Page 11 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Five

“ P hoebe,” Charles snapped, “come here at once .”

His eyes immediately landed on Phoebe, who was curled into Lady Hermia’s side.

“I do not understand!” Lady Wickleby’s cry reminded him that he was not alone.

He barely even looked at Lady Hermia. Had she snuck his daughter out? The idea was foolish, but he saw no reason why Phoebe would leave Branmere Manor of her own accord.

“We surely have not housed a hostage!” Lady Wickleby protested.

“Not a hostage at all!” Phoebe burst out. “No, I am happy here.”

“ Hermia .” Lord Wickleby shouted as he and his wife entered the library, skidding to a stop beside Charles. “What have you done now? Was that painting business not enough?”

“Do not blame my friend!” Phoebe cried, scrambling down from the sofa.

Charles frowned as Lady Hermia reached for her, almost dismayed, as if she wanted to protect his daughter.

“Please do not blame her. Not for anything. Lady Hermia is innocent, and I am the one who needs to be sent away, if that is the punishment for the painting.”

Her little head hung low.

Charles could only gape at his daughter. He had no idea what was going on or why she thought she should be sent away.

He looked at Lady Hermia, irritated and confused.

“I did not know the painting would be like when my governess takes my schoolwork and looks at my drawings,” Phoebe mumbled. “Lady Hermia said it goes against the rules.”

Charles stiffened. “Phoebe, stop.”

“I only meant to annoy my papa!” Phoebe stressed, ignoring him, or perhaps wanting to state her case before she conceded.

He moved towards her, but she stepped back, her small face tight with a stubbornness he feared she got from him.

“I didn’t want to cause any harm. Lady Hermia has been so kind to me.” Phoebe pointed at the French doors set in the opposite eggshell-blue wall. “See, she let me in! I got a hug, too. She should not be punished. I should be punished instead.”

She looked at Charles warily, as if expecting punishment right there and then.

Shocked, he stared at her, all words vanishing from his mind.

He had never seen his daughter show any remorse or acknowledge that her pranks often went too far. Never quite this far, nor to the point of running away. Nevertheless, she had never been aware of the damage she caused.

Slowly, he looked at Lady Hermia. Did she have something to do with it? And if so, what had she done that he could not?

Lady Hermia looked exhausted as she moved towards his daughter. He said nothing as she placed her hands on Phoebe’s shoulders, as if protecting her, ready to pull her back at the slightest bit of grievance.

“Phoebe,” she whispered, “thank you for your words, but you ought to go with your father now.”

“No!” Phoebe shouted, spinning to face her, and then the room, anguished. “ No , I will not. Not unless you can stay with your sisters. I heard you begging to spend one more day with them!”

Charles stiffened, realizing she had dragged him into a situation he had no part in or business witnessing. He beckoned her over, but she did not budge, stubborn as ever.

“Your Grace, I beseech you to control your child,” Lord Wickleby ordered.

Charles would have taken offense at the man’s tone had he not agreed.

“What an insolent little girl you are,” Lady Wickleby hissed. “Your Grace, you ought to?—”

“My daughter is my business,” Charles interrupted sharply. “Not yours.” He turned to look at them, appalled. “Is it true what she said? Are you sending Lady Hermia away?”

He tried to keep the disgust from his voice.

Lord Wickleby yanked at the collar of his shirt, as if embarrassed to be called out. But then he stuck up his nose, seeming confident in his decision.

“Yes. It is not unheard of to do such a thing when a daughter has disgraced her family beyond repair, Your Grace. It is for the good of my other daughters, who are already having a hard enough time bearing the shame.”

“Father,” Lady Hermia implored.

The plea rattled Charles, a vulnerability he was not meant to hear.

He noticed how Lord Wickleby did not even look in her direction.

“She is ruined, and by your hand, if the scandal sheets are to be believed, Your Grace,” Lord Wickleby accused. “She must be banished from Society.”

“But she is my friend!” Phoebe sobbed.

Charles looked back at her upon hearing a gentle shushing sound.

Lady Hermia was stroking her hair, something he himself had never done. Phoebe leaned back against her, her sobs subsiding slowly.

“Papa did not ruin her! She is good, and she has been kind to me. She did not send me away like you are trying to do to her!”

Charles couldn’t believe it. He had never seen this side of his daughter before. A girl who listened to Lady Hermia for some indiscernible reason, and who actually was soothed by the comfort she was offered.

Guilt coiled in his chest, reminding him that perhaps it was because Lady Hermia was gentle with her and showed patience, whereas he…

He bit back his shame, for he had only ever treated his daughter with impatience and stern words, unable to handle her pranks without a methodical approach.

Yet Lady Hermia—a stranger—comforted her without a second thought, and had coaxed an apology from her for the first time in years.

For all Lady Hermia had accused him of, she was good with his daughter. Even though she was being sent away because of Phoebe’s prank, she did not treat her with cruel words.

Charles slowly straightened, a new thought occurring to him.

What if he could fix everything with a single move?

Fix the rumors circulating about him after he had worked tirelessly to rebuild his name; fix the Wicklebys’ reputation; help his daughter and prevent Lady Hermia from being sent away.

The words slipped out of him, half-formed and yet confident.

“Lady Hermia, will you marry me?”

The library fell silent as death.

Charles boldly met Lady Hermia’s eyes, finding confusion and a flicker of betrayal in them. She still did not trust him, even with the truth of the painting uncovered.

The Wicklebys breezed past him, Lady Wickleby laughing high.

“Heavens, Hermia, do not leave His Grace waiting! Close your mouth, darling; you look like a trout in church,” she all but purred.

Lord Wickleby bowed to him. “Your Grace, I’ve always known you were an understanding gentleman. After all, we have done excellent business, you and I.”

That excellent business had meant nothing only moments ago when they thought they could berate him, but Charles only looked at them coolly.

Phoebe coughed. “Lady Hermia, are your parents always like that, or did someone serve them sour milk for breakfast?”

The library fell silent yet again.

Eventually, the Wicklebys’ polite masks crack.

“Goodness, I have not even offered you tea!” Lady Wickleby muttered. “Hermia, you must fetch?—”

“Lady Hermia will not,” Charles interrupted. “She will remain in the library with me, and we’ll require some privacy.”

He left no room for argument, uncaring if it was rude to order them out of a room in their own house.

For a second, he was met with blinks of astonishment, before they nodded all too eagerly.

“Of course, of course ,” Lord Wickleby said.

“Phoebe,” Charles ordered, “go wait in the carriage.”

After a moment, Phoebe hugged Lady Hermia, which further surprised him, before scurrying out after the Wicklebys.

Before she disappeared, she whisper-yelled to her newfound friend, “Please accept!”

Charles could already hear her chatter fading down the corridor.

Alone again, he stepped towards Lady Hermia. He felt unmoored and uncertain, and he hated such a feeling. So he reached for something he was certain of.

“I am sorry for this chaos,” he muttered.

He expected some sort of concession, but he was only pinned by those sea-blue eyes, narrowed in distaste.

Silence was her weapon, it seemed.

Fine .

“I am offering to marry you so I may do my part in restoring your reputation, as I promised last night. This way, you may remain with your sisters. I will bring you back into Society if you so wish.”

Her mouth opened, and he saw her protest already building, so he spoke again.

“It will be a marriage of convenience, Lady Hermia. Nothing more. I need to protect my reputation, and I must save yours. I carry responsibility for my daughter’s harmful prank.

I do not expect anything from you, if that is a worry of yours.

Yes, we spent a night together, but as you said, we were not the Duke of Branmere and Lady Hermia.

They were… they were strangers. Let us call them Ares and Aphrodite. ”

He thought he saw something akin to resentment cross her face, and he wondered how deeply she regretted that passionate night after learning who he was.

“You are one of the few people who has ever gotten my daughter to show such remorse,” he told her earnestly. “I do believe you will make a difference in her life. A difference she needs.”

“A marriage of convenience?” Lady Hermia echoed, not addressing the comment about Phoebe.

He nodded.

“And that night remains in the past?” she added tentatively.

If you wish .

He pushed that terrible, indulgent offer aside.

“Yes. Like I said, Ares and Aphrodite. Another version of ourselves.”

“Henrietta,” she blurted. He cocked his head, confused. “That was the name I used that night.”

He recalled hearing that, but he had not known it was her.

“All I ask is your cooperation and willingness to see this through. Unless you have a better idea.”

Lady Hermia caught her lower lip between her teeth. Eventually, she nodded. “I will definitely be able to see my sisters? I… I cannot live without them. Not the way my parents want.”

“You will have them in your life,” Charles assured her. “In this arrangement, I will not stop you from seeing them. They are your family.”

Heavens, he had to look away, for he recalled how those dark lashes had brushed her cheeks when her eyes fluttered shut in pleasure.

Seconds passed, and then she sighed.

“I accept,” she said quietly. “But if you break any promise you have made?—”

“I will not,” he vowed. “I will obtain a special license. We will be wed within the week. Leave the arrangements to me. All you have to do is show up at the church.”

For a moment, she looked offended, but then her expression softened and she nodded. “I will be there.”

Charles gave her one last nod before he turned and walked away.

When he stepped into the hallway, he paused.

Lady Hermia wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the wall, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the effort it took to keep her composure.

After a beat, he shut the library door softly behind him, granting her the privacy she so clearly needed. He recognized that kind of silence; he had worn it himself. The kind that masked too much feeling, too much hurt, until it exploded behind closed doors.

Without another glance, he left Wickleby Hall and climbed into his carriage.