Page 7 of His Duchess of Scandal
“YourGrace,” one lady purred. She extended her hand, expecting a kiss. Charles obliged her, grimacing as he straightened, only to be met with another hand. “What a wonderful evening so far.”
“Indeed,” another lady chimed in. “It has not even begun, and it is already the highlight of the Season! You must be awfully proud.”
Before he could answer, the third lady cut in. “It is ever so delightful to see the Branmere name back in good graces. These parties… Heavens, they could keep one’s social calendar busy. Do you enjoy the parties, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” the first lady gasped. “Do you? You host, but never seem to dance much or get involved beyond your duties.”
“I enjoy them,” he answered shortly, wishing to be anywhere but pinned beneath their attention. He tugged on his collar. “Now, if you will excuse?—”
“Do tell, Your Grace,” the second lady whispered. “What is the starlight piece tonight? Do give us a hint. Oh, what was it last year?”
“A painting of the ocean in utter calm, occupied by a lone merchant ship,” he answered. “It signified loneliness and independence, and it raised a great amount for the orphanage on Moorefield Lane.”
“That is right!” the lady cried, grinning. “I loved that piece. It was a rather tasteful escape from the other… artworks you choose to showcase.”
Charles frowned but cared little to ask what they meant.
“If you will not give us a hint, you must at least confirm if it has been painted by the notorious Christian Dawson!” The thirdlady’s face was so bright and hopeful, too eager, too pressuring, that he almost answered truthfully.
He bit back a smile.
“Have you ever met the artist himself?”
Charles turned around, their voices merging into one.
“You must have! Have you broken your fast with him? Perhaps shared a drink at a tavern? Do you like drinking, Your Grace?”
“I have seen you drink wine, I am most certain.”
Again, he could not keep up with who asked what, who presumed what, and suddenly he felt too suffocated by their presence.
Beyond the wall of feathers and frilly sleeves, Charles struggled to see other faces, who were all looking at the cordoned-off, veiled painting in the center of the ballroom.
The starlight piece.
Only this time, thestarlighttheme had been taken to heart. He thought of the dark spill of hair, of stars falling through the length like they did an inky black sky, a goddess of sleep watching over a slumbering world.
“Excuse me—” he tried again, but to no avail.
“You are the finest gentleman in all of London.” His gaze snapped to the first lady. “Surely you recognize that, Your Grace? It only serves you well to mingle.”
His chest tightened at that, seeing not a friendly or even a hopeful suggestion, but a threat. It echoed in his mind, overlapping with a much sterner voice, one withered with age and grief.
Pushing down memories of his mother’s insistence to join Society, to rebuild the empire, to host and mingle and woo and network, Charles gave a tight smile. “Indeed. And I shall, so if you will just?—”
“Is it true that Lady Phoebe almost poisoned your guests at the dinner party?”
Charles ditched his attempts at leaving at the mention of his daughter. While she could be a tearaway, she washistearaway to defend and reprimand.
Protectiveness flared inside him, thick in his throat.
“No,” he answered, although it was true. “She was well-behaved when she found her way into the banquet hall.”
“She should not have been allowed out of her room at all,” one of the ladies scoffed. The redhead. “The girl would never have donesuch a thing if she had the proper guidance. She should learn how a true lady acts in public.”
Charles reared back, offended by the slight against his parenting. Ire threatened to overtake him for a moment, shattering his rigid composure, when another voice cut through the tirade of questions.
“Ladies! Ladies, you must part this wall of beauty so I may approach His Grace.”
