Page 29 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Twenty-One

B y the time they made it back to the other tenant’s cottage, Phoebe had unleashed herself on the cattle, chasing them away at the first sign of goats.

Charles immediately noticed the mud on her dress and moved to say something, but Hermia put a hand on his arm.

“Do not,” she said quietly. “Just… let her be a little girl for a moment. We can carry the dukedom by ourselves. Let her shed the weight of being a duke’s daughter and chase some animals like a normal girl.”

Charles disagreed, but he nodded when he saw that the tenant looked neither disgusted nor judging, but happy. And so he let Phoebe be the whirlwind she was, knowing she was not causing any damage to anybody or anything. She was just being a little girl playing in the mud without going over the top.

She looked back at him, a flicker of worry crossing her face, and he nodded.

It is all right. You are all right. I am sorry I get so cross.

He knew he’d be able to say it one day. But for now, he let her play. He moved around the other tenants with ease, almost letting Hermia take over.

And once they were done, he drew close to her, close enough to murmur, “You have noticed more than I gave you credit for before we left the townhouse. You noticed Mr. Bollet’s damaged beams, you noticed the sick livestock on Mr. Shaw’s fields, and you noticed that another tenant, Mr. Blackthorn, had patched his roof with curtains, so I can now send out the required materials.

I am—I am grateful that you are here, Hermia. ”

The gratitude felt like stripping away a layer of himself. It felt like admitting that he may not have spotted those things. His pride wavered even as he set it aside to commend his wife.

But before Hermia could respond, Phoebe gasped loudly and pointed across the fields.

“Look!” she shouted. “It is all dark in the sky! A storm is coming.”

The glee on her face was misplaced, given their predicament. Both Branmere Hall and Branmere Manor were too far away to get out of the approaching storm, but Charles ordered them to the carriage at once.

His tenants would be seen to. He had already sent a footman ahead to fetch supplies and begin repairs and reinforce beams and roofs, and to look at the prices of livestock to replace the unhealthy animals who would need tending.

However, there was an empty cottage where no tenant would move in until autumn. It was the farthest one of the clusters, so he quickly herded his family there, calling orders to take shelter immediately.

The sheets of rain hit them before they could reach the main door, instantly soaking the three of them, but he pushed both Phoebe and Hermia through the door, ushering them into the dry space.

“We will shelter here until the storm passes,” he told them, already tearing off his waistcoat, annoyed by the wet cling of fabric to his body. “There are three rooms.”

His eyes flicked over Hermia as if telling her that she had the option to sleep in a separate room, but she carefully avoided him.

He made an irritated sound as he pulled off his cravat and stomped about, looking for blankets, muttering under his breath as he went.

He didn’t like it when plans did not turn out as intended. He should have checked the weather. He should have done more for his tenants. He should have?—

Phoebe’s giggles had him turning around.

“What?” he demanded.

“Papa, you look very cross.”

“I am not cross. I am wet, as you both are, and I have no dry garments for either of you to change into. I dislike not knowing what I can do to help.”

“You dislike having no control,” Hermia corrected him in a light tone. “You are obsessed with it, Charles. A storm is a storm. It will pass, and we can go back home.”

“A storm is a delay,” he muttered. “A storm is an inconvenience.”

“It is also romantic, or atmospheric,” she countered.

“Right now, it is inconvenient. Do you enjoy sitting in your wet gown?”

“No, but it has not ruined my day.”

Charles growled under his breath, before looking for more supplies. He kept all of his cottages well-stocked regardless of occupancy. He took several blankets out of a cupboard and passed them to Hermia and Phoebe, and he found some flint to light a fire in the hearth in the main room.

All the bedrooms looked well and big enough, so they would have enough space to sleep. There was little else he could do about the rest, but he had to endure.

Returning to the main room, he lit the fireplace and sat across from Hermia. Next to her, Phoebe curled up, shivering beneath her blanket. Charles couldn’t relax until the quivers subsided.

Hermia looked tired, but she didn’t show it. Instead, she gave him a half-hearted smile from across the hearth while he turned to scowl at the flames, trying not to notice how the firelight caught her eyes beautifully.

“Have you ever heard of the magical tale about storms?” she asked.

Charles looked up, appalled. “She is too old for that,” he muttered.

“One is never too old for magical tales,” she countered. “And I recall asking Phoebe, not you, Your Grace.”

“I have never heard of it,” Phoebe said, sitting up. “I would like to.”

“Well, my sister, Sibyl—I think you would like her very much—is quite afraid of storms. You are very brave, Phoebe. Clever Phoebe.” Hermia stroked her wet hair, loosening it so it would dry quicker.

It was such a casual, motherly gesture, so tender and full of care, that Charles looked away again. He focused on the flames as Hermia told her tale.

“There was once a man who flew around the world in a boat?—”

“He flew in a boat ?” Phoebe asked, her voice pitching high in wonder.

“Indeed. It had little wooden wings, and he soared through the skies.”

Charles was still staring at the flames.

Wooden wings. How absurd.

But when he stole a glance at the two of them and caught the awe in his daughter’s eyes, he softened.

I should have been doing this for her since she was little.

He thought of the book of fairytales he had bought her. At the time, he had hoped it would distract her and keep her occupied during the events he hosted. But perhaps he should have bought it with the intention of reading it to her.

He jerked his focus away, again.

“Do you know what this captain of the skies searched for?” Hermia asked gently.

“A pigeon? I like pigeons. I chase them.” Phoebe’s voice was thick and slurred, as if she were close to slumber.

“Not pigeons,” Hermia said, laughing patiently.

“He searched for storms . This captain believed that storms contained unbridled power, and he wished to harness it. Not for bad reasons, though—Heavens, no. He wanted to power his flying boat so he could fly faster, higher, and he wanted to rescue those who were not seen on the ground. He believed he could do good if only he travelled a little further, a little harder. He wanted the power of the storms to fill the wings of his boat, to push currents that guided him, and he wanted to become a Master of Storms, Savior of People. Would you like that, Phoebe? To be a Mistress of Storms?”

When only silence answered, Charles looked over, finding Phoebe slumped against Hermia’s shoulder, her jaw slack in sleep.

Without hesitation, he leaned over and gently picked her up. He could not love her the way she needed, could not be the father she craved, but he could make sure she was comfortable.

It was not enough, but it was all he had at that moment.

Hermia’s eyes lingered on him as he carried her to one of the rooms. After he laid her on the bed and tucked her beneath the blankets, he stopped. He thought . And then he pressed a kiss to her forehead before leaving the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

He returned to Hermia, but sat closer this time, within reach. This time, he didn’t avoid her gaze, and neither did she. The air between them thrummed with unspoken words and a feeling he couldn’t decipher.

“She will be a fine lady one day,” Hermia noted quietly, breaking the silence. “A force to be reckoned with for certain, but she will be good. She will recall this day fondly, Charles.”

Charles’s jaw clenched as he fixed his eyes on the flames again. “I envy your openness. I… I do not have. Your patience and endless kindness with Phoebe—it is…” He shook his head sharply. “It is admirable. I want to be there for her, but I do not know how.

“My parents never taught me, nor did I ever see an example that I may follow. They—they were a very typical couple. Duty-bound, honorable, strict. It is all I knew, and now I do not know how to be unlike them.”

“I understand,” Hermia said.

Charles thought back to the Wicklebys’ harsh treatment of her. He fought down a rush of anger at how fast they had changed their behavior once he offered marriage.

“One cannot live with parents, and one cannot live without them. However, I still believe my mother pushed me out of the nest, so to speak, and I immediately knew I was better flying alone.”

Charles gave a half smile, tired and emotionally drained. “You knew what she was going to be like from a young age, then.”

“Oh, undoubtedly. I like to think I raised myself, really. My mother will not take credit for any of this.”

Her smile was so pretty it hurt to look at, yet Charles forced himself not to look away.

Silence fell over them, punctuated by the crackling of the fire. It was not tense, though, nor awkward. It was comfortable, and that scared him more than anything.

Hermia broke the silence after a while, her tone confident but careful. “What happened with Mercy?”

The name still made his spine stiffen—a rigid, dutiful response to his late wife.

He shrugged. “We were forced into a marriage that neither of us wanted. I wanted to care for her, but I did not, and she did not care for me. She was cold but not cruel, and I admit our marriage was probably colder than winter. But that is often the case with arranged matches, I suppose. We each had a role to play.”

“And her… her death?”

“She went to visit an aunt. It was something she did frequently—likely to escape our marriage—but she contracted an illness aboard the inbound ship. Phoebe was only three; she does not recall her. And while Mercy was not a woman I loved, she was still a lady who died too young. Phoebe deserved a mother, and she never got one. Not truly.”

“I am sorry,” Hermia whispered. “I—” Her voice cracked. “I know what it is like to lose somebody too young.”

Charles eyed her curiously, but there were no tears in her eyes, only a harder set to her jaw as she gazed at him.

Heavens, those eyes. They stirred something deep within him, something that he knew would burn if he dared touch it, and yet…

Yet he wanted to.

“Phoebe has you now,” he said, trying to distract himself. “She has the mother figure she has always needed, and you have been excellent both to and with her.”

“And what about you?” He wasn’t prepared for how quiet her voice would be, nor the question. “What have you got, Charles?”

His eyes bored into hers, and he felt that flame lick higher and higher, burrowing deeper in him.

He suppressed a shiver. He knew the shape of her lips beneath his, the taste of her tongue, the way her body twisted in pleasure.

Why was one night not enough? Why could he not douse these flames?

“I have got a wife who shatters every ounce of control I possess,” he whispered.

And then he kissed her.

This time, Hermia didn’t stiffen in surprise. She let out a moan, muffled by his mouth as he pulled her into a deeper kiss. His hand cupped her neck lightly, sliding up to the back of her head, keeping her close.

He heard—he felt —the hitch in her breath as his teeth sank into her lower lip. He kissed her, letting his tongue slide over her lips to coax them open. He groaned quietly as he kneeled over her, and she tipped her head up.

Heavens, he could devour her whole if only she said the word.

Charles pulled back, knowing how wrecked he must have looked if it was anything like her.

He barely gave himself a moment to watch her chest rise and fall, to hear her panting breaths. His lips crashed back into hers the next moment, his fingers already tangling in her hair. Her fingernails scraped through his beard, her breath stuttering into his mouth.

Charles’s other hand moved to the laces on the back of her dress.

He no longer cared about pretenses. He wanted her bare beneath him. He wanted to taste her. He wanted to bury himself inside her until she washed away every conflicted thought.

“Have mercy on me, Hermia, for I cannot take this any longer,” he groaned between kisses. “I cannot deny wanting you any longer.”

His control was a thread long snapped.

Her hand fell to his shirt, which still clung to his skin. He shivered as her palms roved over his shoulders, sliding down his chest, dancing along the waistband of his breeches. She undid two buttons, lost in the tangle of his tongue and mouth, before she pulled back— away .

Charles would have done foolish things just to feel her hand on his bare chest.

“We—” Her voice quivered. “We should not.”

The fire in him was slow to ebb, but he let it.

He nodded slowly. “You are right. Phoebe is in the next room.”

Hermia’s cheeks flushed a pink so deep he wished he could kiss it. He lifted his hand to her face, feeling the heat of her skin.

“It really is best not to.”

“It is.”

Neither of them sounded convinced, but Hermia was already rising to her feet. “I will stay with her. In case the storm persists through the night.”

But as she stood up, her eyes fell to the bulge in his breeches. The dark material could not hide everything.

Her face turned red, her fingers curling into a loose fist. She hurriedly moved back.

As she left the room, Charles could swear he heard her cursing under her breath.

Following suit, Charles left the room to venture to the other spare chamber. He collapsed on the bed , aching and burning with need.