Page 2 of His Duchess of Scandal
The actor’s eyes lit up. “I hope you remember my golden rule: no true names beneath my roof.”
“No true names,” Josephine confirmed.
And then they were waved in, with Hermia trailing behind, unable to keep her eyes off the eccentric actor.
She had seen him in plenty of plays, but always from a distance. Even her mother’s box, proudly close to the stage, was not close enough for her to notice how truly handsome he was.
Hermia blushed and lowered her gaze, only to find herself staring at his exposed clavicle, at the thin, delicate bones beneath. She tore her gaze away, looking anywhere but at him.
“Come,” Anton beckoned. “Let me initiate you into a Bentley party.”
Hermia was led through a dark hallway, but she caught a glance of her reflection in a wide, ornate mirror.
She looked half undone already. Her eyes—as blue as the Maltese lagoons, she had once been told—were wide and excited from the journey. A smile was already half-formed on her lips, and her dress—a gift from Josephine, who had known what to expect tonight—slipped off one shoulder. Its Grecian style reminded her of a muse painted on one of the old vases she had seen in her father’s study.
She felt beautiful.
But she was not beautiful enough, or else it would not be her last night of freedom before being exiled to the countryside as a spinster.
Hermia shook off those thoughts. She had done well not to dwell on her fate tonight.
“Come,” Anton beckoned again, holding open a heavy velvet curtain.
Hermia snapped herself back into the present. Her breath caught for a moment before she stepped in.
Josephine had promised lavish surroundings and a grandeur quite different from a ballroom, but she had not expected what lay before her.
The show was already in full swing. At the far end of the room, on raised, circular daises, dancers moved loosely, their bodies bending as if they were boneless. Clad in tight outfits that revealed more than Hermia had expected, their masks concealed their identities entirely. Music played from behind a sheer veil, but Hermia could see that few musicians were clothed.
Her heart sped up at the scandalous display, yet she was ensnared.
Next to her, Anton smirked at her reaction.
“Beautiful, no?” He laughed. “The body is a sensual thing that I get to show in theatre, where people pay to pretend that they are scandalized and do not admit their hunger. Here, you may feast as much as you please. Relax, Henrietta.” He winked at her. “You are safe here. Nobody will know who you are.”
Still nervous, Hermia nodded and followed Josephine to where she had already draped herself across William on a chaise lounge. Despite her relaxed posture, William kept his excitement banked, but it flashed in his eyes even as he scanned the crowd. Automatically, his hand tangled in her hair, at once possessive and affectionate.
Hermia’s heart clenched in longing. For a minute, stormy gray eyes blinked in her mind’s eye, swallowed up by the crash of waves she had never seen and only heard of in a clinical report.
She shook the memory away and perched on the end, but then she was directed to a cushion on the floor. It was raised, so she was not too low, and she giggled as she sat next to another lady who blew smoke in her face. It smelled faintly of raspberries.
More dancers swayed before her, their hips dipping and rolling against one another. Masks were tilted, as if to tease the identity beneath, and she held her breath as one dancer leaned so close and lowered his mask. Green eyes met hers before he straightened up and curled around his dance partner as they continued their circle around the wide room.
Paintings hung on the walls, all depicting scandalous scenes, and that alone was enough to make Hermia flush beneath the low neckline of her white gown. It fit her well, cinched with decorative gold chains. Beneath the dress, Josephine had fastened more chains around her upper thighs, giggling at the nature of it all.
A server lowered a tray of grapes and red wine to her. The woman next to her grabbed two glasses of wine, one for each of them, and plucked a grape off the tray. She offered it directly to Hermia, who quickly shook her head, blushing furiously.
As the server moved, she caught sight of a broad man across the room, his attention on her. No, not her, but a painting hanging on the wall behind her.
Hermia turned to follow his gaze.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Wine?”
Before she could answer the lady, a goblet of wine was pressed into her hands, and her attention was momentarily drawn from the painting. As she turned to thank the woman, she caught sight of Josephine curled almost suggestively into her husband, bordering on improper but not scandalous.
Josephine met her eyes. “Go on,” she encouraged. “Enjoy yourself. Last night of freedom, yes?”
