Page 68 of His Duchess of Scandal
He pursed his lips, as if holding back his exasperation—barely. “Not everything needs a reason. It is for the best, trust me.”
You have given me no reason to trust you.You are cold and hot. You avoid me, yet watch me from afar. You want me to mother your child, but get angry when I do. You kiss me and then ignore me. I cannot guess your motives. How can I trust you?
Instead of saying that, however, she plastered on a smile. “Of course.”
She knew Charles would hear the false promise in her voice, but she did not care.
She drained her glass in one go and felt a drop slide down the corner of her mouth. She caught it quickly, noticing his eyes fall to it.
Suddenly, she was at a different refreshments table, a different woman, in a very different setting, and the words she had told him that night slipped past her lips.
“You may lick the next droplet.”
She grabbed a second glass and tugged him onwards to begin their rounds, ignoring how his jaw clenched.
She had to rile him up somehow.
She spotted some ladies she knew from her debut and smiled brightly at them, only to turn away, her smile dimming, when they did not return the smiles. Charles greeted some associates, inclined his head to several lords, and murmured to Hermia who was who, and who he had business deals with.
“Lord Milton is a collector of…tastefulart, shall we say,” he told her, an amused smirk on his face. “I have curated enough collections for him to put him under theton’sscrutiny, shouldI ever need to.” His voice lowered. “If you thought the pieces at Bentley’s party were risqué, then you have seen very little yet.”
“Heavens.” Hermia laughed, enjoying his light teasing, as if the whole room was against them.
As if, at that moment, they were not two opposing sides, but finally a team.
Secretly, she enjoyed that he revealed some things to her about his business. She had come to glean that Charles acted as both a curator and a painter, but she wanted to know more about the painter.
Did he do it behind closed doors as a hobby, a secret passion? Was he even good at it?
It amused her to think of the painting that had been revealed as mediocre.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his lips twitching in amusement.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, covering her mouth.
Before he could press her, she caught whispers as they passed a group of matrons, their beady eyes fixed on them, their mouths curved in cruel mirth.
It made the back of her neck prickle. She knew that look enough to know she wished to run from it.
“It truly was a quick arrangement, was it not?” one lady asked quietly enough to pretend she was only speaking to her friends, but it was clear she wished to be heard. “After all, His Grace had never spoken of remarrying.”
Hermia went stiff but regained her composure between one step and the next.
I am a duchess. Regardless of the circumstance, I am wed. I am fine. I am content.
If she kept telling herself that, then she could keep her head above the water.
“Indeed!” another lady agreed. “And a spinster, of all people. One cannot help but wonder how they met. Surely His Grace had met Her Grace during one of his auctions. Why not court her properly before she was sent to the countryside? Both of them could have saved the poor Wicklebys a great deal of shame.”
The first lady looked down her nose at Hermia. “Theutmostshame. Heavens, if I were her mother, I would have sent her far, far away.”
“Rumor has it that she almost did.”
The ladies huddled together, no doubt discussing their theories.
Hermia resisted the urge to shrink in on herself. She had left this scene to exile herself to spinsterhood. She had gone quietly, keeping her one night of freedom a secret. She had not argued with her parents and had thrown herself into caring for her sisters.
But Charles pulled me out of that existence.He saved me from being the quiet, meek lady my parents wanted me to be.
