Page 73 of His Duchess of Scandal
“Of course not,” Hermia answered. “Shewasthe Duchess before me, after all. That cannot be changed.”
“Indeed,” Charles agreed sharply. “Yet Mercy is in the past and?—”
“Was she pretty?” Phoebe asked. “Hermia saysIam pretty.”
“You are,” Levi told her, nodding. “As was she. She was a diamond among opals in those ballrooms during her debut.”
“Levi,” Charles warned, “I think that is enough. The Duchess?—”
“Is fine with it,” Hermia finished. “Phoebe should know who her mother was. Let her ask her questions. Give her the chance.”
“What was she like before she became your Duchess?” Phoebe asked. “What was her favorite color? Did she like apples, too? What was her favorite instrument? Papa, did you dance with her at your wedding? You did not dance with Hermia.”
Before Charles could answer her, she asked more questions, breathless yet determined.
“Did she like me? Was she a good mama?” Her eyes were glassy. “Papa, how did she die?”
Charles eyed his daughter, taking in her pinched brow, her sad smile, her low voice.
He needed to protect her from such things. Mercy had been a cold mother. She was not unloving, but she knew Phoebe could not be an heir, and she knew her duty had been to provide an heir. Even if that was the sole purpose of their marriage, she had been overly cold about it.
Charles couldn’t disappoint Phoebe by telling her that her mother hadn’t been warm, that he had never known her favoritecolor, or whether she liked apples. He didn’t recall the name of her horse, or her best friend, or her parents, who had shipped her to him like prized cattle.
In truth, he had not given a lot of himself to Mercy, nor she to him, and in turn, the two of them had lived in an empty, loveless, convenient marriage.
Nothing more, nothing less.
But he would not let his daughter’s spirits down.
“Perhaps Levi should tell another story,” he suggested. “A tale from… Trewford, perhaps?”
“But my questions?—”
“I think this is best, Phoebe,” he said quickly. “Do not argue with me on this.”
“Charles—”
“You too, Duchess.” His tone was slightly too snappish, but he could not help it. “This was an apology dinner, was it not? Well, the apology will be accepted if we change the subject.”
It was a harsh blow, but it was the only way they would listen to him.
He saw the flicker on both of their faces—the disappointment, the resignation.
It occurred to him that Hermia was interested in knowing more about Mercy, too. But the thought of the two of them crossing paths in his mind made him want to leave the dining hall.
He could not do that, so he nodded to Levi to continue talking.
The good thing about Levi’s chatter was that it truly did not stop, and he always had a word on his tongue, ready to be spoken.
“Of course! I remember one day…”
He was already spinning a story before Charles could reach for his wine.
Later that evening, once Levi had left, leaving the sea of gifts in his wake, Phoebe had been taken to her chamber.
Hermia was still feeling uneasy from dinner and finally hearing Charles’s first wife’s name. Judging by Phoebe’s age, Mercy and Charles met before she had even debuted, so it was no wonder she didn’t recognize the name.
She followed the scent of cedarwood and leather—from Charles’s candles and stationery—to the study. Opening the door, she found him scribbling away, a furrow between his eyebrows.
