Page 19 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

“I can, and I did!” Phoebe’s voice rang out, far too gleeful.

Miss Tarnen’s voice joined in, breathless. “Lady Phoebe, be reasonable. This is hardly—Phoebe!”

But Charles could only make out snippets now, as his daughter’s laughter grew fainter and more muffled with distance.

She was running fast , and she was clearly delighted with herself.

Silence fell over the parlor, thick and heavy.

“She has the key.”

Charles whirled around at Hermia’s sigh.

“She does,” he snapped. “No thanks to you.”

“Me?” she scoffed. “Whatever do I have to do?—”

“Everything!” he shouted, unable to rein in his temper. “You have been too gentle with her, and she has gotten used to not being punished for her wrongdoings. Punishment can be harsh, yes, but sometimes it is the only way a child would learn.”

“So your method is to make her fear you?”

“I did not say I want her to fear me.”

“But she does! Do you not see that? She fears your rebukes and punishments because she knows you have no patience for her childish innocence. All your methods have earned you is her resentment, her disobedience, because it is the only way she feels you notice her. Sometimes she just needs to be a child, Charles. In eight years, she will debut, and you will long for the years when she is running to you with a four-leaf clover rather than a broken heart. How will you handle that?”

Charles was trying to focus on her words, but all he could hear was his name on her lips.

A slip of the tongue, he was sure, but it had come out anyway. The way his name rolled off her tongue, even if in the heat of anger, had him reaching for her.

“I will handle anything ,” he vowed.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had cupped her face in his hands.

Hermia blinked up at him, and he stared back at her, not in control of himself.

“You infuriate me.”

“And you cast a curse on my life,” she hissed.

And still, he gave in to temptation, for anger had always quickened his heartbeat. But he knew why this time—because his anger was a cupid’s arrow, and it was aimed right at Hermia.

His wife.

Whatever are you waiting for, Charles? What do you cower from?

His mouth crashed into hers, and he dipped her so passionately that she had to catch herself on the chair she had vacated.

A small, surprised noise escaped her, which he immediately swallowed. He exhaled into the kiss, shuddering as every scrambled piece of himself that had not fit onto a canvas or found a true place in his heart or head these past few weeks finally clicked into place.

Good God, she did send his forest aflutter. She was his hurricane, sweeping everything about him up in her presence, her arrival into his life, right back to that night they had spent together.

He kissed her like he remembered every second he had spent worshipping her body on silk sheets because he truly did remember.

He kissed her with the desperation he had felt searching for her.

He kissed her for every second he had spent avoiding her while she acquainted herself with her new role.

He kissed her like he had starved himself for an eternity, not knowing he had saved himself for her.

“Heavens— Heavens ,” Hermia sighed.

Charles pressed closer to her, finding her mouth with his once more as her fingers slid into his hair. The fingernails of her other hand scratched through his beard, and he groaned at the light tug she gave, the gesture reminiscent of how she had done it a year ago.

Her fingers trailed down, slipping around his neck as his hand cradled her face while the other held her hip, pulling her flush against him.

How could he avoid her? How could he ever deny himself the warmth of her body?

Hermia’s lips parted beneath his, and he swept his tongue along her lower lip before pushing it into her mouth. Her taste was delectable, and he chased it, drinking in the sweetness of the wine she must have been sipping as she read.

Oh yes, he could become hooked on this—on her . Perhaps he had been the moment he had met her at Anton Bentley’s party.

“Hermia,” he murmured against her mouth, testing out her name.

It felt right on his lips; the last piece to a puzzle he had not been able to solve, but had tried to endlessly.

“Charles,” she whispered, stroking her fingers through his hair.

She was still half bowed over the chair, so he pulled her up.

As soon as she found her balance, he kissed her again, unable to resist the urge to chase her taste.

But as he did, he heard a key turn in the lock. He moved away from her, right as a small group of servants entered the room.

“Your Graces, we—oh.”

The maids who were part of the rescue mission blushed upon realizing what they had almost walked in on.

“My apologies, Your Graces,” a maid said, bowing her head.

But Charles’s attention was already divided as Phoebe rushed in, giggling heartily, as if she had done nothing wrong. Or rather, as if she had succeeded in her mission.

In a way, perhaps she had.

“Papa!” she chirped. “I know you are cross with me, but have you made up? I do not like it when you argue. It does not sound right. Like birds that are supposed to sing together, but only squawk.”

Across from him, Hermia blushed, her eyes darting away to avoid answering such a ludicrous question.

Charles himself did not know how to answer it, so he just shook his head and scowled at his daughter. He needed to heed Hermia’s advice, but at that moment, he was far too angry.

“Never, ever do that again,” he warned.

Then, he bolted out of the parlor, storming off to a place where he could sink into his thoughts and process what he had just done.