“Sybil.” He caught her arm. “Don’t call meYour Grace. I’m not offended. Just… surprised.” No doubt because a nobody like her should presume to share a life with a Duke like him. How could she have been so stupid?
“And not because of your reputation,” he said, more gently than ever. He released her. “Because of mine.”
“Yours?”
“Do you not know of my reputation, Sybil?”
“Yes, I know of it, but what should it matter to me? Do you think as your wife I shall treat you differently from the way I treat you now?” She rolled her shoulders, fighting the wave of humiliation that washed over her. “I’m sorry for suggesting it.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said, tucking her hand back in his arm. They made their way back onto the path without anyone seeing, and exited the wood as though they were on a perfectly normal and utterly respectable walk. “Let us find your mother.”
And that, Sybil thought, was that.
* * *
George’s mind was a whirl of emotion and confusion. Sybil had asked him to marry her. She had essentially proposed, if not in words then in actuality. After he had pushed her up against a tree and done his best not to free himself and slide inside her right there, she had proposed marriage as though it was the simplest conclusion in the world.
He sighed and threaded a hand through his hair as he picked up his glass of brandy, swirling the amber liquid. The girl in the bed rolled over, dark hair spreading across the pillow. “Are you all right, Your Grace?” she asked throatily.
“Perfectly.”
“Come back to bed.”
He tossed the liquid back. “Go to sleep, Emily.”
She pouted, drawing his attention to her plump lips. She was a fetching young lady, recently widowed and enjoying all the freedoms a widowed lady—a Countess, no less—could wield.
She was also enjoying him, and until recently he’d found no cause to complain. His appetite was large, and he could stand to visit her on occasion and enjoy the charms of other young ladies.
Now, though, he found the charms of all ladies insufficient, and although he knew the reason—truly, he did—he hardly knew why. Yes, Sybil had inflamed him with desire he hadn’t known he could experience, but did that mean every other woman in London was spoiled for him?
It transpired they were.
Emily crawled to the edge of the bed, her nightgown hanging open at the front to reveal her breasts. He barely gave them a glance as he poured himself another drink. “You don’t often drink this late, Your Grace,” she said, watching him. Her eyes were dark and lidded. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing to concern you.”
“Nothing? I am surprised.” She slid from the bed and came to stand beside him, fingers kneading his shoulder. “You’re tense.”
“Leave me alone, Emily.”
“Tell me,” she coaxed. “Perhaps I can help.”
The problem was so ludicrous that even if she wished to, she couldn’t help. The lady he was rapidly becoming obsessed with had asked him to marry her, essentially without knowing the truth. She thought he was a Duke by blood; that his title, as it rested on his shoulders, belonged to him.
She despised her mother for the affair that was no doubt going on behind her stepfather’s back. How could she react when she learned he was the product of such an affair? She would look at him in disgust, and he couldn’t marry her under false pretenses.
“And what would you do?” he asked, turning and catching her chin so she looked at him. Objectively, she was beautiful, with the same showy beauty that Lady Averley had; her dark hair was long and luscious, her lips were plump and red, and her eyes were dark and soulful.
Yet as he looked into her face, he found himself craving a very different kind of beauty; a quieter kind, like a flower, opening its petals to the sun; the kind showcased in a quick smile, a wave of laughter in her eyes, the elegant line of her neck. Those things drew a man in, encouraged him to look further, to notice the exact shade of her eyes, changing with her mood, and the tiny freckles dusted across her skin. There was so much to her, like opening the pages of a book to discover countless stories tucked between their pages.
Emily would never understand his desire for a woman who didn’t flaunt herself to him. And he would never explain.
“Go back to bed,” he told her, releasing her with an impatient gesture. “Don’t wait up for me.”
Her gaze searched his face, but either his tone was final enough or his expression was, because although her bottom lip slid out in another pout, she did as he commanded.
This would be the last time he saw her or solicited her company.
