Page 12 of His Duchess of Scandal
“You are a disgrace. Heavens, no daughter of mine oughtevertodo this! I cannot even look at you, for I fear I have seen far more of you than a father ought to. You shame us, Hermia!”
Isabella snorted under her breath.
Yet Hermia was lost.
“Tell me!” she demanded. “Whatever have Idone? Please,please, Mother, what is this about? I do not understand.”
“It appears you do not understand a great deal today,” Alicia muttered, having taken her place behind fair-haired Isabella and dark-haired Sibyl.
Her three sisters watched her. Alicia looked as confused as her. Sibyl, only a year younger than Isabella at seven-and-ten, looked crestfallen. However, Isabella lookedtriumphant.
“Goodness, the shame is endless,” her mother groaned. “How much longer do I have to endure?—”
Hermia had finally had enough. “Endurewhat? Will either of you tell me what has happened?”
“Don’t you dare take that tone with us!” her father shouted. “Not after—not after?—”
Her mother flapped more sheets in her face. “There is no place far enough to send you!”
At that, her father finally lowered his voice, his movements slowing, though his weathered face remained tight withembarrassment and fury. It was as if her mother’s dreadful declaration had shifted something inside him.
“Do you know the Duke of Branmere, Hermia?”
That was not what Hermia had been expecting.
She frowned. “Yes, but only through the papers and gossip. I have not met him personally.”
Her mother’s face turned an alarming shade of red, and she glared at her viciously. “A liar as well as a who?—”
“Barbara,” Lord Wickleby hissed.
Hermia’s heart was pounding so hard that she felt it in her throat.
No—no, it could not be about the party. That was a year ago, and she had not been back in London ever since.
More possibilities ran through her head. She thought of Anton Bentley’s mouth on a man’s, and how he kissed a woman just as easily. She thought of the artwork and the sensuality, the scantily draped bodies that had been in the showroom when she had returned from the only thing she had ever chosen.
She still recalled the feel of silk against her bare skin, but she pushed that all aside.
Could Anton’s parties have been leaked to the scandal sheets? It would make the juiciest story, prompting gossip for months, even years.
But no, surely this had nothing to do with that.
“Hermia,” her father said sternly, “it will do you no good to lie to us, for we already know the truth.”
“The… truth?” she echoed faintly. She was certain the room began to spin around her. “I do not?—”
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?—”
“Starlightpiece,” Isabella corrected.
Their father looked annoyed as he continued. “Hisstarlightpiece 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.
