Page 54 of His Duchess of Scandal
As the stewards glanced at one another, uncertain whether to be respectful and listen or try to figure out the joke, Hermia smirked.
“Lady Phoebe speaks the truth. Mealtimes shall be sacred things from now on. Which leads me to my first advice. Lady Phoebe?”
Hermia wanted the little girl to feel included, especially since she had been berated so harshly by her father three days ago, after the parlor incident.
And the kiss.
Hermia hastily pushed that thought away.
“Yes! You are all trusted stewards,” Phoebe said very sternly. “And we take your employment most seriously.” She was clumsily repeating Hermia’s playful instructions that morning. “So, from now on, I want my dinner served with a bouquet of flowers—it will be a lovely decoration. I also want the cook to know that dessert will be rejected if it includes less than three tiers of cake.”
“Lady Phoebe,” Hermia interjected, gently tugging the girl back. “How about the plan we made?”
“Oh, yes. All letters of the Duchess’s will go to me, so I can read them with her.”
Hermia cleared her throat. “What Lady Phoebe means is that I do not wish my correspondence to go through His Grace. I expect letters from my family, and I wish to invite them to Branmere Hall. Furthermore, I might ask some of you to check on my family in Wickleby Hall if I do not hear from them. I do not want to have to explain myself to His Grace.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the same steward said. “What if we are questioned?”
“Then be truthful, but you also answer to me.” Hermia smiled. “I would also like you to do a survey of the grounds. I have noticed that a portion of a wall on the far-right side of the estate, towards the woodland, is crumbling. I would like that to be taken care of. I would also like to be alerted to any events taking place in the village. As the Duchess of Branmere, I want to be involved. What His Grace chose to do before our marriage is his business, but I want to change that.”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” another steward agreed. “Whatever you require is our duty to provide.”
“While I cannot ask to be involved in my husband’s business matters, I would like to be kept in the loop about anything regarding tenants, the estate, and household accounts,” she continued.
“And I would like to know when the cook prepares something delicious!” Phoebe added, which earned her low chuckles from the stewards. “And we’ll throw at least two balls per week.”
Hermia bit her lip to smother a laugh at the girl’s enthusiasm. “Perhaps nottwoballs, but I would like to host something to commemorate my duchy. I shall discuss this primarily with Mrs. Nightgale, but I understand that certain precautions must be taken with regard to…”
Her gaze flicked to Phoebe, and she received subtle nods.
“I would like to be approached on those evenings,” she continued. “No more punishments. I would also like to be informed when my husband is moving paintings around the estate. I am aware you are involved.”
“We are often appointed to help His Grace move the paintings, yes.”
“Good. Keep me in the loop, then, please.”
“I would also like weekly reviews,” Phoebe piped up. “I would like you all to give me your opinions on whether I am being a proper lady.”
That earned her more laughter.
One brave steward stepped forward. “Lady Phoebe, you are already a proper lady.”
Phoebe’s face brightened instantly at that.
Hermia continued her speech, her heart warming more and more to the life Phoebe clearly craved: an open home, her family gathered for regular dinners.
She swore she would give her that life. She would not let Phoebe grow up in a home where arguing became the norm.
Music, poetry, recitals—they were the changes she would implement.
Charles had already worked for too long that day when he found himself heading, almost without control of his feet, to his studio. He had been going there more frequently of late, staring at the painting—paintings, for there was undoubtedly more than one, and he could no longer avoid admitting it—of Hermia.
He tore his gaze away from the line of her jaw—it was a portrait of her profile—and instead tried to focus on a new piece for an upcoming art show.
Christian Dawson had been commissioned to make a painting for a viscount who wanted to gain popularity among the ton and was thinking about hosting an auction at a ball.
Charles needed to focus on that. But whenever his brush touched canvas, Hermia kept flashing in his mind’s eye.
