Page 10 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Four

T he words on the page swam in and out of focus. Hermia rubbed her bleary eyes, half regretting not trying to catch any sleep upon her return from London.

Even the hour she got between arriving and dawn would have done something to restore her exhausted bones. Between the drama from the day before and her venture to the Duke of Branmere’s home, she was ready to collapse. But when she had tried to sleep, images of the Duke flooded through her mind.

The book did little to distract her, and even the parts that were rather suggestive did not pique her interest like they usually did. On any other day, she would have been thrilled to read something that would scandalize her mother.

Sighing, she rubbed her eyes again, attempting to wipe away the fuzziness, but?—

Clink, clink, clink .

A soft tapping on glass.

Hermia half thought she had imagined it, maybe even fallen asleep, but when she followed the sound, she found herself looking at the library’s French doors.

She stifled a gasp.

It was the little girl she had seen at Branmere Manor.

The Duke’s daughter .

A giggle drifted through the glass as the girl waved, although it was muffled.

Hermia hastily put her book down and rushed over. She tugged the doors open, listening out for voices behind her.

When none came, she pulled the little girl inside.

“What on earth are you doing here?” she asked, equally concerned and surprised.

She gazed down into eyes that were the same shade as the Duke’s, but wider and more innocent.

“I escaped!” the little girl said, quite pleased with herself.

“And I waited out there to be let in. But do not fret, I was not cold. I was happier there, for Papa is very cross with me, and it made me feel all upset inside. He bade me to go back to my chamber, but I did not. When he learns of this…” Her eyes went even wider. “He will be much crosser .”

Hermia blinked, amazed and uncertain. “And… how did you get here?”

“I snuck into the carriage!” the little girl declared, once again sounding proud. “It was very easy. I tucked myself into the compartment that smelled like Papa’s leather travel cases.”

She rocked on the balls of her feet, her hands clasped behind her back, giggling.

Baffled, Hermia did not know what to say. Slowly, she closed the doors as the little girl— Lady Phoebe , she recalled a maid shouting—rambled on.

“See, I heard you tell my papa that he was very naughty to you,” she said matter-of-factly. “You said he… ruined you.” She frowned, her little nose scrunching up.

There was a twig sticking out of her dark hair, and Hermia idly plucked it off.

Phoebe merely looked at it and held out her hand. Hermia dropped the twig in it, confused.

“What does ruined me mean? Because when I ruin my schoolwork, I scratch it or scribble on it. Did Papa scratch you?”

Heavens .

Hermia looked up at the ceiling.

“Maybe he drew on you?” Phoebe pushed. “I like drawing on my schoolwork, but Miss Ternan scolds me, and so does Papa. So I must know if he did the same, so I can scold him back!”

Hermia was not about to tell her that her father had very much scratched and drawn in a way. She opened her mouth to explain in a way a child would understand, without villainizing her father, even if he deserved it.

Footsteps sounded down the hallway.

Hermia froze for a minute.

“I need you to be very good, and very quiet, and hide for me,” she whispered. “Can you do that?”

Phoebe’s smile widened. “I can do anything I am told! I am a very good girl.”

“Good,” Hermia uttered, ushering her to the sofa.

“You are very pretty,” Phoebe told her, right before she ducked down.

Hermia rushed to the French doors, making it look as though she was opening them right as her parents walked in.

Taking a second to ensure the girl was well hidden, she looked at her parents.

“What are you doing awake so early?” her mother demanded, as if she was already causing problems just by having her eyes open a little earlier than usual.

“I am reading,” Hermia answered sharply. “Not that it is your business anymore. What are you both doing awake?”

Her father’s scoff was too loud, saying enough of what he thought of her questioning them.

Once, she had sat on her father’s lap, perhaps the same age as little Phoebe, and let her curiosity fly as he taught her how to distinguish fake antiques from real ones.

Now, he looked at her as though he did not know her at all.

She looked away from them.

“We must make an early start,” her father said. “We are returning to London as soon as possible to send a letter to Patricia.”

“You say her name as if you do not badmouth my mother’s sister at every chance you get,” Hermia couldn’t help but mutter.

She wanted them to know that they were utter hypocrites, constantly judging everybody yet never themselves.

Her mother had let her down a thousand times, but the one time she stepped out of line, they decided to banish her. Again.

“Pack your things, Hermia,” her father ordered, ignoring her comment. “You are no longer welcome?—”

“Father,” Hermia cut in. “Wait, please. Just a few more days. I… I am already a spinster. Perhaps there is a way to bury the scandal without the need to separate me from my sisters. If you speak to some of your connections?—”

“You have caused enough harm to this family,” her mother interrupted, nowhere near as hysterical as yesterday. If anything, this icy distance was worse. “Do not make it harder for yourself.”

Not for them. Never for them.

They did not care, nor had they ever, always in the background, calling the shots from a distance.

Hermia, do this. Hermia, do that. Hermia, make sure Alicia has finished her schoolwork.

Hermia, make sure that Sibyl has not spent all afternoon daydreaming.

Hermia, Isabella is fighting with a friend again over the last bolt of fabric at the modiste.

Do visit the friend’s mother and smooth everything over, will you ?

Hermia, the Wickleby fixer.

Hermia, the Wickleby whore now.

She swallowed back the name her mother had barely stopped herself from saying yesterday.

“You do not deserve your father’s connections,” her mother continued. “Do not ask him to go through the shame of mentioning you in conversation, either.”

Her heart sank.

“Say your goodbyes to your sisters today,” her father instructed. “We will depart together for London. We’ll be taking Alicia with us.”

I am surprised you will not have me strapped to the carriage roof just so you do not have to be in the same space as me .

“Another day, at least,” Hermia begged. “They are my sisters. I… I practically raised them, Mama.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

At her mother’s awful glare, she corrected herself.

“Raised alongside them is what I mean. We are close—the closest sisters in the ton, I am certain. I know you will not let me write to them. I cannot bid goodbye to my life with them in the space of a few hours. You hate me, but you cannot be that heartless.”

“We are doing what we must when faced with a disgrace for a daughter.” Her mother’s cold words hit her like a physical blow that almost sent her to her knees. “Start packing, Hermia. I will not repeat myself.”

Hermia sagged against the mantelpiece as soon as they left the library, and she pressed her forehead to her knuckles, the hard ridge of her fingers helping to ground her for a minute.

A moment passed, and she felt a tug on her gown.

Heavens, she’d forgotten about the child!

She whirled around to face the Duke’s tear-eyed daughter.

“Miss Hermia,” Phoebe mumbled.

Hermia did not correct her.

“Are your mama and papa cross with you like my papa is with me?”

She hesitated before nodding. “They are. However, while you ran away, I am being… forced to.”

“Is it because of what I did?” Phoebe’s voice wobbled, but she stiffened her lip against any tears.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I did not mean it!” Phoebe cried, almost so loud that Hermia worried her parents would return. Hurriedly, she closed the library door.

“I-I just wanted to play a trick,” the girl continued, looking down. “But—but this time, he shouted and said I hurt someone. That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Phoebe,” Hermia whispered, piecing together what had happened. “Come here.” She led the little girl to the sofa. “Tell me what happened. Slowly and calmly now.”

“Papa punished me,” Phoebe hiccupped. “I heard him tell the servants not to touch his paintings. He is ever so protective of them, but I like them. I like looking at them. They are pretty and colorful. But I was angry that he punished me, so I found one of his new footmen who looked a little bit lost, and I knew I could be a little bit wicked in return. I told him to pick up the biggest covered painting—I knew it was important. I told him that Papa wanted it to be moved to the ballroom. I did not know what would happen! I did not know why there were so many people—there are always so many people .”

Hermia gently stroked the girl’s hair in a bid to soothe her, wondering if she was doing too much, but she comforted her as she had comforted Sibyl the day before.

“Oh, please don’t cry, my dear,” she murmured.

But her mind was whirring too fast to pin down the conclusion.

Stunned, she forced her hand to move in motions that seemed to calm the whimpering girl.

“I do not know why it got so out of hand,” Phoebe mumbled. “I just wanted to tease Papa.”

“It is all right,” Hermia whispered. “It is only that… well, sometimes adults, like your papa, create… drawings that are not to be looked at by others. And this society we live in has many, many rules, and that painting goes against all those rules.”

Phoebe sniffled and nodded her understanding, wrapping her arms tightly around Hermia. “I will tell your mama and papa the truth! I will tell them you are good and do not need to pack your things, and that I did not mean to hurt anybody! They will see.”

Hermia swallowed back her doubt, for that was not for Phoebe to know about. Instead, she forced cheer into her voice and straightened.

“Look, here, tell me your name. I believe I overheard it from a maid, but introduce yourself to me. If you are here, and there is a mess we cannot yet solve, we might as well become familiar with one another.”

The girl looked up at her with those big, blue eyes, and Hermia softened.

Heavens, she had ranted and raged at the Duke, thinking he was a liar. All this time, it had been a trick that was supposed to be harmless, delivered by… his daughter.

Widowed .

She recalled how quickly he had answered. But how long had he been widowed? Had he been unfaithful to his wife, leaving her and Phoebe at home while he indulged in secrecy for the night, his anonymity hiding his actions?

Surely not…

Surely…

He did not seem to be a charming, sly adulterer. Josephine had once to her that those types of men could be sensed from a mile away, but she had never had a good read on people she did not already know.

“I am Lady Phoebe,” the girl mumbled. “But I do not like the Lady part. That is for when I am older. Why can’t my title be Clever Phoebe?”

Despite herself, Hermia laughed quietly, glancing towards the door. “I can, between us.” It was a harmless thing to offer. “I am Lady Hermia, and unfortunately, I am older and must be a lady. Now, tell me something you have never told anybody else, and I will tell you something.”

“I…” Phoebe’s brow creased in thought, as if it took great effort. “I have a collection! Yes, yes, I do. I buried it in Papa’s house, where it is always green. The collection is shiny, and I have read stories about big, fire-breathing creatures who also like shiny things.”

Her eyes lit up, and Hermia was so endeared that she struggled to speak for a moment.

“Excellent.” She nodded, and the girl grinned. “Now, for me… I have a collection, too, but mine is of certain things adults do when they wish they had made a different choice. I have a collection of those.”

“Like meeting my papa? Do you wish you had never done that?”

Before Hermia could answer, voices drifted through the closed library door.

“Where is she?”

“Uh oh,” Phoebe blurted, clearly recognizing the voice.

Just as Hermia did.

Then, the door burst open, and the Duke of Branmere charged inside, his eyes angry.