Page 6 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

Her father exhaled, his brow furrowed. “Last night, the Duke of Branmere hosted a charity auction. I have attended several of them over the last couple of years, so you will have heard about them.” Hermia nodded.

“He exhibits artwork mostly, antiques sometimes, to auction them off and raise money for good causes. His auction’s highlight piece?—”

“ Starlight piece,” Isabella corrected.

Their father looked annoyed as he continued.

“His starlight piece was supposed to be one drawn by the infamous Christian Dawson, a favored painter that His Grace curates pieces from.” The name rang a faint bell in Hermia’s mind, but time had snatched it away, faded it like a rubbed-off engraving. “Instead, what was unveiled was a?—”

“A painting of a posing harlot!” her mother snapped.

“It was of you, Hermia.” Her father’s anger had not abated, but he looked terribly uncomfortable. “It was of you in a manner of… undress and?—”

“You were nude, according to the reports.” Isabella snickered.

“No!” their mother screamed. “ No , no, I will not hear of it.”

“Mama, stop,” Hermia begged. “I-I did not meet His Grace, nor have I ever posed for such—for such a scandalous portrait. I have never posed for anything except for family paintings!”

Although she kept her voice as calm as she could, desperation and confusion cracked it. She had no idea what was going on. The room was definitely spinning now.

Why had this Duke painted her in such a fashion? A duke she had never met, daring to invite so much public shame upon her.

From her sisters, a low whistle sounded.

“I am certain you are defying your own expectations, Sister. Next time, I will act proper just like you,” Alicia muttered.

Despite Alicia’s petty comments about Isabella a moment ago, the two sniggered now, already whispering about how Hermia was always so poised and perfect, yet…

Their mother stormed over to them, waving a bundle of gossip sheets in their faces.

“Heavens, Mama, did you try to steal every last copy?” Alicia laughed.

“Yes!” their mother shouted. “For I am ashamed . Do you all think this is funny? This ruins all of you, you silly girls!”

Hermia ignored how Isabella’s face paled at that threat. She rushed to her mother, trying to take hold of her arm and pry one of the scandal sheets from her vice-like grip.

“Let me?—”

“I want the truth, and I want it now , Hermia,” her mother hissed. “Did you bare yourself for this Duke?”

“Did you pose for him?” her father demanded. “I did not think you would put me in a position to have to contain the embarrassment again?—”

“You already failed at securing a match?—”

“They are saying you are a scandalous spinster, and I fear I will lose many of my connections?—”

“Heavens, the shame !” It was all her mother kept repeating, over and over, even as her parents spoke over one another in a dizzying rush.

Hermia couldn’t focus on any of them for too long, her thoughts spiraling and turning wildly, trying to piece together what on earth had happened.

She had already been ruined by becoming a spinster, but this…

This forced her family to carry the blame.

The blame for something she had not done.

“Mama,” she tried again, “just let me see ?—”

“It can’t be as bad as all these hysterics,” Sibyl piped up, her voice the softest thing the parlor had heard all morning. “Surely there is a way to fix this.”

“Quiet, Sibyl,” their father muttered, as if exhausted.

“Hermia is already condemned to living out here, away from the ton. Alicia has yet to debut, and I have already carried the burden of Hermia’s failed Seasons,” Isabella sighed.

“You, be quiet as well,” their father snapped, frowning as he read the paper again before shaking his head.

Isabella’s mouth snapped shut with an angry click. In one motion, she was on her feet and had swept out of the room, but her footsteps did not go far enough to suggest that she had ventured away from the door.

A dramatic exit that drew Isabella’s attention without her losing sight of the gossip.

Hermia looked at her parents, at their angry, weathered faces.

“We—we can deny this, certainly? I mean, does the painting resemble me enough that we cannot claim a likeness to me without me being the… the supposed model? I am certain I am not the only lady with the features painted in whatever way they have been.”

“And I suppose we may explain away the fact that His Grace somehow knows of the birthmark above your—your—” Her mother broke off, covering her mouth.

Hermia’s face burned. She did have a birthmark on the swell of her breast, just below her neckline.

How could the Duke have known about it? And why would he include such a thing in this preposterous painting? What had she ever done to him to deserve this?

“Mama, I have never met this man,” she insisted, trying to be the calm one, trying to be rational.

She had done nothing wrong. She had not draped herself in silk and let a stranger paint her.

“I have done everything you have ever asked?—”

“You have brought disgrace upon disgrace,” her mother all but snarled. “Nothing you say can undo the damage, Hermia.”

“The painting was revealed to hundreds of Society’s finest,” her father added quietly. “Nobody is forgetting it anytime soon.”

Hundreds. It did not matter that Hermia was sequestered in the countryside; she felt a little sick at the thought of being so exposed.

Just how severe was the level of nudity?

“This is unfair,” she choked out. “I have done nothing of the sort to be in this position.”

“It appears the Duke thinks differently about your position,” Alicia piped up, laughing again.

“Hush, Alicia!” their mother cried, frantic and at her wits’ end.

“Oh, Mama, a body is a body. If they were meant to be hidden away, then we would not exist. Power of the flesh is the greatest thing a woman can have; do not be so pru?—”

“Silence!” Everybody clammed up at their father’s order. “The damage is done, and my decision must be consequential to your actions, Hermia. You are to leave England, and that will not be up for debate.”

Even Isabella gasped from the doorway, her round face shocked.

Hermia felt ill. Her skin prickled, and she feared she would hit the floor in a bout of unconsciousness.

“Papa,” she whispered tightly. “Papa, you cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I am,” he snarled. “You will leave for France within the week to live with your aunt Patricia.”

“Mama!” she protested.

Her mother shook her head furiously. “I have agreed. The sooner you are out of the country, the sooner you will be forgotten.”

The words struck Hermia like the snap of a whip, only the welt stung even if it was invisible. Hurt lanced through her chest; they decided to banish her so easily.

“You… you are fine with me being forgotten?” Her question came out too quietly, too hurt, and she willed herself to be stronger.

Before giving any of them a chance to answer, she shook her head.

“No. No, I refuse. I refuse! I have done everything you have ever asked of me, and I know that I had no part in this scandalous event. I will go to London to fix everything. I will demand a meeting with His Gr?—”

“You will do no such thing!” her mother snapped.

“You will not approach him, nor ever be seen with him. You are leaving for France. You are already a spinster, Hermia, already gossiped about and burdening your sisters. If you do not leave, then your sisters’ fate will be doomed, and they will end up the same. ”

Hermia felt that blow harder than the thought of being forgotten.

“Mama, no!” Isabella shouted from the doorway. “Do not be so cruel.”

Sibyl rushed to Hermia, clinging to her, tears already streaming down her face. Her arms wrapped around her tightly.

“Do not go,” she sobbed. “Do not—you are my favorite sister.”

“Mama, do not send Hermia away,” Alicia begged. “She has been good to us.”

Hermia stared at her sisters in surprise, for even Isabella spoke up for her. They butted heads, and could be callous with one another, but they were still sisters. They all knew what it was like to be a lady in this society and have everything hinge on a good marriage.

“There has to be something we can do,” Isabella insisted. “I am certain I can charm somebody who might know who printed the story. There has to be a way, or things we can throw money at, to make this go away. Mama, we cannot send Hermia away.”

“Not to mention that Aunt Patricia is horrid and cruel!” Alicia cried. “When she visited, she forced me to rise at dawn for four hours of pianoforte practice and supervised every task like I was a servant.”

“Stop it now, all of you,” their mother ordered. “Our decision has been made. We cannot endure the humiliation any further. For the three of you to have a fighting chance at securing respectable matches, Hermia must leave. Tomorrow, we will plan your departure.”

With one last scathing glare, the Earl and Countess left the parlor, leaving Hermia to finally sink to the floor, shaking from both shame and fury.

Her sisters pulled her towards the settee, fussing over her like they might hold her together.

“They’re being hysterical, honestly. This is a grossly exaggerated reaction,” Isabella said through clenched teeth.

Alicia paced restlessly, her hands clenched into fists. “A woman’s life should never hinge on the idiocy of a man! It’s madness to think otherwise.”

Sibyl stayed close to Hermia, her voice trembling as she whispered, “It’s all so unfair…”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she clung to her tighter, as if refusing to let go might keep the sorrow at bay.

“I will write to you all every day,” Hermia found herself saying, her voice flat. “I am certain it will be fine, and Mother and Father always invite Aunt Patricia for the holidays. I can visit then. What matters to me is that you find good matches.”

Deep down, she ached. She hated that her sisters were put in this position, but she had not had a hand in it. It was not her fault that a man had decided to ruin her life. A man she had never met!

Ice-cold dread slithered through her muscles, making her freeze. She combed through Sibyl’s hair absentmindedly. She wished she had been gentler with Alicia, listened to her more. She wished she had fought with Isabella a little less and complimented her wit.

“Our parents will not allow us to write to you,” Isabella huffed. “You know what they will do. They want you forgotten; we will not be allowed to associate with you at all. After tomorrow, you will be gone, scrubbed from our family like a…”

Like a stain. An unwanted spill that left too great a mark to ever truly go away.

Hermia clutched Sibyl tighter, needing the comfort as much as she had to give it.

She held back her tears, as she had always done, for her sisters’ sake.

Wickleby Hall was silent that evening as Hermia crept down the main staircase in the darkness.

The scent of the wine her mother had accidentally spilled at dinner still lingered in the air, sweet and expensive, and she had cried, saying she was enduring too much.

Hermia had kept silent at the table, her head bowed, a plan forming in her mind that she did not dare reveal.

Now, she held her cloak around her, keeping it safely pinned at her throat.

Sneaking down the main corridor, she passed the open ground-floor library, where her father kept the antiques that didn’t fit into his study. Inside, a candle flickered, and she tried not to hesitate or stop out of curiosity.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked beneath her feet, and she froze.

Isabella emerged from the doorway, her eyes red and tired. A book hung loosely from her fingers. Her eyes fell on Hermia’s cloak, narrowing in suspicion.

“Where are you going?” Her voice was quiet, as if she understood not to be antagonistic or alert anybody.

“I have to fix this mess,” Hermia whispered. “I am riding to London.”

For a moment, her sister’s eyes widened in surprise.

In this light, Isabella looked so young. Hermia often forgot her sister was only eight-and-ten, old enough to debut, but still so much younger than her. But now, she had to resist the urge to slow down and embrace her.

She refused to leave England.

She refused to let her sisters suffer because of this.

“I will return before dawn,” she promised.

To her surprise, Isabella only nodded. “I will distract Mother and Father in the morning, should they wake up before you return.”

Hermia’s resolve shattered, and she pulled Isabella into her arms for a quick hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I do not know what has happened, but I will get to the bottom of it. Your future will be safe, I swear it.”

She saw the flicker of doubt in Isabella’s eyes, but her sister said nothing, only released her.

Hermia backed away, rushing out of Wickleby Hall to the stables. There, she slipped between the stalls to find her mare.

Brushing a quick hand down Aphrodite’s nose, she clambered onto her back.

London was not far at all, and so she set her eyes on the distance and urged Aphrodite onward, letting herself fade into the dark evening.