Page 14 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)
Chapter Eight
T he first thing Hermia had noticed about her bedroom was the peculiar doorway she now stood in front of.
Having looked down the hallway outside, she knew exactly where the door led, and that thought alone—the secrecy of it—had her stomach in knots.
Her fingers curled into her nightgown before she smoothed down the cream fabric.
Raising a shaking hand, she knocked on the door to the Duke’s bedroom. She counted the seconds, wondering if she should flee, pretend that she had never knocked. Perhaps he would not be in there, or perhaps he would not want her to knock on?—
The Duke opened the door.
Beneath thick eyebrows that rose in surprise, his eyes widened as they fell on her.
Shame washed over Hermia as she stood there, as if she hoped to be viewed as something beautiful. As something worth being viewed, as he had seemed to think a year ago.
But how disgusted he must have been. For she was now four-and-twenty, and the year she had spent in the countryside must have had some effect on her looks.
The shame burned hotter, for she recalled how he had once thought of her as Aphrodite that night, when his mouth trailed down her neck, tasting her skin.
Now, he looked at her as though that night had never happened.
“Duchess,” he greeted. “What brings you to my door so late? Are things not to your liking? If something is amiss, I can have it fixed.”
“Something is amiss,” she agreed. “Why did we not dine together? And not just me, but your daughter as well. The ten-year-old who yearns for some connection with her father, who likely does not know your favorite food because it seems you do not find the time to dine with her.”
“You mean to lecture me?” She couldn’t tell if he was deeply offended or amused or placated. “I had fallen greatly behind on my work this week. I needed the time to catch up.”
“Catching up or not, what sort of man cannot spare twenty minutes for even the quickest of dinners with his family? To ask how I’m settling in, or to ask about Phoebe’s well-being.”
Shame flashed across the Duke’s face, there one moment and gone the next.
“I know about my daughter’s well-being,” he said gruffly. “Do not assume anything about my parenting.”
“I am not assuming,” she dared to say. “Even when you found Phoebe in my family’s library, you did not ask how she was doing. You just barked more orders. Has the poor girl ever heard you ask how she is doing?”
“You step out of line, Duchess,” he almost growled at her.
But she didn’t back down. If anything, she stepped closer.
“You do not know what happens behind closed doors. I care for my daughter.”
“And she cares for you,” Hermia murmured, her eyes roaming over his face. “She also misses her father and feels lonely.”
“Well, perhaps you should not fill in gaps when you do not know anything about my family.”
She could tell it was just a front. She knew that he was worried about her knowing too much, seeing too much that he must not have realized was visible.
“Regardless,” he said smoothly, “Phoebe understands that in order for her to have a good life and a handsome dowry, I must work.”
Hermia scoffed, looking away before shifting her gaze back to him.
“That is what I heard from my father. Perhaps my dowry was worth my always looking at his empty seat at the dinner table when I was a child. You are securing her future, yes, and I do not doubt that when she debuts, you will support her and find her the best match, but what of her present life? What of the ten-year-old who eats alone and wishes you were there?”
The bite in her voice couldn’t entirely be smoothed over, but she tried nonetheless. It silenced her husband for a moment.
She took the moment to gaze at him, at his deep blue eyes and the hair that framed his face, several strands falling into his eyes. Part of her wished she could just turn on her heel and ignore him, keep the upper hand and retreat to her room.
A bigger part of her wanted to find the man who had pressed her into the bedsheets and made her see paradise. A man who had desired her enough after that night to paint her. Amid the scandal following the public reveal, she had not taken time to consider that it had actually been the case.
Instead of feeling desirable, it made her sick with envy of her former self. That girl had been worthy of immortalizing. The woman she was before him now wasn’t.
“Is there any other reason, aside from this lecture, you are knocking on my door at this hour, Duchess?” The smooth change of the topic caught her off guard.
It came so abruptly that she couldn’t fight the blush creeping up her face.
She swallowed hard. “I-I—yes.” She gulped harder. “There is the… the, uh, matter of our wedding night.”
Her face was on fire, and she swore she was ready to?—
“There will be no wedding night.”
The rejection came swift and cold.
Ice-cold dread coiled in her gut. Her face burned for an entirely different reason now. Humiliation had her backing up, hurt.
“I thought I made myself clear: you are my wife in name only.”
The Duke gave her one last hard look before shutting the connecting door in her face.
Hermia gave herself one more minute to feel the sting of embarrassment of approaching him about such a foolish thing before she gathered herself.
The Duke of Branmere was an arrogant brute. Charitable but boastful, and way in over his head regarding his importance.
She deserved better than to let herself feel such a sting.
Turning on her heel with a huff, she strode back to her bed and closed her eyes.
When she could not sleep after a while, she went to the writing desk tucked below the window.
Above, the moon hung high in the inky night sky, and she gazed at it for a moment.
She began to pen a letter to Sibyl, painting Branmere Hall as the romantic fairytale home she would love to hear about.
Before signing it, she added, I am certain that if I can find love, it will be in such a grand place.
The lie didn’t taste as bitter when it was in ink.
Over the next three days, Hermia acquainted herself with all the servants, trying to commit their duties to memory. She mapped her way around the house, easily learning the layout.
Even Miss Tarnen commented on it one afternoon as Hermia went through a list of ideas for dinner that night.
“You have adjusted to your new surroundings well,” she noted. “However do you do it? When I first came to Branmere Hall with Lady Phoebe, I got lost around every corner.”
“I simply have a good mind for it,” Hermia answered honestly.
“When my youngest sister grew aware of being moved from our townhouse to our countryside residence and back again, she became rather confused, so I embroidered her a map. It was not as accurate as it would have been had I drawn it, but it was a keepsake for her. Something to fold up into her pocket. I believe she still has it.”
“Clever,” Miss Tarnen praised.
“Ah, my sister—Alicia, that is—has far surpassed my intelligence. She drew a map of both residences within a year after that. Every level, every room, all of it in perfect, angled detail. She said that if she drew her own map, she would never have to rely on another for directions.”
“She sounds remarkable.” The governess laughed.
Her distraction gave Phoebe a chance to scramble over and peer down at Hermia’s list.
“What are you writing?” she asked.
“It is a to-do list,” Hermia told her. “Have you ever drafted one?”
Phoebe’s blank stare as she shook her head made her smile.
“Let me show you.” She shifted on the settee so Phoebe could clamber up.
Once the girl was settled, Hermia explained, “This is a to-do list for dinner tonight. What you said when we ate together made me think that it would be nice to have a fa—a family dinner.” She paused over the word, not wanting to take liberties.
“I have already asked the cook to prepare your favorite dishes.”
“With grapes?” Phoebe perked up.
“With grapes.” Hermia laughed. “And I have requested your papa’s favorites, as well as my own, of course. But I am most eager to try yours. Do remind me what your utmost favorite dish is.”
“Gingerbread!” Phoebe cried out eagerly.
“Yes, exactly! So I have requested that to be part of dessert. As for the rest… oh, you will have to wait and see.”
Phoebe’s face scrunched up, as if she found the prospect of waiting entirely unpleasant, but then it softened.
“Next, I spoke with Mrs. Nightgale to bring in some lovely silverware. My next task is to approach the head gardener and ask him to pluck some blooms from the garden. It will decorate the table a little and make the setting feel homier.”
“I like that,” Phoebe said. “Can I sit next to Papa?”
“I am certain you can.”
Just like that, the young girl scrabbled off the settee and went to relay the plan to her governess, who must have heard the whole thing.
Hermia watched her, something in her heart settling. She had been right; all the girl needed was some patience and knowing that someone wanted to listen to her.
She turned back to her list, hoping her plan worked, and that it would be the first of many dinners to come.