“It has.” But instead of taking the hint and leaving, Hugo moved closer, his hand still cradling her face. “Long and revealing and entirely too complicated for a simple marriage of convenience.”
Simple marriage of convenience. As if anything about our relationship could be called simple.
“Hugo—”
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know this isn’t what either of us planned. I know we agreed to keep things practical and uncomplicated. But standing here, watching you try to convince yourself you don’t feel what’s building between us…”
“Nothing’s building,” she lied.
“No?” His eyes held hers captive. “Then why is your pulse racing beneath my fingers? Why are you trembling? Why do you look like you want me to kiss you more than you want your next breath?”
Because I do. God help me, I do want that more than anything else in the world right now.
“I should drink my tea,” she said desperately.
“Should you?” Hugo’s thumb brushed across her lower lip, sending shockwaves through her entire body. “Or should you finally admit that our practical arrangement has evolved into something we never anticipated?”
Something we never anticipated. Something dangerous and wonderful and terrifying.
Before she could formulate a response, before she could think of another excuse or deflection, Hugo was stepping back with obvious reluctance.
“Drink your tea,” he said quietly. “Sleep well. And Sybil?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For tonight, for Rosalie, for… everything.”
Instead of leaving, Hugo moved closer, his amber eyes holding hers with uncomfortable intensity. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with possibilities neither had quite acknowledged yet.
“Sybil,” he said softly, his voice rough with barely leashed control.
“Hugo,” she whispered back, and somehow, they were moving toward each other like moths to flame, drawn by something stronger than rational thought.
His hands came up to frame her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the way his pupils had dilated in the lamplight.
“I should—” she began then stopped, her voice catching as he took another step closer.
“Should what?” His voice was silk and velvet, encouragement and challenge all at once.
But even as the words left his lips, even as she found herself leaning into his touch, her foot caught the edge of the small tea table beside her chair. She stumbled backward, reaching outinstinctively to steady herself, and sent the delicate porcelain cup crashing to the floor in a symphony of destruction.
The spell between them shattered along with the china.
Hugo stepped back immediately, running a hand through his hair with visible frustration. “I should go,” he said roughly. “This was… We shouldn’t…”
“No,” she agreed breathlessly though her heart was still hammering against her ribs. “We shouldn’t.”
But neither moved for a long moment, both staring at the broken cup as though it represented something far more significant than spilled tea.
“Goodnight, Sybil,” Hugo said finally, his voice carefully controlled once more.
“Goodnight.”
And then he was gone, leaving her alone with her thundering heart and the uncomfortable realization that whatever was building between them had just become infinitely more complicated.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Three days had passed since the night Hugo had brought her chamomile tea and shared the painful truth about Caroline’s death. Three days since that devastating moment when they’d moved toward each other like moths to flame, only to have her stumble backward into the tea table, sending porcelain crashing to the floor and breaking the spell between them.
