Page 20 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)
Chapter Thirteen
H ermia couldn’t push that kiss out of her mind.
The way Charles had murmured her name, as if it were the only thing on his mind at that moment. As if her name held too much power, and he had wanted to know what it felt like on his tongue. His tone, the breathless way he had spoken, echoed in her mind throughout the next several days.
It haunted her dreams. She woke up panting on her cold bed, her nightgown clinging to her sweat-slicked back.
Her eyes always wandered to the connecting door, considering, until she recalled the burn of humiliation when he had rejected her on their wedding night.
One kiss did not mean he wanted her again.
Even if it felt like it.
Even if his lips were the sweetest thing she had ever tasted.
Hermia shook her head now, sitting in the drawing room as she reviewed some staffing reports.
Footsteps approached the door, and she looked up in hope. It was as though her heart knew it would be him; it sped up right as Charles passed the drawing room.
He slowed down when he saw her.
For a brief second, their eyes met, dark blue eyes pinning her in place. She could not move even if she wanted to, could not think or do anything, not while his gaze was boring into her.
“Good—” She broke off when he merely ducked his head and walked on.
Hermia blinked.
I ought not to be surprised . One kiss does not make a man magically warm up to me .
Yet she had expected it to.
Reading through the documents—schedule changes, promotion requests, and notices of new hires—she tried to ignore Charles’s colder behavior.
She ought to be used to this. He had been hot and cold with her ever since their first—or rather, second—meeting. One moment, he had shown her a peculiar patience and warmth; the next, he had snapped or lost his temper.
But she had thought the kiss would change everything.
She could call him back to her. She could demand an explanation, but the words grew too heavy and thick on her tongue until she couldn’t speak them.
Instead, she read over a request for her to assume some of the stewards’ duties. However, her thoughts kept straying until it all blurred.
Sighing, Hermia picked up the documents and sought out Mrs. Nightgale to inform her that she would need to speak with the stewards. She also dropped some hints about Mrs. Nightgale’s running of the hall. Namely, the reception of guests.
“I am the mistress of this house,” she said firmly. “I ought to have my guests over without verification.”
Her mind was still on her husband’s cold demeanor. If he continued to avoid her, she could hardly request permission to have company.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Nightgale nodded once.
Satisfied, Hermia went to the stables, wanting to assess the steeds on hand.
Hopefully, she could put in a request for another mare for herself.
Perhaps something bigger, something stronger than Aphrodite, who was well-equipped for the grounds of Wickleby Hall, but not so much the grounds of Branmere Hall and the surrounding woods.
Standing before a line of stewards, Hermia eyed the ones who had been performing poorly.
At her side, Phoebe stood to attention, her face very serious.
“Now,” Hermia said, “I have gathered you here, as there have been some… discrepancies in your performance. Nobody’s job is at risk, but I wish to bring you up to standard, if you will allow me.”
“You are the lady of the house,” one of the stewards said. “We will take any advice, Your Grace. We only wish to serve you and His Grace.”
“Indeed. But I also wish to be served out of respect.” She paused, giving him a kind smile. “I believe in authority prevailing through kindness, patience, and openness. If you have any issues, you may come to me.”
“Or me!” Phoebe interjected. “But do not bother me between dawn and breakfast. In fact, do not bother me during any mealtimes. They are most important.”
As the stewards glanced at one another, uncertain whether to be respectful and listen or try to figure out the joke, Hermia smirked.
“Lady Phoebe speaks the truth. Mealtimes shall be sacred things from now on. Which leads me to my first advice. Lady Phoebe?”
Hermia wanted the little girl to feel included, especially since she had been berated so harshly by her father three days ago, after the parlor incident.
And the kiss .
Hermia hastily pushed that thought away.
“Yes! You are all trusted stewards,” Phoebe said very sternly.
“And we take your employment most seriously.” She was clumsily repeating Hermia’s playful instructions that morning.
“So, from now on, I want my dinner served with a bouquet of flowers—it will be a lovely decoration. I also want the cook to know that dessert will be rejected if it includes less than three tiers of cake.”
“Lady Phoebe,” Hermia interjected, gently tugging the girl back. “How about the plan we made?”
“Oh, yes. All letters of the Duchess’s will go to me, so I can read them with her.”
Hermia cleared her throat. “What Lady Phoebe means is that I do not wish my correspondence to go through His Grace. I expect letters from my family, and I wish to invite them to Branmere Hall. Furthermore, I might ask some of you to check on my family in Wickleby Hall if I do not hear from them. I do not want to have to explain myself to His Grace.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the same steward said. “What if we are questioned?”
“Then be truthful, but you also answer to me.” Hermia smiled.
“I would also like you to do a survey of the grounds. I have noticed that a portion of a wall on the far-right side of the estate, towards the woodland, is crumbling. I would like that to be taken care of. I would also like to be alerted to any events taking place in the village. As the Duchess of Branmere, I want to be involved. What His Grace chose to do before our marriage is his business, but I want to change that.”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” another steward agreed. “Whatever you require is our duty to provide.”
“While I cannot ask to be involved in my husband’s business matters, I would like to be kept in the loop about anything regarding tenants, the estate, and household accounts,” she continued.
“And I would like to know when the cook prepares something delicious!” Phoebe added, which earned her low chuckles from the stewards. “And we’ll throw at least two balls per week.”
Hermia bit her lip to smother a laugh at the girl’s enthusiasm. “Perhaps not two balls, but I would like to host something to commemorate my duchy. I shall discuss this primarily with Mrs. Nightgale, but I understand that certain precautions must be taken with regard to…”
Her gaze flicked to Phoebe, and she received subtle nods.
“I would like to be approached on those evenings,” she continued. “No more punishments. I would also like to be informed when my husband is moving paintings around the estate. I am aware you are involved.”
“We are often appointed to help His Grace move the paintings, yes.”
“Good. Keep me in the loop, then, please.”
“I would also like weekly reviews,” Phoebe piped up. “I would like you all to give me your opinions on whether I am being a proper lady.”
That earned her more laughter.
One brave steward stepped forward. “Lady Phoebe, you are already a proper lady.”
Phoebe’s face brightened instantly at that.
Hermia continued her speech, her heart warming more and more to the life Phoebe clearly craved: an open home, her family gathered for regular dinners.
She swore she would give her that life. She would not let Phoebe grow up in a home where arguing became the norm.
Music, poetry, recitals—they were the changes she would implement.
Charles had already worked for too long that day when he found himself heading, almost without control of his feet, to his studio.
He had been going there more frequently of late, staring at the painting— paintings , for there was undoubtedly more than one, and he could no longer avoid admitting it—of Hermia.
He tore his gaze away from the line of her jaw—it was a portrait of her profile—and instead tried to focus on a new piece for an upcoming art show.
Christian Dawson had been commissioned to make a painting for a viscount who wanted to gain popularity among the ton and was thinking about hosting an auction at a ball.
Charles needed to focus on that. But whenever his brush touched canvas, Hermia kept flashing in his mind’s eye.
“Red hair,” he told himself, recentering the painting. “Focus on Lady Amelia Hartwood, the Viscount’s wife. That is who you are painting.”
But no matter how many times he spoke the words, dark brown hair appeared, framing blue eyes and long, thick lashes. It was her blush on those full cheeks instead of the stern, pointed features he was supposed to be drawing.
He closed his eyes, sighing. When he opened them, he began to paint.
If I just get her out of my system, I will be free .
So he let himself paint, even if his jaw was clenched the entire time.
He painted the bow of her lips, the exact shade of pink they were, and how red they had looked after he kissed her.
If he finished all of this, then he would get that infernal kiss out of his head. He would get his wife out of his head and center himself. Remind himself that theirs was a marriage of convenience, that they did not need to consummate it.
He painted until his skin and rolled-up sleeves were smeared with paint.
He painted until his arms ached and he lost hours from his commission, where his efforts ought to be focused.
He painted until his eyes ached and his body was heavy with thoughts of that night at Anton Bentley’s.
Charles finally stepped back, finding Hermia gazing at him, pouting at him, pointing at him.
He was enamored and entranced. As if every part of him had been thoroughly taken by her presence, her voice, the maddening curve of her smile. There was no corner of him untouched by the thought of her.
And that… that could not continue.
In the end, he left his studio angry, locking it securely lest anybody see the object of his obsession—his new, unintentional muse—and went to drink her name and kiss out of his mind.