I will come to you.
Only those words, uttered in that tone, could have prevailed on Sybil to leave the library where the Dowager glared at her son and insulted Sybil in as few words as possible.
If Sybil had her way, she would have given her tongue free rein; if the Dowager had little problem insulting her to her face, surely Sybil could have no reason to offer politeness in return.
She couldn’t shake the way George had looked when he had spoken about his mother. There’d been such grief in his eyes, such suppressed hurt, and frustration. That woman did not deserve a son as kind, as humorous, as generous, as George.
Sybil’s eyes stung as she pushed open the door to George’s study. A footman looked at her curiously, but although she thought he would refuse her entry, he did nothing to prevent her from entering.
Her hands shook as she lit a candle and glanced around at the small, handsome room. It was unashamedly male, and was plainly a room dedicated to George. A wooden globe sat in the corner and she span it with one finger. There were delicate porcelain masks, intricately painted, hanging on one wall, and a decorative sword hanging on another.
But the thing that took her attention the most was the large mahogany desk sitting against one wall. A brown leather chair sat behind it, and she carried the candle to it, looking at it for a moment. The urge to cry had been replaced by an insatiable curiosity, and after a moment, rocking back and forward on her heels, she took a seat.
Sothiswas what it felt like to be George. His hands had written these accounts with the pen lying meekly beside its ink pot. His lips had touched the glass of brandy that sat to one side.
He had been in this chair, doing his work and entertaining himself. This was presumably where he came to think in those quiet moments where no one else could see him.
“I see you,” she murmured. There were several drawers and she ran her fingers along the seams. Insatiable curiosity or not, there were some things a young lady did not pry into. He might have something truly heinous hidden away in the desk, and it was her responsibility—
Oh, she was fooling no one.
After a quick glance at the door, she opened the first. There were papers across them. Accounts, by the looks of them. Deeds and books and more pens that hadn’t been properly cut. More ink pots.
How dull.
She explored all his drawers, discovering nothing heinous. One contained a book that she concluded was the one he was currently reading; it had a slip of paper as a bookmark, but when she opened it to the page he had been on, she found it was nothing but a book on husbandry.
Disappointing.
She was on the verge of giving up entirely when she dislodged a small box at the bottom of one drawer. When she freed it and brought it into the light, there was nothing distinguishable about the box. It was flat and white, made from crudely carved wood. Still, as she opened it, her heart gave a strange flutter.
Inside the box—the only item in fact—was a grubby white stocking.
ChapterSeventeen
George made his way to his study, anger still pulsing through his veins. His mother had tried to prevent him from leaving, but there was nothing more she could possibly have to say about the situation.
He wanted Sybil. That was the end of the conversation. She was everything he had ever wanted in a woman, in a life partner, and there was very little chance he was giving her up now.
He nodded to the footman in the hallway, dismissing him, and opened the door to find the flickering light of a single candle. Sybil had seated herself at his desk, and he had a brief vision of her braced on his lap instead of on the chair, his hands on her hips, guiding her down on—
He noticed the object on the desk, and he went still. All thoughts of what theycouldbe doing fled from his head, because—
She’d found it.
“George,” she said, and he raised his gaze to hers. “George.”
“Sybil.” His voice was unintentionally raspy, and he cleared his throat. “I can explain.”
She rose from the desk, the stocking in her hands, the empty box open in front of her. “This is mine.”
“You left it, that day you fled from me.”
“I did.” Her chest rose and fell as she took a deep breath. “I realized when I returned to my room.”
“I see.”
“That doesn’t explain to me why you kept it.”
