“You destroyed your own child,” Hugo said with quiet fury. “You let her die alone and afraid because you were more concerned with society’s opinion than your family’s welfare.”
“Yes.” The word came out like a confession. “Yes, I did. And I’ve lived with that knowledge every day since. I’ve watched Sybil punish herself for my failures, watched her build a life around caring for others because she believes she failed the one person who mattered most.”
The Earl held out the letter again, desperation bleeding through his controlled facade. “I’m asking you to love my remaining child enough to help her heal from wounds I inflicted. I’m asking you to be the parent I should have been. The husband she deserves.”
The husband she deserves. Not the one she settled for out of necessity.
Hugo stared at the folded paper, weighing his options. He could refuse, walk away, and protect Sybil from whatever additional turmoil this might cause. Or he could take the risk that perhaps, after eight years, some wounds were ready to be examined.
One day, you may make a mistake that costs you your child’s love. When that day comes, I hope someone gives you the chance I’m asking for now.
The unspoken plea hung between them, and Hugo found himself thinking of his own daughters. Of the moments when his temper or pride had nearly cost him their trust.
“I won’t force her to read it,” he said finally, taking the letter with reluctance. “And I won’t contact you afterward, regardless of her response.”
“I understand.” Relief flooded the Earl’s features. “This is… this is my attempt to make things right.”
His attempt. After eight years of silence.
“You realize this may make things worse,” Hugo warned. “She may be angrier after reading this than she was before.”
“I know. But she can’t be more lost to me than she already is.” The older man’s composure wavered. “I’ve already lost one child to my pride and prejudice. I won’t lose another to cowardice.”
Hugo tucked the letter into his coat, the weight of it heavier than such a small thing should be. “If this causes her additional suffering, if it opens wounds that have finally begun to heal, I will hold you personally responsible.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” the Earl replied quietly. “Thank you, Your Grace. For giving me this chance. For protecting her when I failed to.”
And with that, he melted back into the departing crowd, leaving Hugo standing alone with a letter that might change everything.
Or destroy what little peace she’s managed to find.
“Papa?” Rosalie appeared at his elbow, her face creased with concern. “Is everything all right? You look rather grim.”
Grim. I feel like I’ve been handed a lit cannon and asked to deliver it safely.
“Everything’s fine,” he lied. “Just an unexpected encounter with an old acquaintance.”
“Oh.” She looked unconvinced but didn’t press. “Lord Pemberton has called for our carriage. Sybil is waiting outside for it with him. Are you ready to leave?”
Ready to leave. Ready to go home and deliver a letter that might shatter my wife’s carefully constructed world.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Let’s go home.”
Because whatever happened next, Sybil would need him. And this time, he intended to be there for her.
No matter what that letter contained.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sybil pressed herself further into the corner of Anthea’s drawing room, using her teacup as a shield against her friend’s increasingly penetrating stare.
This was supposed to be a simple social call. Tea, polite conversation, perhaps some discussion of Rosalie’s successful debut. Not… this.
“You’ve been avoiding someone,” Anthea observed with the directness that had made her both feared and respected among theton’sgossips. “And judging by that particular shade of pink in your cheeks, I’d venture it’s your husband.”
Goodness. Anthea and her ability to read people like open books.
“I haven’t been avoiding anyone,” Sybil protested, setting down her cup with more force than necessary. “I’ve simply been busy. There’s been so much to organize since Rosalie’s debut?—”
