“That would be a shame.” He reached out and brushed a curl behind her ear, his fingertips trailing a path of heat across the delicate skin of her temples and down, down, down, along her ear and down the column of her throat. His fingers hesitated there, and she held her breath, but after a moment, he leaned back. “The fireworks will begin soon,” he said.
Sybil did her very best to calm the frantic beating of her heart. It was inconvenient in the extreme that the Duke’s proximity could do such awful things to her. It felt as though her stomach was tied into knots and she wasn’t sure if she craved more or wanted to leave.
One of the young ladies turned around in her chair so she was facing Sybil, her brown eyes hard and spiteful. “Pray excuse me, Lady Sybil,” she said. “I was just discussing with Diana here whether we have seen you in Society before.”
“I expect not,” Sybil said as smoothly as she could.
“How odd. I could have sworn I saw your likeness somewhere.” The lady—Sybil couldn’t remember her name—paused, pressing a finger to her lip. “Or perhaps I’m thinking of your mother. We’ve seen a great deal ofher, haven’t we, Di?”
The raven-haired beauty beside the girl giggled. “A little too much.”
“Miss Lovell,” the Duke said warningly.
“Oh, you cannot think to defend her, Your Grace,” Diana said, waving a hand. “We all know who her mother is.”
Coldness washed over Sybil. This eveningcouldget worse.
The Duke stood, but before he could say anything, Sybil also rose. “Thank you for expressing your feelings so plainly,” she said, her voice icy and distant. She took refuge in coldness, knowing if she gave into the humiliation, she would cry, and that truly would be terrible.
She knew how this story went. Her mother was a source of humiliation and people would judge her because of her birth. No matter what the Duke was—a rake, a profligate—she was still worse. A nobody of poor birth, whose mother was well known as being a harlot.
“You forget yourself,” the Duke said to Miss Lovett, but the words washed over Sybil as she made her way blindly to the door at the back of the box.
“Excuse me for inflicting my company on you,” she said as she fumbled with the latch. She hardly knew what she was doing as she slipped out, pushing it closed behind her and walking. Just walking.
She’d known her birth would prevent her from being acceptable company for the Duke, but now it had been confirmed in the worst possible way. The only thing she didn’t know was why she felt this so keenly when she had faced similar comments elsewhere that hadn’t lanced straight into her heart.
Unsure where she was going, she plunged into the darkness, wishing she could go home, wishing she could forget every moment of this terrible, wonderful, awful trip. The Duke, for a fleeting moment, had looked at her as though the sun dawned in her eyes, and for a stupid, short-lived moment, she had believed he cared for her.
Or at least, he had wanted more of what she had given that fateful day by the river. Would she never be able to escape that moment? At least she could escapethismoment in the most literal sense.
She stopped and caught her breath, alarmed to find herself panting as though she had been sprinting. Although, when she glanced behind her, considering she couldn’t see the box or even the center of the gardens, perhaps she had fled further than she’d thought. In the distance, another river trickled along by, its song a gentle mockery.
“Water is bad for me,” she informed it, and when it made no move to reply, turned to get a better sense of where she was—and came face to face with the Duke.
He, gratifyingly, was also out of breath, and, less gratifyingly, looked as though he wanted to shake her. “Sybil,” he said, his voice grating. “What possessed you to run as though the devil was on your heel?”
She folded her arms and looked him up and down. “It appears he was.”
“Miss Lovett was out of line, but—”
“It doesn’t matter if she said it—what matters is that she thought it.” Sybil paced, running her fingers through her curls and straightening them as best she could. “And that she thought the present company would be amenable to her saying it.”
“Which—”
“Which they were not,” she finished, “but don’t you see? The longer I spend with you, the more people are going to open your eyes to my heritage and my birth. To mymother.” Her bosom was heaving in a way her mother would have approved, although her dress was altogether too high to make use of it—something of which her mother wouldnothave approved.
“Sybil,” he said, his voice caressing her.
“Stop.”
“I have already asked her to leave my party,” he said, and he caught her arm, tugging her closer to him. “I informed everyone there that they were free to leave if they took objection to my friends, and no one else chose to go.”
“Because they respect you,” she whispered. “Not because they value me.”
“Perhaps not yet, but will you convince them to value you by relieving them of your company?” His finger brushed her cheek, and she realized belatedly that it was wet. Perfect—on top of everything else, she was crying and he could see. “You are more than your mother,” he murmured.
She placed her hand on his chest, savoring the feel of his heartbeat, still elevated from his run. They were secluded here, in the darkness, away from the box. No one around them seemed to so much as notice them, tucked away by the river.
