On stage, some hapless actor was delivering what appeared to be a dramatic soliloquy about lost love and redemption, his words carrying across the packed theater with all the emotional depth of a funeral dirge. The audience sat in polite, stifled silence—the sort of respectful attention one gave to tedious sermons or lengthy political speeches.
Precisely the kind of mind-numbing entertainment I need tonight. Something to distract me from…
But his treacherous mind refused to cooperate. Instead of focusing on the droning performance below, all he could think about was Sybil.
She wants more. She wants this marriage to be real, but she’s trapped herself with grief and anger.
“Papa, are you quite well?” Rosalie’s question cut through his brooding. “You look rather… intense.”
Hugo blinked, suddenly aware that his hands were clenched into fists on the armrests of his chair. Beside Rosalie sat young Lord Pemberton—the same man who’d asked Sybil to dance at the ball—looking politely concerned.
Right. The suitor. The reason we’re enduring this torture in the first place.
“Perfectly well,” Hugo managed, forcing his hands to relax. “Simply… absorbed by the performance.”
Rosalie’s eyebrow arched in a manner reminiscent of her stepmother. “Absorbed? Papa, you’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past ten minutes.”
“I was contemplating the… artistic choices in the lighting,” he said lamely.
“The artistic choices in the lighting,” Lord Pemberton repeated slowly, glancing up at the perfectly ordinary chandeliers. “Yes, quite… illuminating, Your Grace.”
Good God, even the boy is mocking me now.
“Indeed,” Hugo muttered, turning his attention back to the stage where the actor was now declaring his undying devotion to some invisible beloved with the passion of a man reciting tax law.
At least someone’s declaring their feelings. Even if it’s fictional drivel.
“Oh, thank heavens,” Rosalie whispered as the curtain finally began to descend. “I thought that would never end.”
Never end. Rather like this evening of polite conversation and careful chaperoning.
“It was certainly… thorough,” Lord Pemberton offered diplomatically as the audience began to stir around them.
“Thorough is one word for it,” Hugo muttered, rising from his seat with relief. “Shall we collect your wraps, ladies?”
“Yes, please. Lord Pemberton, thank you so much for suggesting this evening. The play was quite… educational.”
Educational. The girl has inherited her stepmother’s talent for diplomatic understatement. That same stepmother who now chose to keep her mouth shut rather than contribute to the conversation.
As they made their way through the crush of departing theater-goers, Hugo found himself scanning the crowd. A habit born of years protecting his family, always alert for potential threats or unwanted attention.
Which was why he spotted the Earl of Keats immediately.
Sybil’s father.
The man stood near the main exit, his silver hair neatly arranged, his evening clothes impeccable. But there was something in his bearing, something in the way his eyes searched the crowd, that spoke of desperation beneath the polished facade.
He’s looking for someone. For us.
Hugo’s first instinct was to steer Sybil, Rosalie, and Lord Pemberton in the opposite direction. He owed the Earl nothing—less than nothing, given what the man had done to his own child. The last thing Sybil needed was to be ambushed by the father who’d thrown her sister out to die.
Keep walking. Pretend you don’t see him.
But as they drew closer to the exit, the Earl’s gaze found his. And what Hugo saw there stopped him cold.
Pain. Genuine, devastating anguish.
The Earl’s face transformed the moment he recognized Hugo. Hope flickered in his eyes, followed immediately by resignation, as though he expected to be cut dead in front of half of London society.
