Page 53 of His Duchess of Scandal
The way Charles had murmured her name, as if it were the only thing on his mind at that moment. As if her name held too much power, and he had wanted to know what it felt like on his tongue. His tone, the breathless way he had spoken, echoed in her mind throughout the next several days.
It haunted her dreams. She woke up panting on her cold bed, her nightgown clinging to her sweat-slicked back.
Her eyes always wandered to the connecting door, considering, until she recalled the burn of humiliation when he had rejected her on their wedding night.
One kiss did not mean he wanted her again.
Even if it felt like it.
Even if his lips were the sweetest thing she had ever tasted.
Hermia shook her head now, sitting in the drawing room as she reviewed some staffing reports.
Footsteps approached the door, and she looked up in hope. It was as though her heart knew it would be him; it sped up right as Charles passed the drawing room.
He slowed down when he saw her.
For a brief second, their eyes met, dark blue eyes pinning her in place. She could not move even if she wanted to, could not think or do anything, not while his gaze was boring into her.
“Good—” She broke off when he merely ducked his head and walked on.
Hermia blinked.
I ought not to be surprised.One kiss does not make a man magically warm up to me.
Yet she had expected it to.
Reading through the documents—schedule changes, promotion requests, and notices of new hires—she tried to ignore Charles’s colder behavior.
She ought to be used to this. He had been hot and cold with her ever since their first—or rather, second—meeting. One moment, he had shown her a peculiar patience and warmth; the next, he had snapped or lost his temper.
But she had thought the kiss would change everything.
She could call him back to her. She could demand an explanation, but the words grew too heavy and thick on her tongue until she couldn’t speak them.
Instead, she read over a request for her to assume some of the stewards’ duties. However, her thoughts kept straying until it all blurred.
Sighing, Hermia picked up the documents and sought out Mrs. Nightgale to inform her that she would need to speak with the stewards. She also dropped some hints about Mrs. Nightgale’s running of the hall. Namely, the reception of guests.
“I am the mistress of this house,” she said firmly. “I ought to have my guests over without verification.”
Her mind was still on her husband’s cold demeanor. If he continued to avoid her, she could hardly request permission to have company.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Nightgale nodded once.
Satisfied, Hermia went to the stables, wanting to assess the steeds on hand. Hopefully, she could put in a request for another mare for herself. Perhaps something bigger, something stronger than Aphrodite, who was well-equipped for the grounds of Wickleby Hall, but not so much the grounds of Branmere Hall and the surrounding woods.
Standing before a line of stewards, Hermia eyed the ones who had been performing poorly.
At her side, Phoebe stood to attention, her face very serious.
“Now,” Hermia said, “I have gathered you here, as there have been some… discrepancies in your performance. Nobody’s job is at risk, but I wish to bring you up to standard, if you will allow me.”
“You are the lady of the house,” one of the stewards said. “We will take any advice, Your Grace. We only wish to serve you and His Grace.”
“Indeed. But I also wish to be served out of respect.” She paused, giving him a kind smile. “I believe in authority prevailing through kindness, patience, and openness. If you have any issues, you may come to me.”
“Or me!” Phoebe interjected. “But do not bother me between dawn and breakfast. In fact, do not bother me during any mealtimes. They are most important.”
