Page 112 of His Duchess of Scandal
“Leave,” he sighed in the end. “Just leave, Levi. I am not in the mood for company.”
“I actually came to visit to see if Hermia had returned,” Levi told him, his voice flat with both concern and disapproval. “Please make sure she does. The Hatterlys are hosting a garden party today.”
Charles’s scathing glare eventually chased him out.
He did not enjoy being so prickly and sharply spoken with his friend, but this week had seen him fall into such a pit ofnothingness, a place where he could not even muster a smile for Phoebe’s sake. There had been nothing, barely a thought, a wasteland of utter bleakness.
What sort of life did Hermia have with him, shackled to such moods? Shackled to the self-hatred he could not escape from. He couldn’t shackle her to such a thing. And yet…
Yet all he could think about was pulling her into his arms, wondering how heavy the brandy might feel if only she were there to catch him if he stumbled.
Heavens, he missed her. He didn’t know the first step to getting her back. No,no, he did, but his pride was great, and it was stubborn.
Shoving away from his desk, he left his study and went to his chamber. His bed was soaked in memories of her, of their scents and noises. He turned sharply from the bed towards the mirror. When he saw his reflection, he flinched.
Over time, Hermia had made him brighter, more alert, and… well, for once, he had cracked a smile.
Smiling had become easier around her.
Now, Charles was facing a dour man once more, and the more he stared at the dark circles and the haggard look, the ungroomed beard and messy hair, the rumpled shirt and lack of cravat, he saw his father.
He saw the former Duke of Branmere.
He saw the man who had spiraled into being the perfect father, the perfect duke, only to lose himself in that pressure and end up being unfaithful. A man who had ruined Grenford’s daughter, a man who had died in a duel and made both the Grenfords and Branmeres suffer the consequences.
Nausea washed over him, and Charles slammed his palm into the mirror, trying to erase the thought that he reallywashisfather. That he could not keep his wife happy, that he let his child down, that he was not the man he wanted to be.
No, Charles realized that Hermia had seen something in him—the boy who had been quelled and buried. She had brought him to life, let him find out who he was as a man. He did not quite know how to chase duty and happiness at once, but he knew that the only way to find out was by her side.
He recalled Levi’s parting advice: the garden party at the Hatterlys’ townhouse.
Charles did not waste any time; he bolted from his chamber and then from Branmere Manor altogether.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The 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 missonething.”
“This is important,” Hermia reminded her gently. “This is your future. You do not know this, but your future husband could be here.”
