Page 113 of His Duchess of Scandal
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 shehadexperienced 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 donethe 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—ithurts, 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.
“Hecan, 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.”
