
“Someone to show her that strength and propriety aren’t mutually exclusive.” Hugo moved closer, his presence filling the intimate space of her chamber in ways that made rational thought difficult. “Much like what you’ve done for me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Don’t you?” He was close enough now that she could smell his cologne, could see the way his shirt clung to the powerful linesof his chest. “Six months ago, I would have locked Rosalie in her room rather than risk her making mistakes in public. Tonight, I watched her flourish and felt nothing but pride.”
“You learned to listen before reacting,” she said quietly. “To guide instead of commanding.”
“I learned from an excellent teacher.” His voice had dropped to that low register that always made her stomach flutter. “Though I suspect the lesson isn’t finished yet.”
What does that mean?
“Hugo,” she began then stopped. The tea was still too hot to drink, and she needed something to do with her hands to cover her nervousness. “Perhaps I should let this cool a bit.”
“Of course.” But instead of stepping back to give her space, he remained close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Sybil, I owe you an explanation.”
“An explanation for what?”
“For my reaction when I learned you were tending to sick children. For the things I said, the way I… lost control of my temper.”
Lost control. Such a careful way to describe his fury.
“You were concerned about the children’s welfare,” she said diplomatically. “I understand that.”
“Do you?” Something painful flickered in his dark eyes. “Because I’m not certain that concern for the children was my primary motivation.”
“Then what was?”
Hugo was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the fire crackling in her fireplace. When he spoke again, his tone was carefully controlled, as though he were discussing estate business rather than personal matters.
“My first wife died of consumption.”
The simple statement caught Sybil by surprise. She’d known Caroline was dead, of course, but the details had never been discussed between them.
“Hugo, I’m so sorry. I had no idea the disease had?—”
“It wasn’t the consumption that killed her.” His words came out flat, emotionless, in a way that made her chest tighten with sympathy. “Not directly.”
“Not directly? What does that mean?”
“Caroline and I… our marriage was not what anyone would call a love match.” He turned to face her, his expression carefully neutral. “We had married under circumstances that were less than ideal with no romantic illusions on either side.”
