Page 35 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

From the tea shop, they passed a puppet show, which Phoebe pulled them both towards, her laughter gleeful and giddy.

After seeing so many tears when she had first arrived at Branmere Hall, Hermia thought she would never tire of hearing that sound.

The square, not far from their carriage, was packed with enough nobles that Hermia was on edge, watching them all. But once again, her attention was drawn to Phoebe, who turned to Charles, a plea in her eyes.

“Papa, please ,” she begged. “I know we are going home, but I must watch!”

Charles looked ready to decline. Hermia knew he was about to tell her that he had to work, that he had already spent too much of the day not working, so she cut in.

“I am certain five minutes of watching the show cannot hurt?” Her tone was light.

Charles caught her eye. She saw him warring with himself before he gave a curt nod.

“Five minutes,” he told them both. “And then we will depart for home.”

“Thank you!” Phoebe squealed, hugging him around the waist.

He stiffened but then quickly relaxed and patted the top of her head.

As soon as Phoebe looked towards the puppet stand, she groaned. “I cannot see. I am too short.”

She let out a huff.

Hermia nudged Charles, nodding towards a young boy who had been lifted onto a man’s shoulders to watch the show without anything in the way.

Charles looked hesitant again, but gave another nod.

“Here,” he offered, reaching for Phoebe, who went to him with a grin.

In a moment, she was lifted onto his shoulders, giggling as she found purchase by clinging to his hair. His expression softened a fraction, and Hermia merely watched, smiling.

Charles held Phoebe steadily, directing her towards the stand. She was immediately raptured by the show, her laughter only growing as the puppets began to ‘fight’ with one another.

Hermia watched both the show and the two of them, her gaze darting back and forth until everybody and everything else simply faded away.

At some point—far past the promised five minutes—Phoebe laughed so hard that she bowed over Charles. But his grip was secure, allowing her to laugh hysterically. Hermia couldn’t help but laugh along with her. She caught Charles’s fond smile, watching her as she had been watching him all day.

She felt his hand brush hers, and she thought about intertwining their fingers, but then his hand was back on Phoebe, ensuring she did not fall.

Once the show was over, Phoebe’s eyes were already half-lidded. By the time they made it into their carriage, she was asleep, slumped on Charles’s shoulder.

Hermia didn’t dare speak, not when she didn’t want to rouse the little girl. Their ride back to Branmere Manor was mercifully short, and upon arriving, Charles picked up Phoebe and nodded to the footmen to open the doors.

Hermia followed silently, brushing Phoebe’s hair back from her face. Charles carried her to her room, as he had that night in the cottage. He tucked her into her bed, and Hermia made quick work of her shoes, the two of them fussing her as quietly as they could.

Once they had left her room, they lingered down the hallway near their chambers.

Charles paused at Hermia’s door. “Thank you for today. You… you are excellent with her, as always. I was expecting a disaster to strike, but it seems only my cravat suffered consequences.”

“That, and the poor governess that Phoebe scared,” Hermia agreed. “But you do not have to thank me. It is a pleasure to be around you both, and I…” I feel like I am home when it is like this. “I am glad to be a part of this.”

Charles gently took her hand and lifted it to his mouth to brush a kiss along her knuckles. “I am glad you are, too, for you, Hermia, are the greatest pleasure to be around.” He kissed her palm and then the back of her wrist. “As well as a pleasure to taste.”

He used his grip on her to pull her towards his chamber, opening the door with his other hand. The smirk he gave her said enough of the promise he had hinted at in the tea shop.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Hermia was tugging off his cravat, but he snatched it from her grip with a teasing shake of his head.

“Allow me,” he murmured. “If you agree.”

Hermia swallowed, her nerves fluttering. This part of their marriage was still relatively new, but it was no less welcome.

She nodded. “I do.”

Charles’s gaze was steady as he guided her to the bed and urged her to sit on the edge. He stood over her, holding the length of silk over her face so the end hung towards her. He did not push it between her lips, not at first, but he simply let the fabric brush over her mouth.

Hermia’s eyes closed, and she hummed at the taste and faint scent of lemon. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself pinned by those dark blue eyes.

“All the flavors of ices cannot compare to your taste,” he purred, his voice low enough to send delicious heat through her. “And I cannot stop craving you again.”

“You do not need to crave me,” she whispered. “Not when I am right here and willing. Not when I have thought of you every waking and dreaming moment. I wait on my side of that infernal door, yours to be claimed when you wish.”

“You make wicked promises, Hermia,” he teased, still running the silk over her lips.

She chased the fine feel of it, tipping her head back until he replaced the cravat with his mouth. The tang of lemon still lingered on his tongue, and she moaned softly. Her fingers slid into his hair, pulling him closer.

When the tide of arousal rose within her, she did not fight it.

Not when she was maneuvered and found herself astride Charles, his thighs parted beneath her own, his length aching and ready for her.

She was in a daze, wanting and needy, uncaring that some layers remained.

They would all come off soon enough, but there was simply the desperation they both chased.

They had time for slow, languid intimacy. But now, she ached —had been aching for too long.

When Charles guided her over the tip of his length, she let out a soft moan. But when he finally breached her, her moans grew louder. By the time his thick length was fully sheathed inside her, Hermia could scarcely collect herself.

Pleasure was a storm, and she was the eye of it.

Charles gazed up at her, a smile on his face, as dazed as her own.

His hands gripped her hips, and she gasped as he thrust up into her.

She had been astride him that night at Anton Bentley’s party, and had somehow forgotten just how full she felt at such an angle.

It was obscene . But when he fit into her as though it was the only place he belonged, how could she ever disagree with such a thing?

“You are perfect,” he said quietly. His hand came up to cradle her face. “Utterly, beautifully perfect.”

Hermia’s first thought was to deny it, but with the way her husband gazed at her, she felt it deep down, however briefly .

Her hips began to rock into him, and his low moan only further stoked her arousal. With each moan he gave, each hard pant, her movements grew bolder.

She still felt vastly inexperienced, but seeing the evidence of his pleasure, how could she not grow in confidence?

He thrust up into her, coaxing her moans. They were breathy, soft, and she couldn’t help but smile as she matched his rhythm.

“Hold onto me,” he told her. “Or the headboard. Whichever you?—”

Her nails were already digging into his shoulders, and he snickered under his breath.

“Of course,” he muttered.

Hermia leaned into him until her breasts were pressed against his face. He sought the stiffened peaks, sucking one into his mouth while he pinched the other one, then switched.

The stimulation only made Hermia’s hips rock harder, her walls clenching around him.

“Charles,” she moaned. “ Charles. ”

“I know.” He brought her mouth to his, kissing her through another groan. “I know. Tell me how it feels.”

“It feels…” She gasped when he thrust up particularly hard. “It feels heavenly. It feels—” All coherent thought left her mind. “ Big. ”

Charles drew her mouth closer again, sucking on her lower lip. “And yet you take me so well. Like we were made for each other.”

His fingers stroked through her hair, his hips snapping up into hers now. Her backside cushioned the hard thrusts, but she could still feel the rough force and delighted in it.

Combing through her hair, Charles tugged her head back, kissing down her neck until he could bury his face in her collarbone as he pulled her flush against him.

His thrusts grew harder, shorter, as they each drew closer to their release.

Her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging hard enough to hurt, but Charles never made a single complaint. Hermia drowned in her pleasure, unable to do anything but moan and whimper.

Whether she would explode or drown, she did not know, but her body began to tremble as her climax rose.

“There you are,” Charles murmured, already attuned to her body. “You are so beautiful when you come for me, Hermia. Finish with me. I am close.”

The commands only made her shake harder as she let out a whimper, nodding into his neck. His beard scratched her cheek, but she welcomed the sensation, almost nuzzling into it.

Keeping one hand buried in the hair at the nape of his neck, her other fingers curled into his beard, not quite tugging, but letting her pleasure have some sort of tether.

His length slid into her from that angle, thrusting in and out, and she clenched her walls, trying to keep him inside her. When they finally climaxed, it was a mess of moans, groans, and tangled tongues. Hermia felt his length twitch inside her, followed by a wet warmth.

Her climax ripped through her so fast that she slumped, boneless, once he had wrung all the pleasure from her limbs. Her thighs quivered.

Charles’s hands slid down her spine, soothing her, and then grabbed her hips.

For a moment, she was floating. She had no strength, but she didn’t need it. She laughed breathlessly, pushing her face into Charles’s neck for an indulgent moment. She pressed a few kisses to his shoulder before finally pulling back.

His pupils were blown with pleasure, and his smile reflected hers—blissful, sated.

Together, they lay side by side, their chests rising and falling. Charles held up his arm, a silent invitation for her to move closer. Hesitantly, she did. Intimacy was one thing, but the tender affection was another.

Yet as soon as she nestled into the hollow between his arm and chest, she relaxed.

“Do not go back to your chamber tonight,” Charles told her quietly. “Stay here with me. Let me—” His voice wavered. “Let me wake up to you.”

It sounded like such a vulnerable request that Hermia could only nod, lifting her head to kiss the underside of his jaw, brushing over his beard, before she tucked herself back against his side.