Page 3 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)
Chapter One
ONE YEAR LATER
“ E xcuse me a moment, Lord Willoughby.” Charles Thorne, the Duke of Branmere, gave a nod to the man he had been speaking with about a new art gallery they wanted to open somewhere between London and Surrey.
“Of course, Your Grace. If I do not catch you sooner, enjoy your auction. You are supporting a wonderful cause.”
Charles headed out of the ballroom at Branmere Manor, trailing the footman who had signaled to him.
Outside, the hallway did little to muffle the noise of the orchestra and the guests’ clamor over the pieces they thought would be on display.
Notably, Charles always highlighted a starlight piece, the main event that everybody waited for.
But for the moment, his focus was on the harried-looking footman.
“Yes?” he asked impatiently. “Has my daughter managed to sneak out of her room again?”
Mercifully, the footman shook his head. “As you requested, I have two footmen posted at Lady Phoebe’s door, along with Miss Tarnen.”
Charles’s worry abated at the mention of his daughter’s governess. Phoebe always liked her, was more inclined to show good behavior around her.
He nodded. “Good. I cannot have her interrupt. Heavens forbid she tears through the ballroom and knocks a guest over. She could hurt herself in the process, and I do not wish to endure another tantrum.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced back at the ballroom, imagining his wild ten-year-old daughter dashing through the auction.
“We know Lady Phoebe’s antics, Your Grace.” The footman gave a hesitant, amused smile. “We are on high alert. Miss Tarnen has reported that she is grounded.”
Charles nodded grimly. “I cannot have her playing such pranks on the cook again,” he sighed. “Heaven knows uncooked meat was almost served at my last dinner party because of my mischievous daughter.”
He wanted to laugh—truly, he did—but his stress was at an all-time high, and worrying about Phoebe’s next trick was not how he wanted to spend his evening.
But he trusted his servants; they were good, and they knew his daughter well. Together, they would be prepared, at least.
His expression softened as he thought of her up in her room, perhaps singing in the way she did when she thought nobody could hear her. She might even distract herself with the chess set he had bought her on her ninth birthday.
“You are clever,” he had told her when he found the chess set unused weeks later. “Put the thought you give your pranks into chess, and we can play together.”
Phoebe had overturned the table, pouting, ignoring his suggestion. But he had seen her play with it when nobody was watching her.
Or expecting it from her .
“Make sure she does not cause any chaos tonight,” he said, one last request before he would leave it all in their trustworthy hands. “I cannot have anything go unplanned.”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” the footman answered, before bowing and retreating.
Charles strode back into the ballroom. He had ordered his staff to decorate it for tonight’s affair—an auction for yet another cause that landed him in the most positive of conversations with his peers.
He was accustomed to this: grand displays, publicly witnessed offerings, the Branmere name restored more and more with every event he organized.
He hosted these parties because he had an empire to build, and he relished the notoriety they gave him, even if he did not entirely enjoy them himself.
Immediately, he was swarmed by a group of ladies. Redhead, blonde, brunette—they all blurred into one, their faces half-hidden behind fluttering fans.
“Your Grace ,” one lady purred. She extended her hand, expecting a kiss. Charles obliged her, grimacing as he straightened, only to be met with another hand. “What a wonderful evening so far.”
“Indeed,” another lady chimed in. “It has not even begun, and it is already the highlight of the Season! You must be awfully proud.”
Before he could answer, the third lady cut in. “It is ever so delightful to see the Branmere name back in good graces. These parties… Heavens, they could keep one’s social calendar busy. Do you enjoy the parties, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” the first lady gasped. “Do you? You host, but never seem to dance much or get involved beyond your duties.”
“I enjoy them,” he answered shortly, wishing to be anywhere but pinned beneath their attention. He tugged on his collar. “Now, if you will excuse?—”
“Do tell, Your Grace,” the second lady whispered. “What is the starlight piece tonight? Do give us a hint. Oh, what was it last year?”
“A painting of the ocean in utter calm, occupied by a lone merchant ship,” he answered. “It signified loneliness and independence, and it raised a great amount for the orphanage on Moorefield Lane.”
“That is right!” the lady cried, grinning. “I loved that piece. It was a rather tasteful escape from the other… artworks you choose to showcase.”
Charles frowned but cared little to ask what they meant.
“If you will not give us a hint, you must at least confirm if it has been painted by the notorious Christian Dawson!” The third lady’s face was so bright and hopeful, too eager, too pressuring, that he almost answered truthfully.
He bit back a smile.
“Have you ever met the artist himself?”
Charles turned around, their voices merging into one.
“You must have! Have you broken your fast with him? Perhaps shared a drink at a tavern? Do you like drinking, Your Grace?”
“I have seen you drink wine, I am most certain.”
Again, he could not keep up with who asked what, who presumed what, and suddenly he felt too suffocated by their presence.
Beyond the wall of feathers and frilly sleeves, Charles struggled to see other faces, who were all looking at the cordoned-off, veiled painting in the center of the ballroom.
The starlight piece.
Only this time, the starlight theme had been taken to heart. He thought of the dark spill of hair, of stars falling through the length like they did an inky black sky, a goddess of sleep watching over a slumbering world.
“Excuse me—” he tried again, but to no avail.
“You are the finest gentleman in all of London.” His gaze snapped to the first lady. “Surely you recognize that, Your Grace? It only serves you well to mingle.”
His chest tightened at that, seeing not a friendly or even a hopeful suggestion, but a threat. It echoed in his mind, overlapping with a much sterner voice, one withered with age and grief.
Pushing down memories of his mother’s insistence to join Society, to rebuild the empire, to host and mingle and woo and network, Charles gave a tight smile. “Indeed. And I shall, so if you will just?—”
“Is it true that Lady Phoebe almost poisoned your guests at the dinner party?”
Charles ditched his attempts at leaving at the mention of his daughter. While she could be a tearaway, she was his tearaway to defend and reprimand.
Protectiveness flared inside him, thick in his throat.
“No,” he answered, although it was true. “She was well-behaved when she found her way into the banquet hall.”
“She should not have been allowed out of her room at all,” one of the ladies scoffed. The redhead. “The girl would never have done such a thing if she had the proper guidance. She should learn how a true lady acts in public.”
Charles reared back, offended by the slight against his parenting. Ire threatened to overtake him for a moment, shattering his rigid composure, when another voice cut through the tirade of questions.
“Ladies! Ladies, you must part this wall of beauty so I may approach His Grace.”
The ladies gasped in utter joy as they turned to Levi Norman, the Marquess of Trewford.
With an easy, charming smile and short, cropped blonde hair, Levi was an eligible bachelor, but one who was reserving himself for a true spark.
He played his part well, however, appreciating the ladies in full, making eyes at them, before he nodded to Charles.
“Branmere,” he greeted. “You appear rather… swarmed.”
“I am,” Charles said tightly, trying not to scowl.
“Ladies, as lovely as you all are, His Grace must get back to his auction! Branmere, I know a buyer who is greatly interested in the Kiplingcotes painting.”
Charles resisted the urge to frown, knowing he had no such piece on display tonight, and nodded. “Ah, yes, that one. A fine piece that must find its way to a good owner. Show me to him.”
He cast a glance at the three ladies, who were still staring at him, not quite able to settle on him or Levi—envious and greedy at once.
“Enjoy your evening, ladies.”
“Oh, we shall!”
They turned to one another, already giggling and whispering as he walked away with his friend.
“Heavens, they are like the blasted Furies from your beloved myths,” Levi muttered. “When they start chanting love spells, do not call for me. I will run—I will run very fast, and very far.”
Charles snickered. “You say that as if you are not seeking your perfect lady.”
“I do, but she is not one of those.” Levi all but looked back in disgust. “I hope she will be far more refined. As for you? They were rather pesky with their questions, but you could still use your rehabilitated name and good looks to have some fun.”
“I have fun,” Charles answered mildly.
“You had fun,” Levi corrected. “Once. A year ago, at Anton Bentley’s party.”
“Keep your voice down,” Charles hissed.
Levi only rolled his eyes and led him to an empty corner, but eyes still followed the notorious Duke of Branmere. The weight he needed on his back was heavy to carry, even if he had carefully constructed such a shroud himself.
“I have no time for fun,” Charles sighed. “Nor the interest.”
“I do not believe you.” His friend shrugged, for he knew he could get away with it.
His pale green eyes swept the ballroom, as if he thought he could pluck somebody out of the crowd and say, Here, this is what you are missing .
“You speak of that night fondly when you have had too much brandy,” he added.