Maybe Anthea is right. Maybe I’ve been punishing myself for crimes I didn’t commit.
She was so absorbed in these treacherous thoughts that she failed to notice the tall figure waiting in the front hall until she’d practically walked directly into him.
“Hugo!” The name escaped as a startled exclamation. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Clearly.” His gaze took in her flustered state with the thoroughness of a man who missed nothing. “How was your visit with Miss Croft?”
Enlightening. Disturbing. Completely devastating to my peace of mind.
“Pleasant,” she said carefully. “Anthea and Cassandra send their regards.”
“I’m sure they do.” Hugo moved closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne. “Sybil, I believe we need to discuss?—”
“Actually, I should check on the correspondence,” she interrupted quickly, taking a step toward the stairs. “Mrs. Hartford mentioned several invitations?—”
“The correspondence can wait.” Hugo’s hand closed gently around her wrist, not restraining but unmistakably requesting her attention. “My study. Now.”
Now. Not a request, then.
The way he said it—with quiet authority and something that might have been barely leashed patience—sent a shiver down her spine.
He’s been waiting for this as much as I’ve been avoiding it.
“Hugo, I really don’t think?—”
“I wasn’t asking what you think.” His eyes held hers with uncomfortable intensity. “I was telling you what’s going to happen. We’re going to my study, and we’re going to have the talk you’ve been avoiding for three days.”
Three days. Has it been that obvious?
The answer was clearly yes, judging by the knowing look he gave her.
“Very well,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “But I don’t see what there is to discuss.”
Hugo’s mouth curved in a smile that held no humor whatsoever. “Don’t you? Then this should be brief indeed.”
Brief. Something tells me this will be anything but brief.
But she followed him toward his study anyway, her heart hammering as she tried to prepare for whatever reckoning awaited.
Because Anthea was right about one thing—avoiding this indefinitely wasn’t an option. And perhaps it was time to discover exactly where she stood with her husband.
Even if the answer terrified her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hugo’s study felt smaller than usual as Sybil perched on the edge of the leather chair across from his massive oak desk, her spine rigid with anticipation.
Here it comes. The discussion about Richmond, about the kiss, about what it means for our marriage.
She’d rehearsed her responses during the walk from the front hall—carefully neutral explanations about momentary lapses in judgment, reassurances that nothing needed to change between them. Professional distance restored, boundaries reestablished.
Safe territory.
“Before we begin,” Hugo said, settling behind his desk with deliberate formality, “I want you to know that you’re under no obligation to discuss anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable. Well, that certainly covers the kiss and everything that followed.
“I appreciate that,” she replied, clasping her hands in her lap to stop their trembling. “Though I suspect we both know why you wanted to speak privately.”
