Page 4 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)
Before Charles could protest, Levi continued, “Besides, would Lady Phoebe not care for a stepmother? Surely her governess’s company isn’t enough.”
The question was one Charles dreaded and hated being asked, even by his friend.
He scoffed, shaking his head. “Look around, Levi, and tell me which lady here would handle my daughter. Last week, she retrieved a handful of insects from the garden, put them in a jar, carried them into her governess’s room, and released them in her underwear drawer .
Miss Ternan did not realize it. She was quite… fidgety during their morning walk.”
Levi burst out laughing, shaking his head. “Heavens, she is quite a rascal, is she not?”
“She is,” Charles sighed, but a small smile played on his lips.
While Phoebe’s prank had made Miss Ternan screech at the top of her lungs, such that she couldn’t stop apologizing to him for the racket, his daughter’s giggles had secretly warmed his heart.
He just didn’t know how to scold her without hurting her feelings, but her mischief could not go unpunished forever. Not that punishment would deter her, anyway.
“I adore her.” Levi’s voice was soft. “If my future child is half as fun as she is, then I will be a happy man.”
“Then be prepared to never have a clean child, for they will always roll in the mud, or push you in the mud, or just— anything to do with mud. I do not see the fascination.”
Levi laughed at that. “Seriously, though, Charles, you do need to live for yourself. Phoebe needs her father, and the estate needs its master, and you have already restored your family’s name. But what of your needs? They were rather sated at that show.”
“Stop speaking about that night,” Charles gritted out, quickly looking around them.
“You disappeared for at least an hour,” Levi continued.
“Levi,” Charles warned, gathering his patience. “I do not want it known that I ever attended something so improper. If it gets out…”
“I know, I know,” Levi muttered. “A toast to all repressed dukes of the ton.” He feigned raising a glass in the air.
Charles rolled his eyes. “Make yourself useful, Trewford, and fetch me champagne. It’s almost time to begin, and I will make a real toast.”
Everything was set up and ready for him. From the side of the room, a footman nodded, indicating he was ready to begin.
A hush fell over the crowd as the music died down, and Charles strode to the front of the ballroom, where a small platform had been raised for him. He stood before the gathered guests.
Once, this sight had made him nervous. Now, he looked out at the blur of faces, none of them particularly discernible to him, and he only felt confident.
He knew his place; he had dragged his family’s reputation out of the dregs of London, and he had secured respect once more.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” he began.
Behind him, the starlight piece was veiled, and eyes flicked between him and the covered canvas.
“It is no secret that I am a man who enjoys supporting a good cause, and tonight’s charity auction is about funding an incredible organization.
Last year, the women’s school, Hopefield House, suffered terrible water damage.
The building is an old, Jacobean manor, and preserving it, as well as the service it provides to vulnerable women, is a cause that is incredibly important to me.
“We do not need sisters, or wives, or mothers to understand how necessary it is to support such an organization. Women have found shelter and protection there. I wish to do my part by doubling the funds it has already received, so it can be fully restored. With proper support, it can continue changing lives, just as it already has.”
Murmurs of appreciation rippled through the crowd, and he noticed some older women nodding in understanding.
He continued, not wanting to lose their interest.
“All proceeds will go to Hopefield House, and I hope to present a large sum of money to them after the sale of my most recently curated starlight piece.” He nodded to the footman waiting to unveil the portrait.
“It is a valuable original painting by a very well-known artist whose name you will recognize from my other auctions. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you The Slumber of a Watchful Star , painted by Christian Dawson.”
The veil dropped, and Charles smiled broadly, turning to admire the piece behind him. Only, hundreds of gasps filled the room.
Looking around at the faces, he realized that it was not awe that met his newest piece, but horror . Shock paled faces and slackened jaws.
“Goodness,” somebody whispered, and a fan clattered to the floor.
An awkward laugh sounded near the front.
“Oh dear” Levi muttered and bit his lip when Charles spotted him in the crowd.
Jerking his head to face the painting, Charles’s stomach dropped.
He froze.
It was not The Slumber of a Watchful Star displayed in that silver frame. It was not the sleep deity with her raven-colored tresses speckled by stars.
No, it was his other painting. A most private one that he had never let even Levi see.
His heart sped up as he looked upon it, feeling the blood drain from his face.
Wrapped artfully in silk, so like the gown she’d worn that night, the young, nameless woman he’d met at Anton Bentley’s party was tastefully posed.
Seductively draped, she offered a demure smile from the canvas, her pale skin bared in elegant swaths against the dark sheets he’d once lowered her onto.
Heat rushed through him—anger and humiliation and desire all at once.
More scandalized whispers rippled through the crowd, and somebody cried out. The painting was not explicit, and he had painted the mysterious, stunning woman from memory, for she had not posed at all.
Not in this way, only beneath him, in the throes of pleasure.
Yet Levi had been right; brandy loosened his tongue at times, and his hand, and he’d worked endlessly to capture her beauty.
But that painting was not for the eyes of the ton, nor had it ever been meant to be sold or seen outside of his studio.
Yet there was his signature. Not Christian Dawson, for that was reserved for the paintings he showcased to the public, but his own name, clear as day.
Swirling gold cursive announced that Charles Thorne, the Duke of Branmere, had painted such an astounding piece.
Charles cursed under his breath.