Page 55 of His Duchess of Scandal
“Red hair,” he told himself, recentering the painting. “Focus on Lady Amelia Hartwood, the Viscount’s wife. That is who you are painting.”
But no matter how many times he spoke the words, dark brown hair appeared, framing blue eyes and long, thick lashes. It was her blush on those full cheeks instead of the stern, pointed features he was supposed to be drawing.
He closed his eyes, sighing. When he opened them, he began to paint.
If I just get her out of my system, I will be free.
So he let himself paint, even if his jaw was clenched the entire time.
He painted the bow of her lips, the exact shade of pink they were, and how red they had looked after he kissed her.
If he finished all of this, then he would get that infernal kiss out of his head. He would get his wife out of his head and center himself. Remind himself that theirs was a marriage of convenience, that they did not need to consummate it.
He painted until his skin and rolled-up sleeves were smeared with paint.
He painted until his arms ached and he lost hours from his commission, where his efforts ought to be focused.
He painted until his eyes ached and his body was heavy with thoughts of that night at Anton Bentley’s.
Charles finally stepped back, finding Hermia gazing at him, pouting at him, pointing at him.
He was enamored and entranced. As if every part of him had been thoroughly taken by her presence, her voice, the maddening curve of her smile. There was no corner of him untouched by the thought of her.
And that… that could not continue.
In the end, he left his studio angry, locking it securely lest anybody see the object of his obsession—his new, unintentional muse—and went to drink her name and kiss out of his mind.
Chapter Fourteen
“Now,” Hermia said to Phoebe while they were in the sunroom. “Have you ever written a thank-you note?”
The girl shook her head, those big, curious eyes of hers fixed on Hermia in wonder. “No.”
“Your papa has never had you send a letter to thank a relative for… perhaps a gift?”
“No,” she answered again. “He always takes care of everything, but I know it is because he does not trust me to say the right thing.”
“Then, if I show you how to say the right thing, do you promise to write them well? No pranks.”
“No pranks,” Phoebe promised.
“All right. Take a seat.”
Hermia patted the chair that she had pulled up to the table.
Really, she ought to do this in the parlor or her chamber. But they had just returned from a walk through the woods surrounding Branmere Hall, and she wasn’t quite ready to brave the parlor, where she’d kissed Charles a week ago—or the chamber where dreams of him still haunted her.
For now, the sunroom felt safe enough from any reminders. Enough that she could at least teach Phoebe something else.
Once Phoebe sat down, Hermia took out a fresh sheet of parchment.
“Now, as a lady, you will be expected to thank people. From guests who attended your ball to an affluent acquaintance who has gifted you something thoughtful. You will be expected to maintain polite, efficient correspondence briefly. Does that sound agreeable?”
“No.” Phoebe shook her head. “Why do I have to thank them? I am a duke’s daughter. Am I not better than them?”
“Yes.” Hermia laughed. “Although it is not proper to voice such a thought so boldly. You must be… demure about it. In fact, being better than them makes your thank-you note more likely to be received, so it must be crafted well. This gains you social favor, in fact.”
“Should they not thank me?” Phoebe frowned. “If I am higher than them in rank and invite them to my balls,theyshould thankme!”
