Page 23 of His Duchess of Scandal
“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 drippingwet? 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.”
Chapter Four
