Page 13 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Seven

B ranmere Hall was nestled deep in the countryside, surrounded by vast land and a lake that stretched out into the distance. Beautiful gardens wrapped around the building that jutted out of the woodland, making Hermia’s breath catch.

Roses and bluebells climbed up the walls, and she ached to touch them, to see if they were real, because the estate looked like one out of a fairytale.

Perhaps I am dreaming . Maybe I will wake up in France with Aunt Patricia, and she will be her usual cruel self, and my sisters… My sisters will not be there.

But this was real, and it only grew more and more real when she walked inside the grand house and met the staff.

“This isn’t even one-third of them. I know, because they all try to stop my little pranks,” Phoebe whispered. But then she was quickly shushed by Miss Tarnen, her governess.

Hermia was still taking in the white walls and the polished floor, the portraits that lined the walls up ahead, and the grand chandelier that hung in the entrance hall, when the Duke led her to an older woman, her hair almost completely gray.

Her eyes were kind, but her lips were pressed into a firm line.

A woman who was friendly, Hermia guessed, but did her job very well.

“Duchess, this is Mrs. Nightgale, Branmere Hall’s housekeeper. Mrs. Nightgale, this is the new Duchess of Branmere. I assume her rooms are ready?”

“As requested, Your Grace.” The housekeeper curtsied to the Duke before she did the same to Hermia. “Welcome to Branmere Hall, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Nightgale,” Hermia answered, giving her a nod.

The Duke turned to Phoebe, who was watching them with wide, shimmering eyes, hopeful and pretty. Hermia could see so much of the Duke in her. For a minute, she wondered what traits the girl had gotten from her mother.

“Phoebe, you understand what happened today, do you not?”

Crouched before his daughter, the Duke spoke to her in a tone that wasn’t as condescending as Hermia had expected.

Ashamed, she looked away.

“Lady Hermia is my wife, and the new Duchess now, and you ought to listen to her. Yes?”

“Yes, Papa,” Phoebe said.

“You do not have to call her your mother. ‘Duchess’ will suffice.”

Hermia’s stomach dropped. Not because she had wanted it, but because she had not expected the issue to be raised so soon.

“However, I do want you to show her the utmost respect,” the Duke went on. “That means no more harmful pranks. I want the Duchess to have a comfortable stay in Branmere Hall. Do you agree with me on this?”

“I agree, Papa. Does that mean I can still play non-harmful pranks?”

At that, Hermia stifled a laugh.

She heard the Duke sigh. “We will discuss that later.”

He stood up and nodded to Miss Tarnen to take his daughter away. Then, he nodded to the housekeeper. “See to it that Her Grace is settled in her new rooms and has everything she needs.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Hermia shouldn’t have been disappointed to see the Duke walk away, but she was, a little. She should have expected it, yet she still watched his retreating figure until it disappeared beyond a doorway at the end of the hall.

She could swear he paused for a moment before he entered, but he did not look back.

When she looked back at Mrs. Nightgale, she was startled to find the woman’s knowing eyes on her.

Has she seen the painting? Have all the servants seen it?

Nerves crept up her spine, but the older woman just gestured towards the staircase. “This way, Your Grace.”

Hermia followed her up the wide, curving staircase that led to the first-floor landing.

“Branmere Hall runs on a very tight schedule, Your Grace. We have twenty-five rooms, all of them at your disposal. Except for His Grace’s study, the gallery, and—and… well, there is one other room that will remain closed to you.”

“Is it a secret?”

Mrs. Nightgale paused. “Secret or not, it is not mine to reveal the details, but it is my role to warn you against going in there.”

Hermia was curious, but she filed any questions away for later. She didn’t have the energy.

“I see. Thank you. And why not the gallery?”

“His Grace rarely ventures in there. I am certain he will take you himself, should he wish to. We have the gardens and lake for your use, and His Grace has allowed visitors, but requests that all visitors be approved by him first. You may eat breakfast in your chambers, for His Grace does not often eat in the breakfast hall. The same goes for dinner.”

“His Grace and Lady Phoebe do not eat together as a family?”

Hermia found herself peering at doors as she passed them, wanting to open every single one to explore her new home. Every new corner only expanded the house, and she wondered when she would get to her chambers.

“It is rare,” Mrs. Nightgale replied. “You may choose for yourself, and I will have His Grace and Lady Phoebe informed accordingly so they may decide for themselves if they wish to join you. However, tonight, you will dine in your rooms, as His Grace has work to do.”

“What about Lady Phoebe?”

“She will dine in her chambers.”

Hermia slowed her pace right as Mrs. Nightgale stopped ahead.

She frowned and shook her head. “That does not sound right.”

“It is the way,” Mrs. Nightgale declared, as if it were so simple or fair. A hint of sympathy flickered across her face at the look Hermia gave her.

“Well, I would like to change that,” Hermia insisted. “I had a conversation with the little girl, and she is perfectly pleasant. She has a lot of pent-up energy, and I cannot, in good conscience, accept the thought of her eating alone. Have my dinner sent to her room; I will dine with her.”

Mrs. Nightgale looked at her as though she were delusional, but Hermia stood her ground. She did not care if the child was a prankster or even if she had caused a great deal of damage to her reputation. No child should be left alone.

“Very well,” Mrs. Nightgale finally agreed. “Before I arrange that, let me introduce you to Anna, your lady’s maid.”

Hermia knocked on the door to Phoebe’s room and entered.

The sight of the little girl sitting alone at a small dining table that had been set up for her dredged up old memories. Her heart clenched in sorrow.

She smiled at Miss Tarnen, who returned her smile the same way Mrs. Nightgale had—as if they thought it was upsetting that the Duke’s daughter often ate alone.

“Good evening,” Hermia greeted. Phoebe looked up, gasping. “I thought we could dine together. I’ve brought my dinner with me.”

She motioned for the footman behind her to enter and set down her tray opposite Phoebe.

“Would that be all right with you?” she asked.

“Of course!” Phoebe almost jumped out of her seat with excitement.

Hermia fought back a wide smile as she looked at the governess. “May we have some time alone?”

“Indeed,” Miss Tarnen replied. “Just call for me if you need anything.”

Her eyes flickered between Hermia and Phoebe as if she anticipated something being needed, but then she curtsied her way out of the chamber, leaving Hermia to take a seat at the small dining table.

“I am ever so happy you have come, Duchess,” Phoebe began. “I have not dined with anybody but my governess in a long time, and she does not really eat with me. She tells me stories while I eat, though. Will you tell me stories?”

“I will tell you anything you wish, Lady Phoebe.” Hermia picked up her cutlery. “Anything you wish.”

“Then…” Phoebe bit her lip in thought. “Can I ask you to simply call me Phoebe ? Papa told me that it is too informal, but titles sound stuffy.”

Hermia had to suppress a smile.

What a headstrong little girl, so sure of what she liked and didn’t like. How had nobody noticed that she communicated very clearly? Hermia could not understand why everybody was ready to call her troublesome.

She could only hope she did not find out too soon.

“Then we will be Phoebe and Hermia.”

“ Clever Phoebe,” Phoebe corrected, making her laugh as she tucked into her food.

The girl joined in, smiling as she picked up a stalk of asparagus.

“You like your vegetables,” Hermia noted.

“I do.” Phoebe nodded. “Mrs. Nightgale often jokes that it is one of the best things about me, that I am not so fussy to toss them off my plate. She told me that her daughter did it when she was my age.”

“Well, let me tell you something,” Hermia whispered, as if she were sharing a secret.

“When I was your age, I hid mine in a napkin so I did not have to eat them, and I told my mama that I thoroughly enjoyed everything on my plate. Of course, it did not work, for they served them to me over and over.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened. “Did they find out?”

Hermia winked at her. “I was clever, just like you, so they did not.”

“What about your horse? Papa said you have a horse, and I saw it in the stables when we returned to Branmere Manor.”

“I do have a horse,” Hermia confirmed, bracing herself for the incoming barrage of questions. “Her name is Aphrodite.”

Phoebe tried to pronounce the name, so Hermia helped her, smiling.

“Do you have a horse?”

“I have a pony,” Phoebe said matter-of-factly. “His name is Gerald because I had a fish named Gerald when I was only a baby, and I liked the name. I think I will get many pets one day when I have my own home like Papa does here, and I will name them all Gerald.”

Hermia couldn’t help but laugh again. “I see. I think it is a fine name.”

“It is. Do you like painting?”

The question made Hermia’s skin prickle. “No, but only because I do not have a talent for it. I do, however, enjoy looking at paintings.”

“My papa likes painting. What did the painting of you look like? How did he know how to paint you? You are very beautiful. I am certain Papa painted your beauty very well.”

Hermia paused, uncertain how to answer. She lifted her glass to her lips to buy herself some time.

“Is that how Papa met you? Through looking at paintings?”

Hermia choked a little on her wine, looking at the innocently curious little girl.

Heavens .

A flash of silk curtains and mouths moving against each other flitted through her mind. Bodies entwined, and the Duke’s low voice telling her that her tongue tasted sweet, that her lips were stained ruby red with wine.

Hermia took a delicate sip to chase the memories away and cleared her throat. “What else do you like to do, Phoebe?”

If Phoebe noticed how she changed the topic, she didn’t comment on it or seem to mind. It seemed her curiosity was sated enough to be distracted, perhaps just happy to speak at all with someone over dinner.

Hermia felt a pang in her heart.

“I like reading,” Phoebe said. “For my birthday last year, one of my gifts was a book of fairytales. There is one in it about several sisters who sneak out of their castle to dance! They dance and they dance, and it is ever so magical. I think that will be my future when I am old enough. Oh, it is like your family! There are lots of sisters, and they love one another.”

“Phoebe, when you are old enough to dance in ballrooms, I am certain you will experience that magic. No. In fact, I will make it happen. That is my promise to you. Your father and I—” Hermia broke off, rethinking her sentiment.

“I will be proud of you, and I am certain your papa will find you a perfect dance partner.”

Phoebe laughed quietly for a second, clearly delighted, but then she sobered up.

She pushed her food around her plate with her fork. “But I do not think Papa will be proud. Or maybe he will not even notice when I enter a ballroom and find my magic. Did your papa notice?”

Hermia bit her lip. Her own past with her father was a little too heavy to share, so she tried to soften her confession.

“My mama certainly did. It was she who waved her wand to give me magic at first.”

“At first?”

Her heart ached. Not quite grief, but not quite not grief.

It was something—the knowledge that something had gone missing from her life years ago, something she had not been given the space to heal from.

A wound that was packed with the scent of sea, and eyes the green glimmer of exotic waters she would never see.

“At first,” she echoed, the only confirmation and explanation she would give. “But my papa was very quiet. As long as I was engaged, he was rather happy.”

“Do you think Papa will be like that, too? Sometimes, I feel as though he is happy when I am silent and good in my room, watched over as if I will be naughty the moment I am not. But if he is so concerned, then why does he not watch me himself?”

Frustration bled into Phoebe’s small voice, and her fingers curled into the tablecloth.

“He never eats with me. I do not think he even knows that grapes are my favorite fruit.”

How innocent yet significant such a thing was.

Hermia’s heart ached, for she understood.

She reached across the table and clasped Phoebe’s hand, rubbing it soothingly. “Then I will know. Mine are apples. Would you like to pick some with me another day? I spotted an orchard on the grounds. Perhaps we can pick some to give to the cook to do something with.”

The little girl’s face lit up at that.

Hermia couldn’t help but wonder when somebody had last offered to do something with her rather than herd her into her room, box her up into good behavior.

Her anger towards the Duke flared. How could he have never noticed that his daughter only wanted some love from him? A scrap of attention that came from more than just orders to stay out of the way?

She didn’t know where those orders came from, but how could she contest the sad eyes of a girl who barely looked older than ten years?

Hermia could see her becoming a spitfire like Alicia in five years, independent and opinionated.

If anything, she looked forward to it, and she could only hope she remained in Phoebe’s life to see such a thing.

Either way, she knew she had to speak with her husband as soon as possible.