Page 27 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

“Oh, pardon me,” Levi said. “The late Duchess of Branmere.”

“My late wife,” Charles further explained. “Lady Mercy Farriday.”

He saw surprise flicker across Hermia’s face, as if she hadn’t expected him to ever mention her.

Phoebe pointedly looked down at her plate. “She was my mama,” she said. “What was she like, Papa?” Her voice wobbled.

Charles blanched, not expecting the mention of his late wife or Phoebe’s questions. How long had she had them for, and why did Hermia look more sympathetic than anything else?

“I…” He fumbled for words.

I did not really know her. She did not let me, and I simply did my duty to see our marriage through.

“She was lovely,” Levi spoke up. “Very elegant and graceful. She did not speak a great deal, except to give orders, and—and she was… yes, she was lovely. She was a good duchess, if you don’t mind my saying, Your Grace.”

Charles tensed up, trying not to think of his late wife’s face, her cold ways, her sense of duty that had almost rivaled his. And then the cold finality of her death, leaving him unmoored, leaving Phoebe without a mother, and him knowing that he would need to find another wife to produce an heir.

“Of course not,” Hermia answered. “She was the Duchess before me, after all. That cannot be changed.”

“Indeed,” Charles agreed sharply. “Yet Mercy is in the past and?—”

“Was she pretty?” Phoebe asked. “Hermia says I am pretty.”

“You are,” Levi told her, nodding. “As was she. She was a diamond among opals in those ballrooms during her debut.”

“Levi,” Charles warned, “I think that is enough. The Duchess?—”

“Is fine with it,” Hermia finished. “Phoebe should know who her mother was. Let her ask her questions. Give her the chance.”

“What was she like before she became your Duchess?” Phoebe asked. “What was her favorite color? Did she like apples, too? What was her favorite instrument? Papa, did you dance with her at your wedding? You did not dance with Hermia.”

Before Charles could answer her, she asked more questions, breathless yet determined.

“Did she like me? Was she a good mama?” Her eyes were glassy. “Papa, how did she die?”

Charles eyed his daughter, taking in her pinched brow, her sad smile, her low voice.

He needed to protect her from such things. Mercy had been a cold mother. She was not unloving, but she knew Phoebe could not be an heir, and she knew her duty had been to provide an heir. Even if that was the sole purpose of their marriage, she had been overly cold about it.

Charles couldn’t disappoint Phoebe by telling her that her mother hadn’t been warm, that he had never known her favorite color, or whether she liked apples. He didn’t recall the name of her horse, or her best friend, or her parents, who had shipped her to him like prized cattle.

In truth, he had not given a lot of himself to Mercy, nor she to him, and in turn, the two of them had lived in an empty, loveless, convenient marriage.

Nothing more, nothing less.

But he would not let his daughter’s spirits down.

“Perhaps Levi should tell another story,” he suggested. “A tale from… Trewford, perhaps?”

“But my questions?—”

“I think this is best, Phoebe,” he said quickly. “Do not argue with me on this.”

“Charles—”

“You too, Duchess.” His tone was slightly too snappish, but he could not help it. “This was an apology dinner, was it not? Well, the apology will be accepted if we change the subject.”

It was a harsh blow, but it was the only way they would listen to him.

He saw the flicker on both of their faces—the disappointment, the resignation.

It occurred to him that Hermia was interested in knowing more about Mercy, too. But the thought of the two of them crossing paths in his mind made him want to leave the dining hall.

He could not do that, so he nodded to Levi to continue talking.

The good thing about Levi’s chatter was that it truly did not stop, and he always had a word on his tongue, ready to be spoken.

“Of course! I remember one day…”

He was already spinning a story before Charles could reach for his wine.

Later that evening, once Levi had left, leaving the sea of gifts in his wake, Phoebe had been taken to her chamber.

Hermia was still feeling uneasy from dinner and finally hearing Charles’s first wife’s name. Judging by Phoebe’s age, Mercy and Charles met before she had even debuted, so it was no wonder she didn’t recognize the name.

She followed the scent of cedarwood and leather—from Charles’s candles and stationery—to the study. Opening the door, she found him scribbling away, a furrow between his eyebrows.

“Charles?” she called, peering in.

He didn’t even look up at her, engrossed in his work. Or perhaps he had heard her and didn’t want to look up. Perhaps the evening had depleted the patience she had seen in recent days.

“May I come in?”

“You’ve already made up your mind on that, haven’t you?” he asked tightly.

His eyes flicked up to hers, and she blushed. But then she straightened up, reminded herself that she was not meek, but a duchess who had the right to know why her husband kept so much from her.

“Yes,” she answered. “I will.”

“Then enter.”

The command made heat curl in her stomach.

She stepped inside, letting the door close behind her.

Charles sighed, set down his quill, and pushed back from his desk. “Yes, Duchess?”

“I want to know what happened at dinner.”

Charles merely stared at her. Slowly, he cocked his head, as if sizing her up or waiting for her to realize what she had done.

“What happened, Duchess , is that you meddled where you should not,” he began. “And you challenged me in front of my daughter and my friend. I have endured your sharp tongue plenty of times, but never, ever do it again—especially not where her mother is involved.”

“I understand, but?—”

“There are no but s.”

“There are,” she snapped. “Phoebe deserves to know who her mother is. She deserves to know if she was loved—if she was cared for! Every daughter grows up wishing to know that she was the center of her mother’s universe. Why can she not have that?”

“I just do not think it is respectful to you.”

“That is utter bol —” Hermia gasped, not knowing where the curse had come from.

Even Charles looked surprised, yet mildly amused. He cocked his head as if daring her to finish.

“I expressly said that I was fine with it,” she added. “All was well. What is it you are hiding from, Charles? Because I believe you are looking for barriers where there are none.”

“I’m hiding from nothing,” he told her, deadly quiet. “Mercy is dead, that is all. What is the point in making my daughter miss her mother even more? Has she not suffered enough growing up without one?”

Whether the questions were a deflection or sincere, Hermia didn’t know.

It was not that she thought Charles wasn’t sincere or didn’t care, but more that she worried he hid behind Phoebe’s feelings to avoid having to speak about something that may have hurt him.

Mercy’s death, or whatever had happened before that.

“You cannot always protect her from sadness,” Hermia said softly, changing tack.

She moved closer to the desk and saw how he stiffened. In the low light from the candle on his desk, his shirt gleamed, and his unbuttoned waistcoat looked almost navy. His eyes seemed even darker than usual.

Her heart sped up as she looked at him. Even more so when she felt his eyes on her.

“I can try.”

“You can,” she agreed. “But she will cry at the first feel of sun after a harsh winter.

She will cry when she skins her knee and you are not there.

She will cry when she fights with her friends one day.

She will cry when you leave for business, and she realizes how much she misses you.

More so, she will cry over a man one day, a broken heart, and a marriage she might not enjoy.

“There are things you can smooth over, but there are many more you cannot. You can guide her, but you cannot build walls around her and shut out whatever you think will hurt her. You stand to push her away, to teach her that she cannot ask questions. Do not push her away, Charles, because if you refuse her every curiosity, then you will.”

Charles broke their stare, furrowing his brow pensively. “My only duty is to protect my daughter.”

“And as hard as it is, sometimes protecting her means letting her get hurt, for how else will she grow strong enough to face the world? Do not hide half of her life from her because it hurts you both.”

Charles jerked his head towards her, a rebuke no doubt ready, but she continued, “Your daughter does not need a silent guardian. She needs her father .”

But her husband was already standing up, using his height to assert his authority over her, forcing her away from the desk.

This time, he didn’t approach her like he had in the entrance hall after the dinner party. No, he simply made for the door and shot her a dark look over his shoulder.

“My role is to protect. That is my duty. That is my purpose, Hermia.”

Before Hermia could respond, tell him that his purpose was hurting Phoebe, he exited the study.

And left her standing there in the flickering candlelight.