Page 25 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Eighteen

N otably, over the next two days, Charles was home more.

While he didn’t spend as much time with Phoebe as she perhaps wanted, Hermia noticed that he lingered more over breakfast, asked the staff about her well-being, and generally tried not to leave the house as much as he had in the countryside.

The tension lingered between Charles and Phoebe, and Hermia had gently suggested another dinner to smooth things over. However, Charles had refused. They all knew family dinners made matters worse.

And so she planned her gown for a different kind of dinner, one hosted at Lord and Lady Atherton’s house, an influential marquess and marchioness who had recently acquired a large gambling hell and were celebrating lavishly.

“Did I tell you I do business with Lord Atherton?” Charles asked her as they entered the grand estate.

Hermia huffed, shaking her head. “No, but seeing as you do not speak to me a great deal, I would not know who you do business with and with whom you do not, so it makes no difference to me.”

Charles only scowled at her and led her deeper into the house.

Chandeliers illuminated the grand foyer, which was awash with silvers and grays—all polished, cool tones. It led into a long, narrow dining room that was flooded with candlelight. Laughter and guests already filled the space, not yet seated.

Next door, in the drawing room, more guests drank champagne and caught up on that week’s gossip, no doubt.

Hermia tried to listen out for her name, but she thought her sisters had been quite right. Perhaps she really was no longer the subject of gossip.

Still, she noticed how eyes swiveled to her as she entered.

To distract herself, she commented on the guest capacity.

“Fifty people between the two rooms,” she told Charles, simply to fill her mind with anything other than worry. “Well, fifty-two, if we count ourselves.”

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at her. He did not say anything, but he looked impressed at her quick counting.

She continued, “I noticed Lady Amber is on the arm of Lord Bretherton. The last time I saw them, she had her eyes set on him. I wonder if they are courting.”

“Do you miss the gossip, then?” he asked, as if mocking her.

She frowned. “No.”

They walked into the drawing room, and Hermia kept her head high and her smile in place.

Do not let that smile drop. The smiles hide a thousand things. Do not let them get to you.

Before Hermia could suggest that Charles get them drinks, a blonde-haired man with icy-blue eyes approached her. He gave a charming smile as he inclined his head in greeting.

“Your Graces,” he said. “It is good to see you both back in London after your honeymoon. I hear Branmere Hall is beautiful at this time of year. Her Grace must agree?”

He looked at Hermia, and she nodded. “Indeed. And thank you, Lord…?”

“Ah, forgive my rudeness. I am certain your husband is eager to make the introductions.” The man’s eyes hardened, flicking to Charles.

Hermia looked at her husband, who only cleared his throat.

Silence stretched enough that she thought he was not going to say anything.

“Duchess, this is Lord Grenford. Lord Grenford, this is the Duchess of Branmere.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lord Grenford,” Hermia said as the man bowed to her. “I do not believe we have met before.”

“Ah, we have not. Although, given your age, Your Grace, you may have known my brother. Surely you know the Grenfords in any capacity?”

Her mind went blank, and she shook her head. Next to her, Charles went rigid.

The Viscount’s smile turned sharp. “I see,” he said tightly. “Well, I suppose when one has a most rushed wedding, one forgets about the ton and how much influence it holds. I am certain you agree, given your… special circumstances?”

Hermia blanched, a retort on her tongue. But then Charles stepped in front of her, his voice as icy as the Viscount’s eyes. “We must make the rounds, Duchess.”

“Indeed, do not let me keep you,” Lord Grenford almost purred, his smile widening in a way that made Hermia’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Enjoy your evening, Your Graces.”

Charles pulled her away and over to the refreshments table. Hermia stepped closer to him as he handed her a glass.

“Who is that man?” she demanded.

“Lord Grenford. I believe that much is obvious.”

“Oh, do not insult my intelligence,” she huffed. “Why were you so avoidant with him? While I do not trust a man with a smile so… quick and wide, I heard your tone change. Why?”

“No reason,” he answered too quickly. “We are not on good terms. There is nothing more to it.”

“Do you think I believe that? You are so keen on duty and propriety, yet you did not even want to make the introductions.”

“Hermia, leave it,” Charles warned quietly. “All I ask is that you stay away from him.”

“I will if you tell me why.”

He pursed his lips, as if holding back his exasperation—barely. “Not everything needs a reason. It is for the best, trust me.”

You have given me no reason to trust you . You are cold and hot. You avoid me, yet watch me from afar. You want me to mother your child, but get angry when I do. You kiss me and then ignore me. I cannot guess your motives. How can I trust you?

Instead of saying that, however, she plastered on a smile. “Of course.”

She knew Charles would hear the false promise in her voice, but she did not care.

She drained her glass in one go and felt a drop slide down the corner of her mouth. She caught it quickly, noticing his eyes fall to it.

Suddenly, she was at a different refreshments table, a different woman, in a very different setting, and the words she had told him that night slipped past her lips.

“You may lick the next droplet.”

She grabbed a second glass and tugged him onwards to begin their rounds, ignoring how his jaw clenched.

She had to rile him up somehow.

She spotted some ladies she knew from her debut and smiled brightly at them, only to turn away, her smile dimming, when they did not return the smiles. Charles greeted some associates, inclined his head to several lords, and murmured to Hermia who was who, and who he had business deals with.

“Lord Milton is a collector of… tasteful art, shall we say,” he told her, an amused smirk on his face.

“I have curated enough collections for him to put him under the ton’s scrutiny, should I ever need to.

” His voice lowered. “If you thought the pieces at Bentley’s party were risqué, then you have seen very little yet. ”

“Heavens.” Hermia laughed, enjoying his light teasing, as if the whole room was against them.

As if, at that moment, they were not two opposing sides, but finally a team.

Secretly, she enjoyed that he revealed some things to her about his business. She had come to glean that Charles acted as both a curator and a painter, but she wanted to know more about the painter.

Did he do it behind closed doors as a hobby, a secret passion? Was he even good at it?

It amused her to think of the painting that had been revealed as mediocre.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his lips twitching in amusement.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, covering her mouth.

Before he could press her, she caught whispers as they passed a group of matrons, their beady eyes fixed on them, their mouths curved in cruel mirth.

It made the back of her neck prickle. She knew that look enough to know she wished to run from it.

“It truly was a quick arrangement, was it not?” one lady asked quietly enough to pretend she was only speaking to her friends, but it was clear she wished to be heard. “After all, His Grace had never spoken of remarrying.”

Hermia went stiff but regained her composure between one step and the next.

I am a duchess. Regardless of the circumstance, I am wed. I am fine. I am content.

If she kept telling herself that, then she could keep her head above the water.

“Indeed!” another lady agreed. “And a spinster, of all people. One cannot help but wonder how they met. Surely His Grace had met Her Grace during one of his auctions. Why not court her properly before she was sent to the countryside? Both of them could have saved the poor Wicklebys a great deal of shame.”

The first lady looked down her nose at Hermia. “The utmost shame. Heavens, if I were her mother, I would have sent her far, far away.”

“Rumor has it that she almost did.”

The ladies huddled together, no doubt discussing their theories.

Hermia resisted the urge to shrink in on herself. She had left this scene to exile herself to spinsterhood. She had gone quietly, keeping her one night of freedom a secret. She had not argued with her parents and had thrown herself into caring for her sisters.

But Charles pulled me out of that existence . He saved me from being the quiet, meek lady my parents wanted me to be.

And she was not quiet, nor meek. She was the Duchess of Branmere.

“Ignore them,” Charles said quietly. “All that matters is that we know our story. Nobody else’s opinion matters.”

“I know,” she muttered.

“And your secrets are safe with me.” He caught her gaze and nodded his head once in understanding.

“As are yours with me.”

Hermia was surprised by the sentiment. Not because she wanted to sell out his secrets, but because she had thought she had little empathy for the man who barely took the time to say good morning to her.

A footman then stepped into the doorway to the drawing room, drawing attention. “Can all guests please make your way to the dining hall, for the first course is about to be served.”

Charles led Hermia back into the dining hall, where every candle flickered, bathing the room in a golden hue. The way the candlelight reflected in his dark blue eyes could have been romantic and handsome, if not for his scowl and their constant arguments.

Why do you never speak to me properly at home ? Hermia wished to ask.

But this was not the place, and she was still cross with him for not apologizing to Phoebe yet.

Around them, footmen brought out the first course—soup. Hermia’s heart fluttered as Charles took the seat next to her. And then sank as the Countess of Farnshaw, a woman known for her gossipmongering, sat right across from them.

She eyed the two of them with delight. Her husband, who sat next to her, looked over in mild interest, already familiar with her ways.

Hermia braced herself for the onslaught, dipping her spoon into the soup and beginning to eat. She had barely swallowed a mouthful when Lady Farnshaw spoke up.

“Your Grace, you must tell us if there is any news of an heir.” Her eyes gleamed. “Surely you can tell us something, among close friends.”

Charles’s eyes darted left and right as if to verify her claim. Hermia bit her lip, her stomach clenching at the question, so similar to the one her mother had asked.

Charles didn’t answer. He only glared at Lady Farnshaw, and then at her husband as if to blame him for the bold question, before picking up his spoon.

Hope bloomed in Hermia’s chest; perhaps they really were on the same side that night, for he did not even bother to answer out of politeness.

“You do not answer,” Lady Farnshaw noted with a low laugh.

“Perhaps it is because Her Grace is struggling with your daughter already, and you do not wish to burden her with another child. Or, according to the rumors, burden yourself. Rumor still has it Lady Phoebe remains unruly despite your attempts to bring in a…” Her eyes flicked over Hermia in judgment.

“Mother figure. Could it be that Her Grace is simply not up to the task?”

As she had continued her tirade, Charles’s scowl deepened into a glower, his shoulders wound tight, his fist clenched on his lap beneath the tablecloth.

Hermia had the strangest urge to slip her fingers between his, to let him squeeze that anger into her, but she kept her hands to herself.

Still, his fist lifted at the question, at the blatant insult.

Lady Farnshaw’s voice had risen, drawing the stares of the other guests—as she had intended, no doubt.

“Lady Farnshaw,” Hermia said, clearing her throat delicately, to draw the Countess’s attention away from Charles.

She feared his reaction if she didn’t intervene.

“Indeed, I am a new duchess, and I am learning my way around my new homes and life, but you do not have the right to speak ill of Lady Phoebe. She is a duke’s daughter, and therefore commands everyone’s respect.

“As gently bred ladies, we should know that it is poor form to speak of a young girl who cannot even stand before you to defend herself. Your views on Lady Phoebe are laughable, and if you are so bored as to gossip about an innocent ten-year-old, then I suggest you find yourself something more worthwhile to do.”

She sensed the tension in Charles’s body ease a little.

Lady Farnshaw gasped in affront and turned to her husband as if to demand his intervention. But the Earl only looked away, as if he knew she had gotten herself into such a tangle.

Hermia was secretly glad.

Charles’s hand brushed hers beneath the table, before he spoke, “Lady Farnshaw, do not insult my family ever again. Not my wife, not my daughter, not myself. As for you, Lord Farnshaw, I suggest you speak with your wife about her gossiping, lest she insult a less patient man.”