Page 1 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

ONE YEAR AGO

“ I should be wearing a mask!”

Lady Hermia Dennis’s cry sounded through the dark London street, her protest falling on ears that did not listen.

Ahead of her, her friend, Josephine, the Countess of Redham, only looked back and giggled, reaching out to take her hand. “Forget a mask! Enjoy yourself on your last night of freedom.”

“Freedom!” Hermia echoed. “Josie, all I shall have from now on is freedom.”

She had not quite decided if that was a good thing or not, but her friend’s hand yanked her from that line of pondering before it took root. She was pulled up to hurry at the same pace as Josephine and her husband, William, the Earl of Redham.

He shot her an excited grin.

“See?” Josephine urged. “Even William is looking forward to this, and he never relaxes.”

“I do relax,” William protested. “I once ate a scone before noon.”

Both ladies giggled.

Streetlights pooled on the ground beneath their feet, clad in silk shoes that clicked against the wet cobbles, and Hermia avoided them until she realized Josephine was right.

Who cared if it was her last night in London? She was bound for the countryside tomorrow. Who cared if she was seen?

Leaping through a puddle of streetlight, Hermia felt the elation bubble up her throat, her nerves striking like flint.

Soon enough, they came to a townhouse on the outskirts of London. Even just the fact that they had hurried half the journey on foot instead of going right to one of William’s nondescript carriages said enough.

The night was young, the air was crisp, and this was no ordinary event like Hermia was used to.

“You look like you have seen a ghost.” William laughed as they came to a stop outside the front door.

Josephine, her red curls pinned back from her face while the rest hung loose around her shoulders, gave a specific knock.

One-one-two-two.

She repeated it, and Hermia’s heart fluttered like a caged bird ruffling its wings at the secrecy of it all.

Everybody knew of Anton Bentley, one of London’s most famous actors, but not everybody was notorious enough to be invited to one of his parties.

It just so happened that he had once taken to Josephine at her debut, offering her a night of pleasure that she had refused, only for her to fall madly in love with William at the next ball and get married within weeks.

The door swung open, revealing a man with high rouge on his cheeks and a wickedly dashing smirk that widened into a grin as he set eyes on Josephine.

“Anton!” she greeted excitedly, throwing her arms around him.

Hermia stood there, star-struck, half wondering how William did not turn green with jealousy.

A quick glance at the Earl confirmed that he was watching the actor carefully, more out of protectiveness than jealousy.

Anton notably kept his hands to himself.

“My dear.” His voice was a purr, inebriated yet charming as he addressed Josephine. “You have brought me a fresh face.”

His cat-like eyes landed on Hermia even as he turned his head to puff on a cigar that was offered by long, slender fingers over his shoulder. Another hand trailed over his chest, sliding down to toy with his already unbuttoned shirt.

Hermia did not know where to look.

“I am—I am Henrietta,” she stammered.

The actor’s eyes lit up. “I hope you remember my golden rule: no true names beneath my roof.”

“No true names,” Josephine confirmed.

And then they were waved in, with Hermia trailing behind, unable to keep her eyes off the eccentric actor.

She had seen him in plenty of plays, but always from a distance. Even her mother’s box, proudly close to the stage, was not close enough for her to notice how truly handsome he was.

Hermia blushed and lowered her gaze, only to find herself staring at his exposed clavicle, at the thin, delicate bones beneath. She tore her gaze away, looking anywhere but at him.

“Come,” Anton beckoned. “Let me initiate you into a Bentley party.”

Hermia was led through a dark hallway, but she caught a glance of her reflection in a wide, ornate mirror.

She looked half undone already. Her eyes—as blue as the Maltese lagoons, she had once been told—were wide and excited from the journey.

A smile was already half-formed on her lips, and her dress—a gift from Josephine, who had known what to expect tonight—slipped off one shoulder.

Its Grecian style reminded her of a muse painted on one of the old vases she had seen in her father’s study.

She felt beautiful.

But she was not beautiful enough, or else it would not be her last night of freedom before being exiled to the countryside as a spinster.

Hermia shook off those thoughts. She had done well not to dwell on her fate tonight.

“Come,” Anton beckoned again, holding open a heavy velvet curtain.

Hermia snapped herself back into the present. Her breath caught for a moment before she stepped in.

Josephine had promised lavish surroundings and a grandeur quite different from a ballroom, but she had not expected what lay before her.

The show was already in full swing. At the far end of the room, on raised, circular daises, dancers moved loosely, their bodies bending as if they were boneless.

Clad in tight outfits that revealed more than Hermia had expected, their masks concealed their identities entirely.

Music played from behind a sheer veil, but Hermia could see that few musicians were clothed.

Her heart sped up at the scandalous display, yet she was ensnared.

Next to her, Anton smirked at her reaction.

“Beautiful, no?” He laughed. “The body is a sensual thing that I get to show in theatre, where people pay to pretend that they are scandalized and do not admit their hunger. Here, you may feast as much as you please. Relax, Henrietta.” He winked at her.

“You are safe here. Nobody will know who you are.”

Still nervous, Hermia nodded and followed Josephine to where she had already draped herself across William on a chaise lounge.

Despite her relaxed posture, William kept his excitement banked, but it flashed in his eyes even as he scanned the crowd.

Automatically, his hand tangled in her hair, at once possessive and affectionate.

Hermia’s heart clenched in longing. For a minute, stormy gray eyes blinked in her mind’s eye, swallowed up by the crash of waves she had never seen and only heard of in a clinical report.

She shook the memory away and perched on the end, but then she was directed to a cushion on the floor. It was raised, so she was not too low, and she giggled as she sat next to another lady who blew smoke in her face. It smelled faintly of raspberries.

More dancers swayed before her, their hips dipping and rolling against one another.

Masks were tilted, as if to tease the identity beneath, and she held her breath as one dancer leaned so close and lowered his mask.

Green eyes met hers before he straightened up and curled around his dance partner as they continued their circle around the wide room.

Paintings hung on the walls, all depicting scandalous scenes, and that alone was enough to make Hermia flush beneath the low neckline of her white gown.

It fit her well, cinched with decorative gold chains.

Beneath the dress, Josephine had fastened more chains around her upper thighs, giggling at the nature of it all.

A server lowered a tray of grapes and red wine to her. The woman next to her grabbed two glasses of wine, one for each of them, and plucked a grape off the tray. She offered it directly to Hermia, who quickly shook her head, blushing furiously.

As the server moved, she caught sight of a broad man across the room, his attention on her. No, not her, but a painting hanging on the wall behind her.

Hermia turned to follow his gaze.

“Oh,” she breathed.

“Wine?”

Before she could answer the lady, a goblet of wine was pressed into her hands, and her attention was momentarily drawn from the painting. As she turned to thank the woman, she caught sight of Josephine curled almost suggestively into her husband, bordering on improper but not scandalous.

Josephine met her eyes. “Go on,” she encouraged. “Enjoy yourself. Last night of freedom, yes?”

Last night of freedom .

Hermia swept her gaze across the room. Nobody stared at her. Not like the ton, with its ever-watching eyes, always judging her, always guessing or ordering her next move.

Lady Hermia must marry before she becomes a spinster. Lady Hermia must apply herself to conversation lest she become, dare we suggest, a lonely hag in the countryside, forced to age alone.

Hag. She had barely turned four-and-twenty. What did the scandal sheet know of a hag?

What did freedom look like?

She watched as three dancers entwined with one another, a show of depravity that she should have blushed at.

Yet in here, with the dim light and the heavy red velvet drapes hanging around the room, the masks and the anonymity, the flickering candles and the paintings watching over the guests, it felt utterly right.

Erotic positions were displayed on canvas, and she wondered what would happen later tonight, when she had returned home and the party grew more heated.

Would such positions be replicated in the flesh?

Enchanted, she watched the dancers for a moment, letting her mind wander.

She had kept her purity, and for what? To be sent to the countryside either way.

Sometimes she wished she had lived a little more daringly, had she known that not being pure would not have affected her life in any way. She could have?—

Stop this. Do not be selfish .

Hermia immediately shut down that train of thought with a gulp of wine. She was good at that, at ignoring the voices in her head. So, she stood up gracefully and moved closer to inspect the painting that had caught the handsome man’s gaze.

Beneath the gleaming silver frame, a plaque read: Ares and Aphrodite, a traitors’ embrace. Painted by Christian Dawson.