“Do you have an enemy that wishes so much ill on you they would target me?”
“An enemy?” He gave a bitter laugh, and like the note in his voice before, she couldn’t decipher the emotion behind it. “Not as such, although perhaps enemy is an appropriate word. We have done battle often enough.”
Confused, Sybil frowned up at him and he stroked her cheek again, as though in reassurance, not seeming to care about the people passing them by, or the fact that they were on display for the world to see. In London, rumors spread like wildfire; she had cause to know this better than anyone. Yet George hardly seemed to care. In fact, he seemed to see nothing except her, and whatever thoughts were clouding his eyes.
Behind them, Penelope rummaged in her reticule as though looking for something, giving them the privacy they so desperately needed.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” he said, his other hand tightening around the letters so the paper crumpled. “I swear—Iswear—I will prevent it from happening again.”
“Why, do you—” Sybil forced her suddenly dry throat to swallow. When she had come to him for comfort and a solution, she had not expected this level of grim acceptance. As though this was his lot and he was only sorry she had to share in it.
If he had grown up with people prepared to throw bricks through his windows, his life had been far less privileged than she had suspected. Then again, the first time she had met him, he had been posing as a footman. How much did she truly know of his life?
“Do you know who sent these?” she asked in a whisper. “Was it your enemy?”
“I suspect so, although I have no proof.” The hand on her face slid down to her hand and once again he linked their fingers. Warmth erupted from the touch, as though his presence alone could ground her. “Come with me.”
Sybil’s legs were disinclined to move, and he was forced to drag her along the street a little further until they came to a narrow alleyway beside some shops; places where dirty water was thrown across the cobbles, and deliveries were made. Thetondid not usually venture to such places, but George appeared to have little inclination to consider what thetonmay or may not do.
He stopped and turned so they faced one another. He ran a hand through his hair. “You may already know my mother is not… she is opposed to the match, of course, as you are certain to know.”
Horror and shock coursed through Sybil, overpowering even the stench of urine from their surroundings. “You mean to say yourmotheris responsible for this? She is your enemy?”
“She is, and while I cannot be certain she is the person responsible, I can think of no one else so very against our marriage.”
“But… she is your mother.” Silence fell between them. George was frowning and his jaw was clenched so tight Sybil half worried he might crack a tooth. Behind them, Penelope lingered by the mouth of the alleyway, pretending to look in the window of the haberdashery close by.
“George,” Sybil said, tugging at his hand so he looked at her. There was such conflict—and such sorrow—written across his face that she longed to soothe it away. “What’s happening? Why would she be sending me threatening letters?”
“There is something I must tell you.” He gave a heavy sigh, and it sounded as though it had come from the very base of his chest. “And I fear it may change the way you think of me.”
“What is it?”
“I also want you to know something else before I tell you. You see… Sybil, when I asked you to marry me, when I lay with you, I wasn’t wholly honest. At least, I didn’t tell you everything.”
Sybil’s stomach dropped into her shoes.
He groaned and ran a hand down his face. “I’m doing it all wrong. I meant—Sybil, the thing I didn’t tell you is about how I feel. Truly, how I feel.”
He was stringing this out far too long. Better he just say what he meant rather than dancing around the subject. “Tell me, George, before I have a heart attack.”
A tiny smile crossed his face, but he merely tucked his hands together and said, “I love you, Sybil.”
Oh.Oh. That was not what she had been expecting. At all. In fact, she could safely say that was the last thing she had been expecting. The lead-up had her thinking he was going to say something cruel.
How he had never cared. How he felt some level of affection for her but it wasn’t enough for marriage. She had been prepared for this wonderful dream to end, but he had countered all those dark, terrible thoughts with three simple words.
I love you.
I love you.
“George—”
“No, don’t say anything yet.” He searched her expression and took her other hand, holding both of them in his. “I need to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“My father was not a constant husband. He had affairs with many ladies over the course of his life, and I was the issue of one such affair.”
