Page 37 of His Duchess of Scandal
Hermia bit her lip. Her own past with her father was a little too heavy to share, so she tried to soften her confession.
“My mama certainly did. It was she who waved her wand to give me magic at first.”
“At first?”
Her heart ached. Not quite grief, but not quitenotgrief. It was something—the knowledge that something had gone missing from her life years ago, something she had not been given the space to heal from. A wound that was packed with the scent of sea, and eyes the green glimmer of exotic waters she would never see.
“At first,” she echoed, the only confirmation and explanation she would give. “But my papa was very quiet. As long as I was engaged, he was rather happy.”
“Do you think Papa will be like that, too? Sometimes, I feel as though he is happy when I am silent and good in my room, watched over as if I will be naughty the moment I am not. But if he is so concerned, then why does he not watch me himself?”
Frustration bled into Phoebe’s small voice, and her fingers curled into the tablecloth.
“He never eats with me. I do not think he even knows that grapes are my favorite fruit.”
How innocent yet significant such a thing was.
Hermia’s heart ached, for she understood.
She reached across the table and clasped Phoebe’s hand, rubbing it soothingly. “Then I will know. Mine are apples. Would you like to pick some with me another day? I spotted an orchard on the grounds. Perhaps we can pick some to give to the cook to do something with.”
The little girl’s face lit up at that.
Hermia couldn’t help but wonder when somebody had last offered to do something with her rather than herd her into her room, box her up into good behavior.
Her anger towards the Duke flared. How could he have never noticed that his daughter only wanted some love from him? A scrap of attention that came from more than just orders to stay out of the way?
She didn’t know where those orders came from, but how could she contest the sad eyes of a girl who barely looked older than ten years?
Hermia could see her becoming a spitfire like Alicia in five years, independent and opinionated.
If anything, she looked forward to it, and she could only hope she remained in Phoebe’s life to see such a thing.
Either way, she knew she had to speak with her husband as soon as possible.
Chapter Eight
The first thing Hermia had noticed about her bedroom was the peculiar doorway she now stood in front of.
Having looked down the hallway outside, she knew exactly where the door led, and that thought alone—the secrecy of it—had her stomach in knots.
Her fingers curled into her nightgown before she smoothed down the cream fabric.
Raising a shaking hand, she knocked on the door to the Duke’s bedroom. She counted the seconds, wondering if she should flee, pretend that she had never knocked. Perhaps he would not be in there, or perhaps he would not want her to knock on?—
The Duke opened the door.
Beneath thick eyebrows that rose in surprise, his eyes widened as they fell on her.
Shame washed over Hermia as she stood there, as if she hoped to be viewed as something beautiful. As something worth being viewed, as he had seemed to think a year ago.
But how disgusted he must have been. For she was now four-and-twenty, and the year she had spent in the countryside must have had some effect on her looks.
The shame burned hotter, for she recalled how he had once thought of her asAphroditethat night, whenhis mouth trailed down her neck, tasting her skin.
Now, he looked at her as though that night had never happened.
“Duchess,” he greeted. “What brings you to my door so late? Are things not to your liking? If something is amiss, I can have it fixed.”
