Page 2 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

She hummed, biting back a huff of a laugh, but it slipped out of her anyway.

It wasn’t until a voice answered her laugh that she realized she was no longer standing alone.

“What are you laughing at?”

She dared to look sideways, hoping she would not be recognized or recognize the person, only to find herself face-to-face with the stranger who had directed her attention to the painting in the first place.

His eyes remained on the painting, but hers roved over the thick, dark beard that covered his jaw, lightly tracing his sharp cheekbones.

Dark blue orbs stared at the art, but they flickered, as if he was looking out of the corner of his eye.

The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was suppressing a smile, aware of her scrutiny.

“The caption,” she noted. “It says it is a traitors’ embrace.”

“You do not agree?” His mouth curled into a smirk, yet he still did not look at her.

Hermia was nameless, faceless in this crowd.

With that power came boldness. With boldness came a sense that she could speak and do as she pleased.

She could be speaking with a commoner in fine clothes, or a duke delighting in sensual parties, or a viscount hoping to gather dirt on other notable members of the ton.

He could be anyone, but she found that she did not care or want to know.

After a long pause, he finally fixed his gaze on her. The intensity of it shot right through her breastbone, down into her sternum, where something stirred.

She half feared that same something was roused by the paintings as well—eroticism, sensuality, an attraction.

“I do not, no,” she replied. “Aphrodite and Ares were lovers in a true, honest sense of the word. It was only through force that Aphrodite had to marry the old Hephaestus. She was shackled to him. Some myths say he forged the chains himself. Should she be blamed for seeking pleasure in the arms of a man who truly loved her and her body?”

“And what if Hephaestus loved her, too? What if he was lonely and craved her companionship?”

Hermia frowned. “That was not her burden to carry if so.”

The handsome stranger paused and looked back at the painting, as if considering her words.

Hermia took a swig of her wine as her eyes trailed over his broad shoulders, clad in a black tailcoat with discreet, dark velvet patterns woven into it. His waistcoat was dark, as was his shirt, but both held some manner of layered patterns.

Hermia found herself seeking out more of his body to find them. When she noticed that he had not made another observation, her gaze rose back to his face.

She went still as she found his eyes already on her, his mouth quirking into another smirk.

“What if Ares broke up a happy marriage?” he challenged. “Or at least a content one.”

“Surely Aphrodite would not have yearned for Ares’s arms if she were happy,” she countered.

That made the stranger pause again. He cupped his chin in his hand and nodded.

Quickly, Hermia added, “Regardless of the artist’s motive, it cannot be denied that it is provocative.”

“Do you enjoy that?”

“Only by the side of somebody who challenges my thoughts respectfully,” she said, giving him a sly smile.

“You are an art enthusiast, then?” he asked, his voice lowering into something richer, less pensive, and more alluring.

“I dabble,” she allowed.

Josephine had told her the rules of the party: use an alias, do not linger too late if you do not want to be swept up into a very suggestive group activity, and do not reveal anything too notable about yourself.

“And you?” Hermia asked.

“I also dabble,” the stranger answered.

She wondered if he had sensed her lie as much as she sensed his.

His eyes dropped to her glass. “Your glass is empty.”

“Indeed,” she agreed, leaning further into that boldness to see where it might take her. “And you have no glass at all.”

“A shame.” His voice all but dropped to a purr. “Such a shame I am inclined to ask if you’d like to accompany me to the refreshments table.”

Hermia glanced at where it was set up. The wine poured from a server into a fountain of glasses, as dark as blood. In a place like this, such a thing looked tantalizing.

“I would,” she murmured.

The stranger nodded and turned to lead her across the room.

They sidestepped dancers, guests who were falling into one another’s laps, and Anton, who threw her a wink when he caught her with her new acquaintance. He was puffing on a cigar again, always offered by another person—a man, a woman, one on each side.

Hermia watched long enough to see him grab the jaw of the man at his side and pull his face closer. With one last look at her, he smirked and pressed a finger to his lips. And then he kissed the man, only to then kiss the woman and push the two towards one another while he smoked.

Hermia felt her face flush. She should have been furious at Josephine for bringing her here, but she had never felt so alive, so unburdened. Deep down, she felt like giggling, for her mother would faint into a grave if she learned of this debauchery.

At the refreshments table, she went to reach for a glass of wine, but the stranger stopped her without touching her. He merely extended a hand across her path and offered her a glass.

For a moment, she thought of Anton and the proffered cigar from another person’s hand, his mouth lowering to the head.

Her face burned, and she quickly pushed aside the thought of doing the same with the glass of wine.

“Thank you,” she said quickly.

But the stranger paused, as if he knew she had some sort of impure thought.

Please do not ask, please do not ask.

“You are welcome,” he answered, his eyes falling to her mouth.

She always had a habit of wetting her lips before she took a sip or a bite. Her mother despised it.

“So, you are a fan of Aphrodite’s…” the stranger trailed off as she took a sip of her wine.

She nodded too quickly in response, and a droplet of the rich drink dripped from her lip to her chin.

Before she could lift a hand to wipe it away, he caught her chin.

Hermia froze, her eyes widening on the man before her.

He held her gaze, looking between her eyes and her chin. His thumb brushed over her skin, collecting the droplet.

Hermia’s stomach dropped when she found herself parting her lips, as if she thought it acceptable to take his thumb into her mouth.

But he did not do that. Instead, he licked the droplet off his thumb, his eyes closing as if in bliss.

Fire raced through Hermia. Exhilaration swept through her, a tidal wave she did not fight.

Tomorrow, she would be banished to the country, never to see the ton again. In one way, it was a blessing; in another, it was a curse.

Why should she not live for exhilaration tonight?

The stranger’s mouth curled into another handsome smirk, and he leaned in. “You may lick the next droplet,” he murmured.

The room turned hazy. Hermia wanted to giggle, wanted to bask in the warmth that his words and voice sent through her.

“Who says I’ll spill more wine?”

“I never said it would be you doing the spilling,” he countered, his velvety voice vibrating in her bones. “Or that it would be wine .”

His words rang with such an outrageous suggestion that Hermia had a moment of clarity, of marveling at his boldness.

She took a look at him, at an eyebrow that rose in challenge, as if to ask, “Well?” and made her choice.

When the stranger offered his hand to her, she took it.

She was tired of looking back, of regretting decisions not made, of not choosing herself. She was going to be Aphrodite tonight, and she’d follow this Ares.

As soon as her palm met his, her skin blazed. She felt as though coals fanned deep within her and radiated outwards, burning her from the inside out.

The man, this Ares, was taller than her, and he stared down at her, his eyes as dark as the deepest part of the ocean.

If Hermia was the lagoon, then he was the cave water, dark and mysterious, a depth of secrets she didn’t need to find out.

Not when he gazed at her like that, and certainly not when he led her out of the room.

Her eyes did not even flit around the space like earlier.

The dancing show and the crowd faded into the background as he took her into a hallway, leading her deeper into the house, and to another door that he pushed open without resistance.

Inside, a beautiful chamber awaited them, as if reserved for guests for such reasons.

Hermia’s nerves fluttered, but then quickly settled when she looked back at the stranger.

Is this who I am tonight? Henrietta, who might be so bold as to allow herself to enjoy something for once? To live anonymously, with no consequences, no regrets. Just a bed and a handsome man, and this spark already igniting passion?

The stranger, her Ares, grabbed her chin again and tilted her head back. He reached his other hand past her head, shutting the door firmly behind them. His gaze bored into hers.

“You have more wine staining your mouth,” he murmured, thumbing her lower lip.

Hermia’s eyes fluttered shut, and a soft sound escaped her at that simple, light touch.

“Let me take care of that for you.”

And then his mouth closed over hers, as if he might lick the stain off her skin entirely and replace it with his passion.

Hermia could already feel herself giving in, uncaring of tomorrow, uncaring about anything but the feel of this man pulling her close. Of a solid, thick chest beneath her hands, of a tailcoat that slid off his shoulders easily when she let her instincts take over.

She felt a growl rumble deep in his chest as he pulled back just enough to turn her around, her back now facing the bed. Without hesitation, he cupped her face and took her lips in a fiercer kiss, filled with a passion she had never imagined possible.

Their breaths mingled, and he walked her back, back, back, until her legs hit the edge of the bed.

With gentle certainty, Ares eased her down onto the soft mattress, his hands claiming every inch of her as everything else disappeared.