Page 98 of His Duchess of Scandal
“Why?”
“Because you made me realize I was starting to become like my parents,” he told her, his voice hard. “And that killed me inside more than Phoebe’s sadness, which I had to see with horrible clarity. She is just a child, as I was. I loved to explore, to discover. I was alwayscurious.My mother used to hate how many questions I asked, and while my father tolerated it more because he fancied himself having a son who asked to better himself—rather than simple curiosity that would fade the moment something else caught his eye—he still pushed me towards my governess.
“I never really got to nurture that wilder side of me. My questions were either ignored or met with impatience. My interests, if they did not align with my parents’ ideals, were ignored and discouraged. Sometimes, my father got rather ruthless with his displeasure and outright insulted me or ruined what I created.”
“Paintings,” Hermia guessed softly.
Charles nodded. “Ever since I could pick up a paintbrush, I painted. The first time my governess took me to an art gallery and I got to see the crowds admiring the artwork, I knew I wanted to do the same. However, I knew I could never do it as the heir to the Duke of Branmere. I could never quite let go of my passion for art.”
“When did your passion go from creating to curating?” Hermia asked.
“I still create,” he said.
Something crossed his face, a secret that immediately piqued her curiosity.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” He laughed. “Well, no, it is not nothing, but it is a surprise for another time.”
“Not now?”
Charles shook his head, his mouth quirking with amusement. “Now, we are having breakfast. But soon. It really is something I wish to share with you.”
Delight flooded her. “Is itthepainting?”
Charles surprised her with a bark of laughter. “Heavens, I had almost forgotten about that altogether. I have painted you many times since?—”
He stopped himself abruptly, blinking at her, as if realizing he had given himself away.
“Oh, have you, now?” Hermia teased.
A handsome, pink blush spread across his face. “Perhaps.”
“Ah, Charles, do not go shy on me now. Not when we have tumbled ratherdeeplyplenty of times.”
Charles laughed softly, looking away from her, but she could swear she heard him mutter,Not enough times yet.It was her turn to blush, then.
No, indeed, it was not enough. But now that they had shed their resistance, she hoped there would be no more hesitation.
Even now, she eyed him in his more casual morning wear, as though he had nowhere to rush off to. For a moment, she smiled at being his only engagement that day.
“What would your parents think of you being an art curator?” she asked suddenly.
Charles looked back at her in surprise, as if not expecting her to steer their conversation back. “Part of me thinks my mother would be happy with my notoriety. My father would tell me to focus on a harder business, something more academic, rather than creative.Politics and diplomats do not run dry, Charles, but the mind of a painter can. This business is not certain. Make yourself certain of your life’s work.That is how I imagine him answering.”
Hermia gave a small smile at his mimicking an older man’s gruff voice. “What happened to them?”
A shadow crossed his face. His fingers tapped his coffee cup as if anxious, yet he remained composed.
“My mother died three years ago,” he revealed. “It was not tragic, nor a great loss, admittedly. If anything, I was glad for the shadow over my world to be gone.” He winced. “I am aware that it makes me sound rather terrible, but she was more so.”
“Does Phoebe remember her?”
“Only as a nasty, old lady who always complained about her behavior.” Charles sighed, tugging on his sleeves. “It was she who arranged my marriage to Mercy. She and Mercy’s mother were acquaintances. To them, the match made sense. And my father…”
His face hardened, and he sighed again.
“You do not have to,” Hermia murmured. “I will not press you if you truly do not wish to share anything.”
