Because she had seemed so unspoiled by cynicism, so innocent and naïve. So unlike Lydia. And then, in one awful moment, she had proven him spectacularly wrong.
“Because…” Verity prompted him gently.
“Because I liked her,” he admitted at last. “I thought she was different.”
“Brother.” Verity stared at him as if he had transformed into some mythical beast before her eyes.
“What?”
“You fell in love.”
“No, I didn’t,” he snapped.
Good God. He hadn’t fallen in love with Sybil. There hadn’t been enough time. Surely he would have known. He had been captivated by a woman before, when Lydia had nearly tricked him into a marriage that would have been a hellish nightmare at best. He knew what to expect. He would have felt something for Sybil, something different, something stronger…
Fucking bloody hell.
Verity chuckled. “Poor dear brother. You didn’t realize it, did you?”
He took a fortifying sip of whisky. “Even if that were the case, it’s a moot point.”
“Why should it be moot?”
“Because she’s in love with someone else,” he forced out, still unable to keep the resentment from rising once more at the reminder.
At the memories.
Sybil in her beautiful gown, the loveliest bride he’d ever beheld.His. In another man’s arms. It was as if he had cracked in two in that moment.
“How perfectly dreadful.” Verity reached across the space between their chairs and patted his arm. “I’m so sorry, brother.”
“A bloody footman, to be specific,” he added. “If you can believe it.”
“Oh dear.” The teasing had leached from Verity’s tone and expression, pity in its place. “One of the servants at Riverdale Abbey?”
“No.” He gulped down the remainder of his whisky. “A servant at Eastlake Hall. I…saw them together.”
“Why did the two of you wed if you saw her with another?”
Verity sounded as confused as Everett felt.
“Because I had already married her,” he admitted grimly. “It was just after our wedding breakfast. I can only presume she married me because there is no earthly way her bastard of a sire would have allowed her to marry a lowly footman.”
Sybil must have been terrified of what her father would have done to her, had he discovered the scandalous nature of her relationship with a servant. He would have likely beaten her—or worse. Everett understood her better now, having learned the truth about Eastlake, and he couldn’t quite stifle the sympathy he felt at her plight, even if he was still furious over the betrayal she had committed against him.
“That is wretched,” Verity agreed, tearing him from his thoughts again. “After what happened with Lady Marnham, you must have been quite distressed.”
Distressed didn’t begin to describe what he had felt that day. What he felt still. It was stronger than the devastated betrayal that had filled him when he had caught the Earl of Letton in Lydia’s bed. He had told himself that the difference had been because Lydia hadn’t yet been his when he had realized her perfidy, even if she had been caught in a far more damning embrace.
But now, he was no longer so sure.
“I wasn’t pleased.” Everett poured another measure of whisky into his empty glass, knowing he wouldn’t find theanswer for what ailed him at the bottom of a bottle and yet miserable enough to try, despite all logic and reason. “Now you understand my reason for keeping Sybil at Riverdale Abbey and for failing to inform everyone of our nuptials.”
“I’m still rather miffed with you for keeping your wedding a secret fromMamanand me.” His sister passed him her own empty glass. “Another, if you please.”
“Are you certain that would be wise?” he asked mildly, already pouring.
“Every bit as wise as the whisky in your own glass.”
