Page 122 of Her Beast of a Duke

Hermia’s breath caught; he had guessed her horse’s name despite her slip-up.

His mouth quirked up at her reaction. “I will see you back to your residence quietly. Your horse will remain with you, and you will be safe and dry. Then, my driver will return the carriage here. No one will be any wiser. Besides, if you’re caught and you’re dry, you can lie your way out of it. But if you’re dripping wet? Then you’ve got to hide your clothes, dry off, come up with a story… It’s a mess.”

“I cannot think about being caught,” she hissed.

But he was right.

Hermia groaned as another roll of thunder broke the silence. If she waited, she had no idea how long it would take for the rain to taper off, and she was already running on borrowed time.

“Lady Hermia,” the Duke prompted.

“Fine,” she relented. “You must be used to getting your way.”

He strode past her, casting a sidelong glance at her. “If memory serves, you rather enjoyed it when I had my way with you.”

Before she could utter a response, he was already striding out of the study and calling to his housekeeper. Moments later, she was settled in the carriage.

The Duke stood at the open door. “I will fix all of this,” he promised.

Her jaw tightened. “As you should. Not just for my sake, but for the sake of my sisters as well.”

She yanked the door shut.

Yet, as the carriage pulled away from Branmere Manor, she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him.

Charles set down his cutlery with a faint clink. The morning sun slanted across the breakfast table, catching on the silver and the rim of his untouched teacup.

The events of the night before—Lady Hermia storming through his townhouse, a whirlwind of ribbons and lace—flashed through his mind.

He stood up, intending to leave the breakfast hall, when the door burst open and Mrs. Andrews hurried inside, breathless.

“Your Grace,” she panted, her hair loose and her eyes wild. “I do not wish to alarm you, but I am worried.”

He braced himself for another report of a prank. “What has she done now?”

He hated how he automatically assumed such a thing.

“It is rather what she has not done,” Mrs. Andrews answered. “Lady Phoebe is not here, Your Grace. She—she is missing.”