Page 40 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Days passed since the incident in Hyde Park, and Hermia was doing her best not to notice the differences in Charles. He had gone from an affectionate lover to a man who opened up to her over breakfast, to somebody who was not quite the man she had married at the start, but close.

The distance was notable. He was gone from his study most afternoons, with the staff reporting that he was visiting tenants or acquaintances. Hermia never could find him, and the difference from when he had purposefully sought her out over the last couple of weeks hurt .

It was a hurt she tried to ignore over dinner that night.

“How is the meat?” she asked. “I asked for a change tonight, and I am uncertain if it is to your taste.”

Charles looked coolly at her. “It is fine.”

She waited for more, ashamed of that hope when more did not come. Instead, she turned to Phoebe, who was gray-faced and sullen, still lethargic from her fall the week prior. The injury and bed rest thereafter had drained her, and Hermia was pained to see her so devoid of her usual energy.

“How are the vegetables?” she asked. “I requested them to be extra buttery for you.”

“They are good, thank you, Hermia.” Even the girl’s tone was short and polite.

All in all, everything felt far too stiff and formal for the bonds they had procured recently.

Hermia smiled despite the twinge in her chest and nodded.

“I noticed your candle flickering past your curfew last night, Phoebe,” Charles said moments later, breaking the tense silence. “I will not have that again, do you understand? A curfew is set for a reason.”

“I was only reading?—”

“I will not have that again,” he repeated firmly. “And you will continue your lessons properly, in the schoolroom. No more wandering outdoors. I wish to receive reports on your progress daily again.”

“But weekly is fine!” Phoebe complained.

“I must make sure your injury has not hindered you,” Charles told her. “Daily progress. I will hear of it all.”

“Yes, Papa,” Phoebe mumbled glumly.

Hermia was at a loss for how to fix the distance he was putting between himself and his daughter after they had grown so much closer. She looked between them, noting how none of them looked at one another, nor at her. Instead, their attention was focused on their dinner plates.

Hermia did not push, did not try to fix this—not yet. But when Charles looked away from her when she tried to catch his eye, she winced through another smile that he didn’t return.

Surely, she had not misread everything between them. Surely, she had not misunderstood so much. Every conversation and proclamation. Every compliment he had given her, and every word that almost sounded like love but was not—surely, she really could not have misread everything ?

There had been—dare she admit it—love forming between them. Hadn’t there?

Or were his beautiful proclamations just that—not the love messages she had ached for, but simply pretty words?

“Thank you for dinner,” Charles finally muttered, wiping his mouth with a napkin before he stood up and left the dining hall.

Hermia braced herself for the pain as she maintained her smile.

Even Phoebe looked up, upset and pale. “I was bad again, I think,” she whispered. “I made Papa angry again.”

But before Hermia could assure her that she did not, the girl had left the room, her sniffles following her out.

Hermia was left alone, at a loss, unsure of what to do or how to navigate this drastic change.

The following day, Charles left Branmere Manor with little more than a brief mention of attending a business meeting and being back for dinner.

You barely attend dinner as it is .

But Hermia bit back that remark, and only nodded and waved him off stiffly. She didn’t know how to act around him now.

Growing softer and less formal had become so natural that this slide back into distance wasn’t something she was ready for.

Turning on her heel, she disappeared into the drawing room to bury herself in some wine and a book for the afternoon. Phoebe was in her lessons, and Charles had stated that she was not to be disturbed.

So, Hermia busied herself for a while, until Mr. Willoby cleared his throat from the doorway. “There is a guest here to give regards to Lady Phoebe.”

“I will receive him,” Hermia said, setting down her book and her wine.

She rose to her feet right as Lord Grenford entered the drawing room, startling her.

“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.”

“Your Grace.” Lord Grenford bowed. “Please excuse such a last-minute interruption, but I have been terribly busy with work and only now found time to express my concern for Lady Phoebe. Several ladies were discussing what happened at Hyde Park. Some people saw the fall itself—Heavens, what terrible business it must have been!”

“It was,” Hermia answered. “Thank you for your concern, Lord Grenford.”

Her defenses were high, thinking of the older brother and father who had been involved in the former Duke’s death. She didn’t know how to get herself out of this situation politely, but she wanted to honor Charles’s request to steer clear of the man.

“Now, if you will excuse?—”

“I cannot help but notice,” Lord Grenford spoke over her, looking around the room with great emphasis, “that you are receiving me alone. Where is your husband today, Your Grace?”

“I do not see how that is any of your concern,” Hermia told him firmly, pointedly looking away.

“I am sure that is what Lady Mercy once said, too, to cover up for the Duke’s behavior.

” Lord Grenford snorted, shaking his head.

“Then again, like father, like son, I suppose. The former Duke of Branmere was a bastard who did not know how to treat women well. It is a shame. Many pure hearts become ruined by men who think they own the world.”

“Lord Grenford, I think it is time you leave,” Hermia said, stepping back from him.

But the Viscount was not deterred.

His eyes flashed cruelly. “Your Duke was cold with Lady Mercy, too. He claims it was she who made their marriage as cold as it was, but he should have looked a little harder at himself. You will end up just the same, Your Grace. It is simply His Grace’s cold nature.

The man has no heart. The one he had has been buried deep, so far down, I think he has forgotten it ever existed at all. ”

“That is enough ,” Hermia snapped.

But a seedling of doubt cruelly bloomed in her chest. Her husband had suddenly turned cold this past week after Phoebe’s fall. He had been so quick to discard every ounce of warmth they had nurtured.

No . Charles merely needs some privacy. There is no harm in that.

But if there was no harm in it, then why did it hurt to be so shut out?

Hermia swallowed.

“Regardless of your differences with his late wife, you know what I am speaking about, do you not? Think about that, Your Grace. I have dealt with him before through his father. He never once approached me, the two of us inheriting our titles after the same tragedy. He did not even have the courtesy to extend an apology, condolences— nothing . I attempted to formally meet with him, but I was not treated with respect. He is a coward. Me, on the other hand…”

Hermia was horrified to see that the Viscount began leaning into her, right as footsteps sounded in the hallway, veering to the drawing room.

Charles appeared in the doorway, his face immediately turning to thunder as he spotted the Viscount.

Hermia’s voice failed her as she tried to angle herself away from the man.

“What are you doing here?” Charles’s voice was cold and hard.

“Nothing at all!” Lord Grenford exclaimed, spinning around as though he had not been leaning into Hermia. “Nothing of concern, anyway. I came to express my concern for Lady Phoebe. Nothing more. Is that not correct, Your Grace?”

Hermia’s eyes narrowed on him as he feigned innocence.

“More or not, I will ask you only once to get out of my house and stay away from my family,” Charles bit out. “I have already told you once that you will never be welcome on a Branmere property. That has not changed.”

“I see, I see. Do not let me break this perfect little family painting, then,” Lord Grenford said, pausing before him. “After all, paintings break so easily, do they not? Perfection is not always true. Your father knew that rather well.”

“Get out .”

Hermia watched the Viscount leave, but she could swear she heard his deep laughter as he stepped out of the house.

Alone, she was almost fearful to meet Charles’s eyes, to find the anger in them, but she did. Slowly, she looked at him.

She found exactly what she had dreaded.

“Why did you receive Lord Grenford?”

The question came not as an accusation, but more of an angry thought. A lack of understanding.

Her anger flared. “After days of ignoring me, you now wish to have a conversation—yet it is only to question me? Not to ask how I am, or how my day has been, or what I have done in your absence. No, it is to question me . Was I supposed to turn Lord Grenford away? I am certain he would have wreaked great damage if I did just that.”

“Yes,” Charles hissed. “Yes, you were supposed to turn him away, for I have warned you enough times to steer clear of him. Was my tale of my father’s death not enough for you to trust me?”

“It is not a two-sided situation, Charles, and you know it,” Hermia snapped.

“You, more than anyone, ought to understand the standards we must uphold, even if that means allowing horrid company through the doors. To ensure that the ton continues moving the way it needs to. To ensure that the Branmere name is not once again smeared because of a rejected visitor.”

“Not again smeared,” he scoffed. “Do not speak of my family in such ways, Hermia. The work I have done will not be ruined by a rejection.”

“No?” Hermia challenged. “Perhaps not, then, but your coldness towards me and that being noted will make people talk.”

“My coldness?” Charles frowned. “Hermia, I have been the way I always am.”

“Yes,” she conceded. “Dutiful and proper, but you began to thaw, Charles. Yet, ever since Phoebe’s fall, you have turned cold once more, and I thought—” I thought we felt greater things for one another. “I thought we were closer than that.”

When she gazed at him, she found nothing in his eyes. Nothing but distance, and nothing but sheer coldness. A closed-off wall she could not scale.

“Then you thought wrong.”

That statement wounded her much more than she was prepared for. She had tried to convince herself that she hadn’t misunderstood it all, but there it was, plain as anything.

She had been wrong.

Her fury flared hotter. “So every kiss we have shared, every confession—every story you have told me about what haunts you when the afternoon sun shines, and the stories you have heard from me… It is all nothing?”

Charles looked utterly devoid of emotion when he looked at her. That, more than the words, hurt more, when she had grown used to the way his eyes softened when he caught her gaze.

“It is all nothing,” he said coldly. “I married you for Phoebe’s sake, so she might have a mother again. Nothing more. I let myself get carried away, and you… you somehow worked me into letting my guard down, and I cannot have that. Not if it means I am causing my daughter to suffer.”

“And what if it is not letting your guard down?” Hermia challenged in a harsh whisper. “What if it was actually you simply letting yourself care? You cannot look me in the eyes and say that all we have shared and done is nothing.”

“I can,” he told her. “And I am, quite frankly.”

“Then the paintings you made…” She should not have challenged him so outright, but she couldn’t help herself. “That was nothing, too?”

“A momentary distraction, nothing more,” Charles said, taking back everything else he had confessed, until she didn’t know whether she believed him more in this moment, or the ones where they had shared those initial, beautiful words.

“You are my muse. I cannot get you out of my head, Hermia. You are a craving I cannot sate. A yearning I cannot satisfy, no matter how much time we spend together . ”

“And me being your muse,” she whispered, her chest tightening ever so painfully. “I am certain that is nothing, as well?”

Charles didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything else at all. He simply fixed his gaze on the wall behind her, looking right through her, and clenched his jaw.

Hermia’s throat closed up.

“Tell me,” she murmured. “Tell me I am not wrong, that there has been something between us this whole time.”

With painstaking silence, Charles remained resolute in his refusal to answer her. In the end, she could feel only the cracks in her heart, the shattering of the pain he was causing and refusing to take back.

“Fine,” she whispered. “ Fine. You may hide behind these walls, Charles, and you may distance yourself from me. But soon, you will find that you have hit a wall, and when you look around, I might not be there, for you are pushing me away. I hope you are content with knowing that.”

Before the tears spilled over, Hermia turned on her heel and left the drawing room. It was only when she entered her chamber did she finally let herself cry.