Page 105 of Her Beast of a Duke

Notably, Charles always highlighted astarlightpiece, the main event that everybody waited for.

But for the moment, his focus was on the harried-looking footman.

“Yes?” he asked impatiently. “Has my daughter managed to sneak out of her room again?”

Mercifully, the footman shook his head. “As you requested, I have two footmen posted at Lady Phoebe’s door, along with Miss Tarnen.”

Charles’s worry abated at the mention of his daughter’s governess. Phoebe always liked her, was more inclined to show good behavior around her.

He nodded. “Good. I cannot have her interrupt. Heavens forbid she tears through the ballroom and knocks a guest over. She could hurt herself in the process, and I do not wish to endure another tantrum.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced back at the ballroom, imagining his wild ten-year-old daughter dashing through the auction.

“We know Lady Phoebe’s antics, Your Grace.” The footman gave a hesitant, amused smile. “We are on high alert. Miss Tarnen has reported that she is grounded.”

Charles nodded grimly. “I cannot have her playing such pranks on the cook again,” he sighed. “Heaven knows uncooked meat was almost served at my last dinner party because of my mischievous daughter.”

He wanted to laugh—truly, he did—but his stress was at an all-time high, and worrying about Phoebe’s next trick was not how he wanted to spend his evening.

But he trusted his servants; they were good, and they knew his daughter well. Together, they would be prepared, at least.

His expression softened as he thought of her up in her room, perhaps singing in the way she did when she thought nobodycould hear her. She might even distract herself with the chess set he had bought her on her ninth birthday.

“You are clever,”he had told her when he found the chess set unused weeks later.“Put the thought you give your pranks into chess, and we can play together.”

Phoebe had overturned the table, pouting, ignoring his suggestion. But he had seen her play with it when nobody was watching her.

Or expecting it from her.

“Make sure she does not cause any chaos tonight,” he said, one last request before he would leave it all in their trustworthy hands. “I cannot have anything go unplanned.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” the footman answered, before bowing and retreating.

Charles strode back into the ballroom. He had ordered his staff to decorate it for tonight’s affair—an auction for yet another cause that landed him in the most positive of conversations with his peers.

He was accustomed to this: grand displays, publicly witnessed offerings, the Branmere name restored more and more with every event he organized.

He hosted these parties because he had an empire to build, and he relished the notoriety they gave him, even if he did not entirely enjoy them himself.

Immediately, he was swarmed by a group of ladies. Redhead, blonde, brunette—they all blurred into one, their faces half-hidden behind fluttering fans.

“YourGrace,” one lady purred. She extended her hand, expecting a kiss. Charles obliged her, grimacing as he straightened, only to be met with another hand. “What a wonderful evening so far.”

“Indeed,” another lady chimed in. “It has not even begun, and it is already the highlight of the Season! You must be awfully proud.”

Before he could answer, the third lady cut in. “It is ever so delightful to see the Branmere name back in good graces. These parties… Heavens, they could keep one’s social calendar busy. Do you enjoy the parties, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” the first lady gasped. “Do you? You host, but never seem to dance much or get involved beyond your duties.”

“I enjoy them,” he answered shortly, wishing to be anywhere but pinned beneath their attention. He tugged on his collar. “Now, if you will excuse?—”

“Do tell, Your Grace,” the second lady whispered. “What is the starlight piece tonight? Do give us a hint. Oh, what was it last year?”

“A painting of the ocean in utter calm, occupied by a lone merchant ship,” he answered. “It signified loneliness and independence, and it raised a great amount for the orphanage on Moorefield Lane.”

“That is right!” the lady cried, grinning. “I loved that piece. It was a rather tasteful escape from the other… artworks you choose to showcase.”

Charles frowned but cared little to ask what they meant.