Page 36 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Twenty-Five

“ W hy is the gallery locked?”

Hermia asked Charles the question two days later as they had breakfast on the terrace of the library.

Hermia half wished they were at Branmere Hall, with its rolling countryside and village sounds only just audible from the right spot.

Charles paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Promptly, he lowered it and instead sipped his coffee.

Hermia braced for silence, despite the closeness they had experienced. She waited for the lack of response, for those walls to go up. His face was pinched, his jaw working, suggesting he wanted to respond in that manner.

So, she was caught off guard when he answered her.

“I have a complicated history with my parents,” he said. “Much like you.”

“What sort of complicated history?”

“Have you ever loved two people so much, only to realize that love is not in the equation? Except nobody told you not to wait for such things until it was too late? That sort of complicated history.” Bitterness laced his voice.

He wiped his mouth and rested his forearms on the edge of the table. In the morning light, she could see how fatigue still clung to the circles beneath his eyes. It slowed his smile, as tight as it was, as if he was embarrassed to speak about such things.

“I have,” she admitted. “I always waited for my mother to see me as a girl to love, rather than just her duty-bound eldest daughter. I always waited for my father to take a true interest in my life rather than be passive in my mother’s matchmaking schemes.”

Charles nodded, his eyebrows knitted together.

“My parents were the same. When I was a young boy, I—” He broke off, laughing again, as if embarrassed once more.

“I was clever, spirited. In fact, I see a lot of myself in Phoebe’s unruly behavior.

It is… it is why I feel so guilty about how I react to her tantrums and adventures at times. ”

“Why?”

“Because you made me realize I was starting to become like my parents,” he told her, his voice hard.

“And that killed me inside more than Phoebe’s sadness, which I had to see with horrible clarity.

She is just a child, as I was. I loved to explore, to discover.

I was always curious. My mother used to hate how many questions I asked, and while my father tolerated it more because he fancied himself having a son who asked to better himself—rather than simple curiosity that would fade the moment something else caught his eye—he still pushed me towards my governess.

“I never really got to nurture that wilder side of me. My questions were either ignored or met with impatience. My interests, if they did not align with my parents’ ideals, were ignored and discouraged.

Sometimes, my father got rather ruthless with his displeasure and outright insulted me or ruined what I created. ”

“Paintings,” Hermia guessed softly.

Charles nodded. “Ever since I could pick up a paintbrush, I painted. The first time my governess took me to an art gallery and I got to see the crowds admiring the artwork, I knew I wanted to do the same. However, I knew I could never do it as the heir to the Duke of Branmere. I could never quite let go of my passion for art.”

“When did your passion go from creating to curating?” Hermia asked.

“I still create,” he said.

Something crossed his face, a secret that immediately piqued her curiosity.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” He laughed. “Well, no, it is not nothing, but it is a surprise for another time.”

“Not now?”

Charles shook his head, his mouth quirking with amusement. “Now, we are having breakfast. But soon. It really is something I wish to share with you.”

Delight flooded her. “Is it the painting?”

Charles surprised her with a bark of laughter. “Heavens, I had almost forgotten about that altogether. I have painted you many times since?—”

He stopped himself abruptly, blinking at her, as if realizing he had given himself away.

“Oh, have you, now?” Hermia teased.

A handsome, pink blush spread across his face. “Perhaps.”

“Ah, Charles, do not go shy on me now. Not when we have tumbled rather deeply plenty of times.”

Charles laughed softly, looking away from her, but she could swear she heard him mutter, Not enough times yet. It was her turn to blush, then.

No, indeed, it was not enough. But now that they had shed their resistance, she hoped there would be no more hesitation.

Even now, she eyed him in his more casual morning wear, as though he had nowhere to rush off to. For a moment, she smiled at being his only engagement that day.

“What would your parents think of you being an art curator?” she asked suddenly.

Charles looked back at her in surprise, as if not expecting her to steer their conversation back.

“Part of me thinks my mother would be happy with my notoriety. My father would tell me to focus on a harder business, something more academic, rather than creative. Politics and diplomats do not run dry, Charles, but the mind of a painter can. This business is not certain. Make yourself certain of your life’s work. That is how I imagine him answering.”

Hermia gave a small smile at his mimicking an older man’s gruff voice. “What happened to them?”

A shadow crossed his face. His fingers tapped his coffee cup as if anxious, yet he remained composed.

“My mother died three years ago,” he revealed. “It was not tragic, nor a great loss, admittedly. If anything, I was glad for the shadow over my world to be gone.” He winced. “I am aware that it makes me sound rather terrible, but she was more so.”

“Does Phoebe remember her?”

“Only as a nasty, old lady who always complained about her behavior.” Charles sighed, tugging on his sleeves. “It was she who arranged my marriage to Mercy. She and Mercy’s mother were acquaintances. To them, the match made sense. And my father…”

His face hardened, and he sighed again.

“You do not have to,” Hermia murmured. “I will not press you if you truly do not wish to share anything.”

“No.” Charles shook his head. “No, it is about time I spoke about it. I have kept everything shut away for many, many years. Perhaps it will be a relief to speak about it with somebody who was not involved.”

Hermia braced herself when his gaze turned distant.

“Up until I was around twenty, I went from a happy, adventurous child to the proper, dutiful heir who was boxed in place by duty and pressure. I did everything right, yet it was never right for my parents. Never enough. ” He all but spat out the word.

“My father preached about propriety and duty, and what it meant to be a duke, and I listened attentively, thinking that was the only way to garner approval.”

He lifted his eyes to her, and she saw so much anger there.

“Only, when I was one-and-twenty, my father was publicly accused of ruining the daughter of Lord Grenford.”

At first, Hermia did not register the name, too focused on listening, but then she gasped. “Lord Grenford from the dinner party and the ball?”

Charles nodded gravely. “Rupert Farraday is the man you have met, but his father, Conrad Farraday, and his older brother, Patrick Farraday, were the ones who accused my father. Conrad was old, and Patrick was due to inherit the viscounty within a matter of months, I believe.

“For his family’s honor and to protect his sister, Patrick challenged my father to a duel.

It was merciless, ruthless, and my father was scarcely given time to decline or accept.

I tried to prevent it, but I knew that the accusations were true.

My father had never been a faithful man, for all his talk of duty, but it was the first time he was caught and forced to face the consequences.

“And those consequences cost him his life,” he finished in a hard voice.

“Both my father and Patrick Farraday died, leaving Rupert to inherit his title, while I inherited the duchy much earlier than any of us guessed I would. Thus, the pressure that had eased during university came right back as I became the Duke of Branmere.”

“Heavens, Charles,” Hermia whispered, covering her mouth. “Your father died in the duel.”

“He did.”

How peculiar it was not to hear grief in his voice. There was only bitterness, only hard resilience, knowing that his father’s actions had disrupted his own life.

“And my mother pounced as soon as she could by ensuring I did not slip up once.”

“It must have been so much pressure,” Hermia murmured, her eyebrows drawing together. “You lost your father and life, really.”

Charles shrugged as though he was unbothered. “That is life, unfortunately.”

“And your paintings?”

“Forgotten,” he said. “For a while, at least.”

“Did Lady Mercy know?”

Charles shook his head. “That remained my private space, untouched by the coldness of our marriage. Only a few servants knew about it. I did not make it common knowledge. In such a storm of pressure and duty, I needed one thing for myself. Just one small indulgence, and even that felt selfish at times.”

“It is never selfish to find joy where you can,” Hermia told him, reaching over.

She didn’t think he’d let her hold his hand, but he didn’t move his own away. If anything, he held her hand tighter. His thumb brushed over her knuckles.

She didn’t expect the softness, and he held her gaze for a minute longer than she had expected.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For listening to me.”

“Anytime,” she promised. “I do hope you know that, Charles. I truly am here to listen to you, always.”

“As I am for you.”

And she believed him. For so long, she had not been able to, unable to trust her heart or her instincts, not when she had spent so long ignoring them.

Charles’s promise came two days later with a rose and a note left on a tray on her side of the connecting door when she woke up.

My Aphrodite,

When you wake up, eat your breakfast as usual, then find Mrs. Nightgale and ask her to take you to the west wing. I will be there.

Yours,

Ares.