Page 69 of His Duchess of Scandal
And she was not quiet, nor meek. She was the Duchess of Branmere.
“Ignore them,” Charles said quietly. “All that matters is thatweknow our story. Nobody else’s opinion matters.”
“I know,” she muttered.
“And your secrets are safe with me.” He caught her gaze and nodded his head once in understanding.
“As are yours with me.”
Hermia was surprised by the sentiment. Not because she wanted to sell out his secrets, but because she had thought she had little empathy for the man who barely took the time to saygood morningto her.
A footman then stepped into the doorway to the drawing room, drawing attention. “Can all guests please make your way to the dining hall, for the first course is about to be served.”
Charles led Hermia back into the dining hall, where every candle flickered, bathing the room in a golden hue. The way the candlelight reflected in his dark blue eyes could have been romantic and handsome, if not for his scowl and their constant arguments.
Why do you never speak to me properly at home? Hermia wished to ask.
But this was not the place, and she was still cross with him for not apologizing to Phoebe yet.
Around them, footmen brought out the first course—soup. Hermia’s heart fluttered as Charles took the seat next to her. And then sank as the Countess of Farnshaw, a woman known for her gossipmongering, sat right across from them.
She eyed the two of them with delight. Her husband, who sat next to her, looked over in mild interest, already familiar with her ways.
Hermia braced herself for the onslaught, dipping her spoon into the soup and beginning to eat. She had barely swallowed a mouthful when Lady Farnshaw spoke up.
“Your Grace, youmusttell us if there is any news of an heir.” Her eyes gleamed. “Surely you can tell us something, among close friends.”
Charles’s eyes darted left and right as if to verify her claim. Hermia bit her lip, her stomach clenching at the question, so similar to the one her mother had asked.
Charles didn’t answer. He only glared at Lady Farnshaw, and then at her husband as if to blame him for the bold question, before picking up his spoon.
Hope bloomed in Hermia’s chest; perhaps they really were on the same side that night, for he did not even bother to answer out of politeness.
“You do not answer,” Lady Farnshaw noted with a low laugh. “Perhaps it is because Her Grace is struggling with your daughter already, and you do not wish to burden her with another child. Or, according to the rumors, burdenyourself.Rumor still has it Lady Phoebe remains unruly despite your attempts to bring in a…” Her eyes flicked over Hermia in judgment. “Mother figure. Could it be that Her Grace is simply not up to the task?”
As she had continued her tirade, Charles’s scowl deepened into a glower, his shoulders wound tight, his fist clenched on his lap beneath the tablecloth.
Hermia had the strangest urge to slip her fingers between his, to let him squeeze that anger into her, but she kept her hands to herself.
Still, his fist lifted at the question, at the blatant insult.
Lady Farnshaw’s voice had risen, drawing the stares of the other guests—as she had intended, no doubt.
“Lady Farnshaw,” Hermia said, clearing her throat delicately, to draw the Countess’s attention away from Charles. She feared his reaction if she didn’t intervene. “Indeed, I am a new duchess, and I am learning my way around my new homes and life, but you do not have the right to speak ill of Lady Phoebe. She is a duke’s daughter, and therefore commandseveryone’srespect.
“As gently bred ladies, we should know that it is poor form to speak of a young girl who cannot even stand before you to defend herself. Your views on Lady Phoebe are laughable, and if you are so bored as to gossip about an innocent ten-year-old, then I suggest you find yourself something more worthwhile to do.”
She sensed the tension in Charles’s body ease a little.
Lady Farnshaw gasped in affront and turned to her husband as if to demand his intervention. But the Earl only looked away, as if he knew she had gotten herself into such a tangle.
Hermia was secretly glad.
Charles’s hand brushed hers beneath the table, before he spoke, “Lady Farnshaw, do not insult my family ever again. Not my wife, not my daughter, not myself. As for you, Lord Farnshaw, I suggest you speak with your wife about her gossiping, lest she insult a less patient man.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Charles,” Hermia called out once they returned home.
