Page 70 of His Duchess of Scandal
He had barely gotten two paces towards his study, where he intended to pour himself a glass of brandy and forget the discomfort of the evening. But now he turned back, looking at her from across the hall.
“Yes?”
“I—” She hesitated, wringing her fingers. “Thank you for defending me against Lady Farnshaw.”
“She was out of order,” Charles said.
His eyes roamed over her dark red dress, hemmed with silver thread. Her dark hair was pinned to accentuate her fine features while complementing the fall of waves over her shoulders.
“Regardless of our circumstances, Hermia, we are family now. Your own did not defend you when you needed them, and I will not be like them.” He met her bright blue eyes, hesitating slightly. “And I am sorry. For what it is worth, I am sorry for my discourteous behavior towards you. And towards Phoebe. But I will apologize to her, too.”
“I think that is best,” Hermia said quietly.
Heavens, she was beautiful. He had thought so ever since he had met her at Bentley’s party, had thought so ever since she arrived in the chapel. No, since before then, when she had shown up wide-eyed and frantic on his doorstep, hollering about the painting.
He stopped looking towards the study, stopped wishing to leave her presence, and simply lingered. He lingered beneath her gaze… and then slowly moved towards her.
He did not know what he intended to do. The memory of their kiss in the parlor remained at the forefront of his mind.
But he could not bring himself to draw any closer. She was within reach. All it would take was extending his hand towards her, and he’d be cupping her face.
But he didn’t.
He clenched his fist and tucked it behind his back.
“Thank you for apologizing.” Hermia blinked, as if realizing the moment had passed. “It is… strange to hear it.”
Charles released a breath, not quite a laugh but an acknowledgement, nonetheless.
“Well then,” he said, “good night, Hermia. Sleep well.”
Once again, he lingered, his eyes flitting over her face.
Everything in him ached to get closer, to pull her into him, but he forced himself to step back, bypassing his study, and instead retreated to his room.
If he listened out for her footsteps on the other side of the connecting door, and if he held his breath, waiting to see if she would ever knock as she had that first night when he had wanted her so desperately but still turned her away out of a twisted sense of duty, then that was only between himself and his pounding heart.
Charles actively tried to work less after Phoebe had broken the family heirloom. He hadn’t been angry at her—not truly, not to the extent he had shouted or confiscated her toys—but he wanted her to know that she could not simply throw a tantrum whenever she needed attention.
Still, he did not fail to notice how Hermia easily involved Phoebe in her day-to-day life. He couldn’t understand how she made it appear so natural and effortless. Perhaps it was because Phoebe could not exactly sit in on his work, but she could with Hermia.
His wife could teach her how to be a lady, and even if Charles didn’t always agree with her methods, he had to admit that Phoebe was learning more. He had seen her fix her hair in front of a mirror and pinch her cheeks to give them color.
Several days after the dinner party, the butler knocked on his study door, interrupting his focus. “Your Grace, you are required in the dining hall within the hour.”
Charles shook his head. “I am dining in here tonight, as I instructed.”
“I am afraid Her Grace has asked for your instruction to be overridden.”
Charles let his quill clatter onto his desk. “Overridden?”
“By order of both her and Lady Phoebe.” The butler’s lips twitched, as if he was suppressing a smile, and Charles… well, he was helpless to it. Especially when the butler added, “Her Grace is invited, too.”
Charles’s stomach sank in realization.
“Oh, Heavens, no.” He groaned, pushing a hand through his hair,
It meant Levi was part of this secret dinner party that he knew nothing about.
