Page 30 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

T hey barely knew what to say to one another the following day as they left the cottages to return to Branmere Manor.

Hermia’s thoughts would not stop straying to the taste of Charles’s tongue, the heat of his mouth, the feel of his hard chest. And—Heavens, the sight of his arousal straining against his breeches…

It had left her breathless and too flushed for rational thought.

They eventually pulled up to the townhouse and were greeted by Mrs. Andrews, who had been waiting in the entrance hall, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Your Graces, you have returned late,” she noted.

Charles nodded quickly. “We were delayed.”

Mrs. Andrews looked between them before fixing her gaze on Hermia. “Your Grace, your lady’s maid is waiting to prepare you for Lord and Lady Connolly’s ball. We do not want you to be late.”

“No, of course,” Hermia said, sparing Charles another glance before hurrying inside to ready herself for the ball that had completely slipped her mind in the excitement of their visit.

“You look beautiful.”

Hermia’s head snapped up at the unexpected compliment. She didn’t know why, but the way he looked her over right as they entered the ballroom, disarming her right then and there, threw her off kilter.

Her eyes lingered on him—his dark tailcoat, his deep, navy cravat that complemented his black shirt. His waistcoat was similarly dark, adorned with navy thread. It accentuated the blue of his eyes.

Calling him handsome in return felt empty, a compliment in exchange for his. So she bit her tongue and merely nodded her thanks. She still did not know how to navigate the hot desire thrumming between them since the night before.

At least this time, he did not avoid her after their kiss. This time, the uncertainty was shared.

But as soon as they entered the ballroom, the whispers picked up.

“I heard that Lady Farnshaw asked them about an heir and none of them could answer properly,” one lady whispered.

“Why did His Grace choose a spinster for a wife? The circumstances are most unusual,” a gentleman murmured.

Hermia kept her eyes fixed on the back of the ballroom, trying to ignore their questions.

So much speculation about a private matter.

“Did you see the painting?”

Her spine stiffened at that question, and Charles tightened his arm around hers.

He knew, he heard, and she had no doubt that he would stand up for her should anybody confront them. Just as he had with Lady Farnshaw.

Hermia felt confident, her husband a wall by her side, as they walked towards their hosts, who greeted them pleasantly, if not for the questions in their eyes. Still, it was a small blessing that they did not pry.

Looking around the ballroom, she finally saw two faces in the crowd that, besides Charles, could provide safety.

Isabella and Sibyl stood at the front of the crowd, right on the fringes of the dance floor. But their mother was standing behind them, chattering away, pointing out suitors.

Sibyl’s face was screwed up in discomfort she did not bother to hide, while Isabella’s smile was strained.

Do not pretend, Sister. Be bold in your opinions. Do not let her push you.

“Do you mind if I go to my sisters, Your Grace?” Hermia asked quietly, nodding to where they stood.

Charles’s attention broke as he further searched the ballroom. “I see Levi near the refreshments table,” he told her. “I will come and find you. Wave to me if you need anything. I will be there.”

With that assurance, Hermia set off towards her sisters.

As soon as she was alone, she blocked out the whispers that followed her, more speculation and questions about the painting, and hurried to her sisters’ sides.

“You must come with me,” she said, as though nothing was amiss. “I have much to tell you.”

Isabella’s face flickered, a crack in the facade of the daughter chosen to carry the mantle. Sibyl’s relief was so obvious it hurt to look at.

“Of course,” Isabella said. “Mama, we will meet with those lords later, perhaps?”

Before their mother had a chance to answer or fix Hermia with a glare, Hermia pulled them to the side.

As soon as they were alone, Josephine appeared, surprising her.

“Well, well,” she drawled. “If it is not the ravishing Duchess of Branmere. Have you taken my advice yet?”

Hermia arched an eyebrow. “I do not believe you gave me advice at all.”

“I gave you things to consider, though.” Her friend’s smirk was far too mischievous. Her gown glimmered like bubbling champagne, and she looked beautiful as she always did.

Sibyl gazed at Josephine with both admiration and a bit of jealousy.

“I, too, would like to know, actually,” Isabella spoke up. “How are things with the Duke? You have been ever so secretive about your life.”

“Oh, goodness, I have not.” Hermia tried to laugh it off. “As I told you, I am content.”

“Contentment in a wife leads to a slow, painful death,” Josephine said bluntly.

Hermia scowled at her. “Contentment is perfectly fine.”

“I am certain, but you are a lady who craves fire, do you not?”

“Not here, Josephine,” Hermia complained.

“You must crave romance,” Sibyl chimed in, fidgeting with her deep pink skirt almost nervously, as if she were still growing accustomed to the attention at such balls.

Meanwhile, Isabella was a wall of ice, merely looking out at the ballroom with a mask of utter stoicism.

It is as if she is daring suitors to try their luck .

“Has His Grace proclaimed such romance? Made beautiful gestures?” Sibyl’s eyes glittered with the hope of a pretty love story.

Hermia bit her lip. “He has given me a good life,” she answered evasively, pointedly looking around.

She indeed saw Charles watching her even as he spoke with Levi. There was something about seeing him conversing, yet focusing his attention on her. It sent a delicious heat through her.

“A good life,” Isabella snorted. “If this is all I can look forward to?—”

“Isabella, you will have a beautiful life,” Hermia interrupted. “You will find your perfect match, I am certain.”

“Heavens bless the man who dares approach the ice queen.” Sibyl giggled. “I fear some suitors I like will not approach me because of her.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Isabella muttered. “I just do not wish to give myself away to any attention, even if I like it.”

“Then enjoy it,” Hermia encouraged, aware that Josephine was eyeing her narrowly, as if she saw the hypocrisy. “Hold out for the man who makes your heart pound so hard that you fear you will get ill.”

Isabella’s mouth curled, while Sibyl looked ever so pleased.

“Does His Grace make your heart do that?”

Hermia was saved from answering Sibyl’s question by Lord Grenford.

Charles’s warning from the dinner party rang in her mind.

“All I ask is that you stay away from him.”

But as open as he had been about his first marriage, he still had not told her anything beyond not being on good terms.

She slowly turned her back to Charles as she greeted the Viscount.

“Your Grace,” Lord Grenford greeted, his eyes flicking over the other three ladies. “Lady Redham. And Lady Isabella and Lady Sibyl, of course.” He inclined his head to each of them. “I hope you do not mind my interruption.”

“Of course not,” Hermia said quickly. “Ladies, this is Lord Grenford, an—an acquaintance of the Duke of Branmere’s.”

The Viscount’s lips twisted as if he disagreed with that statement, but Hermia did not know how else to explain the connection, and he said nothing else.

“Lady Isabella, you outshine every candle illuminating the room,” Lord Grenford complimented, taking her hand to kiss her knuckles. “The sun must permanently shine in Wickleby Hall when you are present.”

Despite her iciness, Isabella smiled, but Hermia saw that it was a practiced, polite smile.

“Or perhaps the moon,” the Viscount continued. “Maybe that is Lady Sibyl; the two of you balance one another. One so bright she might burn a man, and the other mysterious and glowing.”

Hermia chanced a glance at her husband and found him looking tense. Even from this distance, she could see it, for she had learned how he looked when he held too much back.

Lord Grenford’s words faded away the moment she looked at Charles.

“I fear you will burn holes in your wife if you stare at her for much longer without asking her to dance,” Levi said to Charles as he gazed at Hermia from across the ballroom.

Dressed in a regal, navy gown, she looked capable of stealing the heart of every man in the room. Possessiveness surged through Charles, hot and sharp.

She is my wife, yet she is watched with so much hunger.

It pricked something rotten inside him that he gritted his teeth against.

“Here. You need it.”

A cold glass was pressed into his hand, and he realized he had outright ignored his friend.

Once again, his silence had not been intentional, as seemed to be the case when it came to matters regarding his wife.

“Thank you,” he heard himself say, and he downed the bitter brandy in two gulps right as the first notes of a waltz picked up.

However, he did not expect to be pushed lightly by his friend.

“Dance with her and save me the humiliation of being ignored over and over,” Levi complained. “For Heaven’s sake, resolve this tension between you two. I cannot watch how you look at one another for much longer. Go to her , Charles.”

With those words, Charles let himself be pushed again, following only his desire instead of his anger at seeing Grenford daring to get so close to his wife .

As soon as he drew close enough, immediately losing himself in her unguarded gaze, he held out his hand.

His tongue was too heavy for words, but they did not need them. He heard the quiet “Oh my” from Lady Redham, who stood behind Hermia.

His attention remained on his wife as she hesitated. But then her hand slid into his.

Charles wasted no time leading her to the dance floor as the waltz built.