Page 42 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T he Marquess and Marchioness of Hatterly were higher-up social figures and close friends with Lady Wickleby.

Her social climbing was evident as Hermia, Isabella, and Sibyl entered the townhouse, with Hermia acting as a chaperone for her sisters. Although they were not as pale-faced as they had been at balls, chaperoned by their mother, they still looked weary.

“Remember,” Hermia said quietly, “you do not have to entertain any suitors you do not wish to. I am not Mama. You are here to have fun, and that is all.”

“Thank you,” Sibyl breathed. “I think I would like to speak with Lord Damien. He is a lovely man—the youngest son of an earl—but Mama keeps sending him away. She does not believe he is eligible enough, but I really enjoy his company.”

“Then speak with him,” Isabella encouraged, much to Hermia’s surprise.

There was genuine excitement in her sister’s eyes, a gleam that she recognized as hope that they could each have their own lives away from their mother’s tyranny.

“I will speak to some lord or other, too. Not one chosen by Mama, of course.”

Hermia watched the two of them deliberate and smiled to herself, for she knew they would be just fine.

She was there without having a true purpose, but it was easier than staying in the townhouse, at least. Only misery awaited her there.

At least the noise and the decorations at the garden party would keep her distracted from her heartache.

“I am still surprised that Mama has not joined us,” Isabella idly noted as they weaved through the crowd. “She usually attends these events, no matter her ailments. She and Papa must be incredibly unwell.”

“Indeed, that is what they said,” Hermia confirmed. “She was more concerned that you would miss a prestigious event.”

Isabella snorted. “Of course she was. Heaven forbid we miss one thing.”

“This is important,” Hermia reminded her gently. “This is your future. You do not know this, but your future husband could be here.”

At that, Sibyl’s eyes lit up. “I hope so. I hope he is kind and gentle. And—well, truly, I hope he is romantic.”

“You may already say goodbye to such ideals, Sibyl,” Isabella sighed, her eyes already scanning the crowd. “A husband is a husband. He fulfils his duty, as do we, as their wives. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Hermia would have been inclined to agree a while ago, but she could not now.

For now, there was a seedling of bitterness inside her, an agonizing ache that she had experienced such a thing that was more than the simple equation of marriage.

She had experienced love until the illusion was shattered before her.

She pushed thoughts of Charles aside.

Instead, she focused on guiding her sisters through the garden party. Floral displays were amok, peonies blooming in silver vases atop podiums, along with pink roses that hung in artful garlands over doorways, windowsills, and poles that hung other decorations throughout the garden.

Ladies filled the space, their floral and spring colors evident in their gowns.

Hermia’s own was a soft green, not her usual color since becoming the Duchess of Branmere.

Perhaps she should have taken care to represent the name well, but she had done the bare minimum to pass publicly.

Isabella wore a delicate blue, while Sibyl was dressed in a romantic pale pink.

But the most important part of Hermia’s outfit was the smile she donned, so she could pretend that she was fine.

Still, no smile was bright enough to dissuade Josephine once she spotted her.

Hermia had not quite considered that her friend would be present, but of course, the Countess of Redham was present—and was weaving through the crowd, making a beeline for her once Isabella and Sibyl dispersed to their respective suitors.

Within moments, Josephine had pulled her aside. There was no greeting, no preamble, just a simple “What is wrong?”

“Good afternoon to you, too,” Hermia said, trying to aim for slightly audacious.

But she could not fool her friend, whom she had known for so long.

“Yes, yes.” Josephine waved a dismissive hand. “Now, speak to me.”

Hermia’s instinct was to protect Charles, to say that nothing was wrong, but, to her horror, what came out was, “Everything is wrong.”

The confession came in a whisper.

Josephine took her hand and pulled her further away from the crowd. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that…” Hermia gathered her composure.

“That I have left Branmere Manor, and although I have not left Charles permanently, I have sought space. I-I cannot stay there any longer. It is clear he does not value me as a wife. Perhaps as a mother figure only, but you were right, Josephine. I do crave more in my marriage. I have craved him, and I have had the most delicious indulgence, but…”

She paused, unsure of how much to admit. But her heart ached, and she needed to speak her mind.

“But he is not consistent. I cannot endure this push-and-pull game he plays whenever he wants his walls to fly up. It—it hurts , Josephine, and I do not know what to do with it. Or with my heart, and I want him. Heavens, I want him more than anything, but I cannot keep on being hurt by the distance and iciness. But it is—it is strange, Josephine, for he can be the most attentive, warm lover, and yet…”

“Yet he does not,” Josephine finished.

“He can , but I think he is scared, and until he faces that fear… I cannot—I cannot let myself get hurt. I have spent too many years not choosing myself to continue doing it through my marriage.”

“Hermia, let me ask you something.”

But before Josephine could ask her question, Isabella rushed over, her eyes wide and breathing labored. “Hermia, Hermia ?—”

“What is it?”

“It is Sibyl,” Isabella bemoaned. “I-I cannot find her anywhere. She went to find Lord Damien, to my knowledge, but I have seen him, and she is not with him. I cannot find her.”

Hermia’s heart immediately kicked into panic while she forced herself to stay calm and make a plan. She had spent so long being a duchess, but now it was time to be her siblings’ big sister.

She grasped Isabella gently.

“Do not worry,” she soothed, taking in her sister’s blonde hair, the soft waves that tumbled down her shoulders from where she had nervously tugged on it. “We will find her.”

“I will help,” Josephine chimed in.

Hermia had not forgotten the question her friend had wanted to ask, so she nodded.

“Thank you,” she said. “I am certain she is just mingling.”

“Not with any of the notable groups,” Isabella stressed.

Within moments, they had branched off, Josephine and Hermia heading in the same direction, while Isabella went right for the cluster of the most popular ladies.

“What were you going to ask?” Hermia asked, right as they planned to separate.

“I wanted to ask if the happiness he brings you, or has brought you before this fallout, is worth everything else,” Josephine said quietly. “If it is worth giving him one last chance.”

But before Hermia could answer, Josephine parted from her, leaving her to her thoughts. It left Hermia standing alone before a hedge maze, peering into it.

She didn’t know why, but there was a horrible pit in her stomach.

Sibyl never wandered off. They had all been cowed into being the perfect ladies, forced by their mother. They did not wander off the path they were set on—Sibyl, most of all. She did not have a rebellious bone in her body, as of yet.

So when Hermia looked towards the main path of the hedge maze, she followed it, even if it went against her instincts. The further she went down the main path, the more she heard voices coming from the next path over, separated by a hedge wall.

Sibyl.

And another voice that she had not heard since the day she had left Branmere Manor after meeting with Lord Grenford.

Her heart lurched, and she hurried to the edge of the wall where it would veer right, taking her towards the voices. Her shoes whispered over the grassy floor until she finally rounded the corner and found her sister.

Sibyl’s back was pressed against the hedge wall, her hands gripping the foliage behind her. And in front of her— Heavens , in front of her was Lord Grenford.

Panic seized Hermia in a vice, her heart pounding, her chest tightening.

“… and when you find yourself in that ballroom, all alone, watching as your older sister is married off, wondering why you cannot find a suitor, know that it is all because of your eldest sister’s husband. His reputation is not exactly pristine, Lady Sibyl. Do you not know?”

Hermia’s heart stuttered at the low, cruel words, and something in her withered upon hearing her sister’s whimper of defeat.

“Please—please, Lord Grenford, let me go,” Sibyl whispered. “I will not tell anybody that we were here together.”

“Oh, you ought to, for if they know, we will be forced to marry. I might be your best option, given your brother-in-law’s standing.”

“Lord Grenford.” Hermia’s voice, despite her nerves, remained firm and confident. “I will ask you only once to step away from my sister.”

Immediately, Lord Grenford’s head snapped to her. “Ah, Your Grace, you have arrived.”

She hated how he worded it, as if he had been waiting for her.

“Let my sister go, Lord Grenford.”

“Oh, let her go?” The Viscount laughed.

Heavens, Hermia tried to reframe him as the man who had lost both his father and brother in a duel, who had inherited a title he was never meant to have.

“But am I truly keeping her here, Your Grace? Regardless, you are just in time for the show I have prepared.”

Hermia stepped closer, but he threw up a hand, a halt signal.

“Lord Grenford, please , my sister is innocent in this ugly business between the two families.”