Page 9 of His Duchess of Scandal (Brides of Scandal #1)

“Lady Hermia Dennis,” she finally told him. “Daughter of the Earl of Wickleby.”

She saw the flash of recognition in his eyes, the quick blink. As if he was surprised to connect the lady he had met that night with the Wickleby name, or perhaps even her if he knew her name.

“I looked for you everywhere,” he admitted, his voice lowering. “The Aphrodite who had such strong opinions on art.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth before rising back to her face.

“The what?” she asked.

“Aphrodite,” he repeated. “Well, I never got your name, and we met at the lovers’ painting, so I called you that in my head.”

Hermia laughed, shaking her head. “And I have dubbed you the Ares from the art show.”

She was not happy about it, not when she was still vibrating with fury at what he had done.

“Well,” he answered, amused by her admission, “I looked for you, regardless. You did a good job of hiding yourself in London.”

Because I was sent to the countryside the following morning .

She did not tell him that part.

Heavens, he stood so close—close enough that she could see brown flecks in his eyes, the shade of the dark, mysterious parts of the ocean.

Swallowing hard, Hermia forced herself to step away, before thoughts of how his lips had once parted around the birthmark apparently depicted in the painting, how he had let his hands wander before his mouth did, and how he had coaxed noises from her she did not know she could make, could overwhelm her.

Her face burned, and she busied herself by pretending to adjust her cloak.

“I will do everything in my power to restore your family’s reputation,” he promised. “I will meet with your father. I have sold several antiques to him during my auctions over the years.”

That part was true; her father had mentioned it to her.

“I will make a public announcement, claiming your innocence,” the Duke continued. “I will pay off the scandal writers and speak with connections. Everybody will know that you are completely innocent, that you and I have never met before today. A coincidental likeness.”

“We have met, though,” Hermia pointed out. “That was my last defense, and now I have lost it. I never imagined the audacious duke who painted me to be the… the man who knows where my birthmark is.”

At that, he looked away and cleared his throat.

“Regardless,” he said thickly, “I will restore your family’s name. I have some expertise in the area.”

Still dubious, Hermia studied him. But her attention eventually drew his own back to her.

He didn’t look away from her, but the longer she stared, the more helpless she felt. Somehow, she didn’t trust the words of this man, no matter how safe he had made her feel that night.

One night, she had dared to live for herself, and this was the consequence.

There always was, and she should have known better.

“I must go home,” she said. “My parents do not know I snuck out, and I have a long journey ahead of me.”

Before he could ask why it was long, she opened the study door. Right as she did, thunder clapped overhead, and lightning flashed through the sky.

She jumped, releasing the door handle.

The heavens opened, and rain fell like a sheet, hard enough to patter noisily against the glass.

“How are you getting home?” the Duke asked, his eyes fixed on the storm outside.

“I have Aphro—I have my horse,” Hermia said, not wanting to draw further attention to her fixation on the night they had spent together.

“No,” he answered. “Absolutely not. You are not riding out in the storm. You will take one of my carriages. Your townhouse cannot be far.”

“I am not supposed to be here,” she admitted. “And I-I reside in our country home.”

“I cannot let you go out in this rain on horseback,” he insisted. “It is torrential, you will catch your death. Take my carriage; I will hitch Aphrodite to it.”

Hermia’s breath caught; he had guessed her horse’s name despite her slip-up.

His mouth quirked up at her reaction. “I will see you back to your residence quietly. Your horse will remain with you, and you will be safe and dry. Then, my driver will return the carriage here. No one will be any wiser. Besides, if you’re caught and you’re dry, you can lie your way out of it.

But if you’re dripping wet? Then you’ve got to hide your clothes, dry off, come up with a story… It’s a mess.”

“I cannot think about being caught,” she hissed.

But he was right.

Hermia groaned as another roll of thunder broke the silence. If she waited, she had no idea how long it would take for the rain to taper off, and she was already running on borrowed time.

“Lady Hermia,” the Duke prompted.

“Fine,” she relented. “You must be used to getting your way.”

He strode past her, casting a sidelong glance at her. “If memory serves, you rather enjoyed it when I had my way with you.”

Before she could utter a response, he was already striding out of the study and calling to his housekeeper. Moments later, she was settled in the carriage.

The Duke stood at the open door. “I will fix all of this,” he promised.

Her jaw tightened. “As you should. Not just for my sake, but for the sake of my sisters as well.”

She yanked the door shut.

Yet, as the carriage pulled away from Branmere Manor, she couldn’t bring herself to look away from him.

Charles set down his cutlery with a faint clink. The morning sun slanted across the breakfast table, catching on the silver and the rim of his untouched teacup.

The events of the night before—Lady Hermia storming through his townhouse, a whirlwind of ribbons and lace—flashed through his mind.

He stood up, intending to leave the breakfast hall, when the door burst open and Mrs. Andrews hurried inside, breathless.

“Your Grace,” she panted, her hair loose and her eyes wild. “I do not wish to alarm you, but I am worried.”

He braced himself for another report of a prank. “What has she done now?”

He hated how he automatically assumed such a thing.

“It is rather what she has not done,” Mrs. Andrews answered. “Lady Phoebe is not here, Your Grace. She—she is missing.”