Page 78 of His Duchess of Scandal
And once they were done, he drew close to her, close enough to murmur, “You have noticed more than I gave you credit for before we left the townhouse. You noticed Mr. Bollet’s damaged beams, you noticed the sick livestock on Mr. Shaw’s fields, and you noticed that another tenant, Mr. Blackthorn, had patched his roof with curtains, so I can now send out the required materials. I am—I am grateful that you are here, Hermia.”
The gratitude felt like stripping away a layer of himself. It felt like admitting that he may not have spotted those things. His pride wavered even as he set it aside to commend his wife.
But before Hermia could respond, Phoebe gasped loudly and pointed across the fields.
“Look!” she shouted. “It is all dark in the sky! A storm is coming.”
The glee on her face was misplaced, given their predicament. Both Branmere Hall and Branmere Manor were too far away toget out of the approaching storm, but Charles ordered them to the carriage at once.
His tenants would be seen to. He had already sent a footman ahead to fetch supplies and begin repairs and reinforce beams and roofs, and to look at the prices of livestock to replace the unhealthy animals who would need tending.
However, there was an empty cottage where no tenant would move in until autumn. It was the farthest one of the clusters, so he quickly herded his family there, calling orders to take shelter immediately.
The sheets of rain hit them before they could reach the main door, instantly soaking the three of them, but he pushed both Phoebe and Hermia through the door, ushering them into the dry space.
“We will shelter here until the storm passes,” he told them, already tearing off his waistcoat, annoyed by the wet cling of fabric to his body. “There are three rooms.”
His eyes flicked over Hermia as if telling her that she had the option to sleep in a separate room, but she carefully avoided him.
He made an irritated sound as he pulled off his cravat and stomped about, looking for blankets, muttering under his breath as he went.
He didn’t like it when plans did not turn out as intended. He should have checked the weather. He should have done more for his tenants. He should have?—
Phoebe’s giggles had him turning around.
“What?” he demanded.
“Papa, you look very cross.”
“I am not cross. I am wet, as you both are, and I have no dry garments for either of you to change into. I dislike not knowing what I can do to help.”
“You dislike having no control,” Hermia corrected him in a light tone. “You are obsessed with it, Charles. A storm is a storm. It will pass, and we can go back home.”
“A storm is a delay,” he muttered. “A storm is an inconvenience.”
“It is also romantic, or atmospheric,” she countered.
“Right now, it is inconvenient. Do you enjoy sitting in your wet gown?”
“No, but it has not ruined my day.”
Charles growled under his breath, before looking for more supplies. He kept all of his cottages well-stocked regardless ofoccupancy. He took several blankets out of a cupboard and passed them to Hermia and Phoebe, and he found some flint to light a fire in the hearth in the main room.
All the bedrooms looked well and big enough, so they would have enough space to sleep. There was little else he could do about the rest, but he had to endure.
Returning to the main room, he lit the fireplace and sat across from Hermia. Next to her, Phoebe curled up, shivering beneath her blanket. Charles couldn’t relax until the quivers subsided.
Hermia looked tired, but she didn’t show it. Instead, she gave him a half-hearted smile from across the hearth while he turned to scowl at the flames, trying not to notice how the firelight caught her eyes beautifully.
“Have you ever heard of the magical tale about storms?” she asked.
Charles looked up, appalled. “She is too old for that,” he muttered.
“One is never too old for magical tales,” she countered. “And I recall asking Phoebe, not you, Your Grace.”
“I have never heard of it,” Phoebe said, sitting up. “I would like to.”
“Well, my sister, Sibyl—I think you would like her very much—is quite afraid of storms. You are very brave, Phoebe. Clever Phoebe.” Hermia stroked her wet hair, loosening it so it would dry quicker.
