Page 111 of Her Beast of a Duke

Her mother flapped more sheets in her face. “There is no place far enough to send you!”

At that, her father finally lowered his voice, his movements slowing, though his weathered face remained tight with embarrassment and fury. It was as if her mother’s dreadful declaration had shifted something inside him.

“Do you know the Duke of Branmere, Hermia?”

That was not what Hermia had been expecting.

She frowned. “Yes, but only through the papers and gossip. I have not met him personally.”

Her mother’s face turned an alarming shade of red, and she glared at her viciously. “A liar as well as a who?—”

“Barbara,” Lord Wickleby hissed.

Hermia’s heart was pounding so hard that she felt it in her throat.

No—no, it could not be about the party. That was a year ago, and she had not been back in London ever since.

More possibilities ran through her head. She thought of Anton Bentley’s mouth on a man’s, and how he kissed a woman just as easily. She thought of the artwork and the sensuality, the scantily draped bodies that had been in the showroom when she had returned from the only thing she had ever chosen.

She still recalled the feel of silk against her bare skin, but she pushed that all aside.

Could Anton’s parties have been leaked to the scandal sheets? It would make the juiciest story, prompting gossip for months, even years.

But no, surely this had nothing to do with that.

“Hermia,” her father said sternly, “it will do you no good to lie to us, for we already know the truth.”

“The… truth?” she echoed faintly. She was certain the room began to spin around her. “I do not?—”

Her father exhaled, his brow furrowed. “Last night, the Duke of Branmere hosted a charity auction. I have attended several of them over the last couple of years, so you will have heard about them.” Hermia nodded. “He exhibits artwork mostly, antiques sometimes, to auction them off and raise money for good causes. His auction’s highlight piece?—”

“Starlightpiece,” Isabella corrected.

Their father looked annoyed as he continued. “Hisstarlightpiece was supposed to be one drawn by the infamous Christian Dawson, a favored painter that His Grace curates pieces from.” The name rang a faint bell in Hermia’s mind, but time had snatched it away, faded it like a rubbed-off engraving. “Instead, what was unveiled was a?—”

“A painting of a posing harlot!” her mother snapped.

“It was of you, Hermia.” Her father’s anger had not abated, but he looked terribly uncomfortable. “It was of you in a manner of… undress and?—”

“You were nude, according to the reports.” Isabella snickered.

“No!” their mother screamed. “No, no, I will not hear of it.”

“Mama, stop,” Hermia begged. “I-I did not meet His Grace, nor have I ever posed for such—for such a scandalous portrait. I have never posed for anything except for family paintings!”

Although she kept her voice as calm as she could, desperation and confusion cracked it. She had no idea what was going on. The room was definitely spinning now.

Why had this Duke painted her in such a fashion? A duke she had never met, daring to invite so much public shame upon her.

From her sisters, a low whistle sounded.

“I am certain you are defying your own expectations, Sister. Next time, I will act proper just like you,” Alicia muttered.

Despite Alicia’s petty comments about Isabella a moment ago, the two sniggered now, already whispering about how Hermia was always so poised and perfect, yet…

Their mother stormed over to them, waving a bundle of gossip sheets in their faces.

“Heavens, Mama, did you try to steal every last copy?” Alicia laughed.