“Sybil is a marvel with the children,” Verity went on, taking his apology in stride. “Many of the ladies who patronize the Children’s Foundling Hospital only make annual visits, youknow. They like the idea of being charitable, while doing none of the work. Sybil was singing with the children, and she even played a game of blindman’s bluff.”
Verity grinned at his wife in shared amusement.
How lovely. Now his own sister had taken up the enemy’s cause.
“How very good of Her Grace,” he said with insufferable, stiff formality.
Good God, what was the matter with him? He was turning into his sire. That was what Sybil had made him.
“I merely took my cues from you, Lady Verity,” Sybil said, displaying perfect humility and excellent manners.
To look at her now, one could scarcely find fault. She was elegance personified, her chestnut hair swept into an elaborate coiffure that served to draw attention to the graceful column of her throat and that damnable half-heart beauty mark that never failed to drive him to utter, ruinous distraction. The one that made him want to lick her there, to lay his lips on her bare skin.
To carry her away to his bedchamber and have his wicked way with her.
How ridiculous, that he should be so weakened by a mere fleck on her skin. But then, it wasn’t just that half heart that consumed him, filling every dark corner of his soul with fire.
It washer.
What he felt for Sybil eclipsed anything he had ever known with Lydia. He’d be damned if he would admit it to anyone else. He had to stifle it. To remember that Sybil was no better than Lydia had been, every bit as capable of betrayal even if he hadn’t caught another in her bed. Sybil’s treachery may not have been carnal in nature—the consummation of their marriage had proven that—but she was still in love with another man whilst she was married to him. A man she had taken into her arms on their wedding day.
The conversation at the table carried on in lively fashion around him, saving Everett from having to participate further. And he was glad for it. He had nothing to say, his mood growing increasingly darker by the minute. He didn’t want to desire Sybil as much as he did. Didn’t want to feel anything for her other than lust.
The courses of the dinner dragged on until, finally, he could bear it no more. He excused himself, leaving his mother, sister, Lady Eastlake, and his wife to turn surprised eyes in his direction. But he didn’t give a damn.
With a bow, he departed for the library and the bottle of whisky awaiting him there.
Sybil was seatedat the hearth, a book in her lap, when the knock came that evening just after midnight. The words had been swimming before her, failing to hold her interest. She snapped the tome shut and rose to her feet, nervousness snaking through her.
She hadn’t seen Everett since dinner, when he had been cold and impassive, leaving before the courses had been complete. Whilst the ladies at the table had done their best to smooth over his absence and pretend as if it wasn’t out of the ordinary, Sybil hadn’t been able to banish the suspicion that she had been the cause of his early departure.
He had scarcely glanced in her direction from the fish course until he had left, and even after he had bowed and bid them all a good evening, he hadn’t looked at her. Not once.
But he was here now.
She hadn’t been certain he would come to her.
She wasn’t certain of anything where her husband was concerned.
Sybil smoothed her dressing gown and straightened her shoulders, feeling a bit like a general preparing to go into battle. “Come.”
The door opened, and there he was.
The enigmatic man she had wed. He closed the portal behind him and crossed the Axminster with the self-assured, purposeful strides of a duke who knew all too well his place in not just the household, but the world. He held so much power. In their marriage, in society. Over her heart.
“Did I disrupt your reading?” he asked when he reached her, his gaze falling to the volume she had abandoned on the table by her chair.
“You are my husband. You are always welcome, at any hour.”
A small smile ghosted over his lips. “A dutiful response if I’ve ever heard one.”
“An honest one,” she countered, wondering what he expected of her.
His jaw was rigid, his gaze cool but inscrutable. He was the one who had demanded that she bear him a child if she wanted her freedom. And yet, he was so often displeased, as if she were responsible for this arrangement of theirs. Did marriage to her make him that unhappy? Perhaps he missed being able to indulge in his rakish ways.
That thought rather stung.
“Tell me something, Sybil.” His pale eyes lifted from the book, searching her countenance. “Why did you marry me?”
