The crushing weight of their situation threatened to overwhelm her again. Where would they go? How would she feed thirty-seven mouths with no income, no building, no?—
“Miss Sybil?” Little Emma, one of the children she’d rescued from the fire, appeared at her elbow, clutching a torn rag doll. “Mary’s having nightmares again.”
Sybil rose immediately, pushing her own fears aside. “Of course, sweetheart. Let’s go see to her.”
As she moved between the sleeping forms, checking on restless children and tucking blankets more securely around small shoulders, she tried not to think about tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or?—
One crisis at a time, Sybil. That’s how you survive.
“Lady Sybil, if I may…”
The deep male voice made her freeze mid-step. She’d been so focused on the children that she hadn’t heard anyone approach.
“I’m sorry, but this really isn’t the time for—” she turned dismissively, expecting to find one of Hugo’s footmen with some household concern.
Instead, she found herself staring directly into those disturbing amber eyes.
Oh. Oh my.
The Duke of Vestiaire stood less than three feet away, still in his shirtsleeves from the firefighting efforts, his dark hair disheveled and a streak of soot across his sharp cheekbone.
The sight of him—rumpled, powerful, devastatingly male—sent heat coursing through her that had nothing to do with embarrassment.
Pull yourself together. He’s just a man.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He wasn’t just any man. He was tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, broad enough that his presence seemed to fill the entire room, and there was something in the way he looked at her that made her pulse quicken traitorously.
“Your Grace.” She managed a small curtsy, acutely aware of her own disheveled state. “I apologize for my appearance. I was just?—”
“When was the last time you ate, Lady Sybil?” he arched one dark brow, his voice carrying that particular tone of authority that probably made hardened soldiers snap to attention.
“Sybil, just Sybil,” she whispered.
“Lady Sybil is very correct,” Beverly corrected from somewhere behind her.
Traitor.
Sybil whipped around to glare at her friend and fellow teacher. Beverly had the grace to look apologetic, but she didn’t retract the correction.
Of all the times to remember propriety…
“I ate earlier,” Sybil said quickly, turning back to the Duke. “With all the others. We shared what food your kitchen staff so generously provided.”
Please don’t let him ask Beverly to confirm that. Please don’t?—
But the Duke’s penetrating gaze had already shifted to Beverly, who straightened under his attention like a soldier facing inspection.
“And did she, in fact, eat with the others?” he asked in that same level tone.
Beverly’s face went pink. “Well, that is… she was very busy ensuring everyone else was fed, Your Grace. I don’t believe she actually… that is to say…”
“She hasn’t eaten a single bite,” came Marge’s voice from her makeshift bed. “Been running around like a woman possessed, taking care of everyone but herself. Just like always.”
Marge!
“There was far too much to do,” Sybil protested, heat rising in her cheeks. “The children needed settling, and we had to organize sleeping arrangements and inventory what we managed to save, and?—”
She stopped mid-sentence because the Duke had moved closer—close enough that she could smell the lingering scent of smoke and something else, something warm and masculine that made her stomach flip in the most inappropriate way.
