Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6)
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Authors: Christi Caldwell
nce a Wallflower, At Last His Love
By
Christi Caldwell
C
opyright © 2015 by Christi Caldwell
Cover Art by Lily Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
For more information about the author:
edication
For Rory
I love you more than all the stars in the sky, and all the fish in the sea, and all the sand on the beach, and all the frogs in the pond…I. Love. You.
able of Contents
cknowledgements
When my son was born and the doctors presented their suspicions that he had Down syndrome, I was in a haze of shock. The doctor that delivered him, also happened to be the younger sister of a sibling with special needs. Her words stayed with me. She told me the reason she’d become a doctor and the person that she was and is today, was because of her sibling with special needs. It took me a little bit of time to fully understand, connect with, and appreciate those words.
This story came to be for all the courageous, supportive, and loving siblings who have a brother or sister with special needs and become a protector, a defender, and more importantly…a friend.
P
rologue
Surrey, England
1808
H
ermione Rogers sat atop a boulder. The canopy of trees rustled overhead and a gentle breeze stirred the calm surface of the river. She stared at the completed sketch in her hands. With a growl, she crumpled the page and hurled it toward the water.
“Whyever would you do that, silly?”
Hermione stared forlornly out at the scrap of paper just at the edge of the shore. The wind gusted and blew the page back to her feet. Humph. She couldn’t even do
that
right. “Because,” she murmured, not bothering to turn and look at her elder sister, Elizabeth. Elizabeth knew everything and fixed everything and was perfect and Hermione was not perfect.
At anything.
A small shadow blocked out the warm summer sun. “May I?”
Hermione gave an angry shrug of her shoulders. Elizabeth would sit anyway. That was what elder sisters did—anything and everything they wanted. Such was their right.
Elizabeth sank down onto the enormous boulder. “Nasty Mrs. McGrasty?” she asked, using the familiar moniker for their horrid governess.
Not wanting to talk about Nasty Mrs. McGrasty and her horrible opinion, Hermione tightened her mouth. With no more than a raised eyebrow, Elizabeth bent and scooped up the forgotten sketchpad.
Hermione stiffened. “It’s silly, anyway. Ladies don’t paint or sketch or write.” Or do anything that was interesting anyway, according to Nasty Mrs. McGrasty. No, ladies married proper, powerful gentleman, of which she was certain Hermione would never accomplish. Not that Hermione much cared. She quite detested boys. They seemed like horrid creatures, always thinking they knew better than girls. When she was older, she wouldn’t need any help; especially from a
boy
.
Her sister caught her hand. “Of course ladies paint and sketch. Mrs. McGrasty only says that because she has no talent herself.” Hermione tugged it back but Elizabeth held firm.
Hermione sighed.
Big sisters.
“Look at me, Hermie.”
“I hate that name,” she mumbled.
“I know.” Elizabeth ruffled Hermione’s dark brown hair. Gentlemen never wed ladies with brown hair, Mrs. McGrasty was forever saying. All the better, so she didn’t have to wed one of those miserable boys. “That is why I use it.” Her sister grinned. “
Hermie
.”
“Thank you,” she muttered. She really was not interested in laughing or smiling or her sister’s teasing this day.
A somberness drove back Elizabeth’s earlier mirth. Uncomfortable with any seriousness from her usually teasing sister, Hermione glanced out at the river. “Look at me, Hermione.”
She scuffed the tip of her mud-splattered boot in the moist soil, hating being forced to do and be…and never just be Hermione. Then, she met her sister’s beautiful blue-eyed stare, not because anyone demanded it, but because she wanted to. For no matter how beautiful and infuriating and big sisterly Elizabeth was, she loved her more than anyone else in the world. Something she could never, ever, ever admit to her mother or father or younger siblings.
Ever
. She couldn’t hurt them with that truth. But Elizabeth was simply her best friend.
And the gentle smile bestowed by Elizabeth said she knew as much. “Do not listen to Mrs. McGrasty. You are beautiful and intelligent and you sketch pieces that touch my soul.”
“You have to say that. You’re my big sister,” she mumbled. Life really was quite trying for a girl of eleven.
“I don’t have to say that because I’m your big sister.” Elizabeth nudged her in the side and tickled her there.
Hermione shifted, a reluctant smile on her lips. “Stop it.” She wanted to be serious and somber. It was ever so much more dramatic and fun being somber and serious than always laughing. Except Elizabeth had quite delighted in torturing her through the years. She tickled her in the ribs until great, big gasping snorts escaped Hermione’s lips. “S-stop,” she begged.
At last, her sister relented. “There, much better. You should always be smiling,” she said with a pleased nod.
“I want to be serious and somber.” Just as in all the great Greek tragedies Mrs. McGrasty made her read. One received ever more attention when one was the severe type. Not like Hermione, who was invisible to everyone.
Except Elizabeth. Hermione wasn’t invisible to her.
Elizabeth snorted with more of an age-old wisdom suited to their mama. “We have our entire lives to be serious and somber ladies, silly,” she said, claiming Hermione’s hand once more. “We shall grow old and be somber spinsters.”
Hermione widened her eyes. “Oh, you must never allow Mrs. McGrasty to hear you say as much.” There was no greater sin than remaining an unwed lady. According to their governess, anyway. Though in truth, Hermione thought being unwed sounded like a grand adventure.
Elizabeth hopped to her feet. “Spinster, I say,” she jabbed her finger at the air and then hunched her shoulders. She walked at an ambling pace. “S-spinsters who once s-smiled,” she said in a dramatically aged voice. Then she straightened. “But for now, we shall smile. And you shall draw!” She stooped and retrieved Hermione’s sketchbook. “Your book, my lady.”
Hermione shook her head frantically.
Her sister thrust it out. “I insist.”
“It’s silly.”
“I insist,” Elizabeth said, a firm glint in her eyes as she pressed the book into Hermione’s hands, her cheeks uncharacteristically flushed.
“Mrs. McGrasty said it was a waste of a lady’s time, particularly mine.” Which was what had hurt the most.
Elizabeth snorted. “Don’t you dare allow Mrs. McGrasty to steal your happiness.”
“I don’t even know what to draw.”
“Sketch what makes you happy.”
“You make me happy,” she answered automatically. “And Addie and Hugh, she added with a twinge of guilt at forgetting the twin babies. Her younger brother and sister were just so…so…
young.
Her sister gave her a knowing smile. Hermione sighed, but then elder sisters knew everything. Elizabeth tugged the book back and flipped through the pages. “Well, then if we make you happy, consider what makes us happiest and forever capture it upon this page.” She stopped on an empty sheet in the middle of the book.
Hermione hesitated, torn between wanting to sketch those images and Nasty Mrs. McGrasty’s cruel words. “It’s silly,” she mumbled again, making to thrust it back.
“Our whole life, Hermie. We have our whole life to be somber, so let us be happy for now.”
Ah-achoo!
Elizabeth scrubbed at her nose in a way that would have quite upset Nasty Mrs. McGrasty.
“God bless you.” With a reluctant smile, Hermione took the book.
Elizabeth was right. She was indeed, very happy.
C
hapter 1
Surrey, England
1819
D
ukes never wed impoverished young ladies, who were one step away from societal ruin. It was shocking and scandalous and…
And it was another rubbish attempt. With a huff of annoyance, Miss Hermione Rogers wrinkled the sheet and tossed the piece of paper into the rapidly growing pile at the foot of her desk. She tapped the tip of her pen against her lip and then dipped the tip into the crystal inkwell and tried again.
For the seventh time that morning.
Dukes never wed impoverished young ladies, who were one step away from societal ruin.
She paused to read over the line once more. Well, that part, though not eloquent, was at the very least true. It is why such tales of stern-faced, brooding dukes invariably made the most wonderful stories. Wicked stories of forbidden love and great sacrifice.
Inspired once more, Hermione dipped her pen into the inkwell (yet again) and blinked down at the collection of words, and came up—empty. Giving up on her writing for the morning, she set her pen aside with a sigh. Filled with a restive energy, she shoved back her chair and rose, hurrying across her chambers, past the opened trunks and valises littering the small space. She stopped beside the window and peeled back the curtain, staring out the crystal windowpane, down into the gardens below.
A warm sun bathed the overgrown greenery and flowers in a shimmering glow, reflecting off the pool upon a watering fountain. She pressed her forehead against the glass, gaze fixed on the water contained within. A breeze stirred ripples atop the surface, transporting her back to different water, a different day. For a moment she pressed her eyes closed to blot out the agonized reminder of the last day of normalcy. When she opened her eyes, the clear windowpane reflected her meager belongings laid out atop her bed. Those piles of books and journals and gowns, returned her to the current moment—the eventual parting.
Because she—just as all the young, unwed heroines in the books she secretly penned, whose family were on the cusp of ruin—had little recourse but to get herself to London for a Season…and make a suitable match.
Her lips twisted in a wry smile. Or in her case,
any
match.
The door opened with a soft click. She jumped as her eleven-year-old sister, Adeline, closed the door and skipped into the room. “Hullo.” The little girl skidded to a stop beside Hermione.
“What are you—?”
“Hiding from Aunt Agatha,” Addie groused.
“Be nice,” Hermione chided, the response nearly automatic. And then…. “What did she do now?” The ‘she’ in question was none other than their aunt who’d swept into their little corner of Surrey, and declared her intentions to move the entire Rogers family to London, all to give her
cherished
niece a Season.
“It’s not what she did, it’s what she said.” Her too serious child’s eyes stared down into the gardens at their elder sister. Then she raised her gaze to Hermione’s. “Papa said we’d all be ruined.” She jerked her chin toward Hermione. “But especially you and I.” Well, that much was true. “Aunt Agatha said no one would dare forgive what Elizabeth had done.” She touched Hermione’s arm. “What did Elizabeth do?”
Hermione’s stomach tightened painfully. Fury, regret, and agony all roiled in her belly as a potent brew. “She’s done nothing.” It was what was done to sweet, innocent Elizabeth, more child than woman. Polite Society would never see it that way though.
“That’s not what Aunt Agatha said.”
No, what had happened could never, would never, be forgiven by Polite Society, and it certainly wasn’t fit discussion for a child. So, she settled for a vague truth. “She didn’t do anything that was her fault, Addie,” she said softly. Because it wasn’t. She sighed. It was, however, an act that could never be undone.
A noisy laugh called her attention to the grounds below to the tall, willowy young woman, with sun-kissed blonde hair ambling through the gardens.
“Was it that Lord Cavendish?” Addie asked, unknowingly twisting the blade of guilt all the deeper. “He seemed very nice and did have splendid blond curls.”
Hermione choked on the vitriolic words that threatened to spill out. Even with all the stories she penned, she’d never have suitable words for the bastard who’d taken advantage of her gentle, wide-eyed older sister. She tapped her sister gently on the tip of her nose. “Let us not speak of Lord Cavendish.” The man who’d coaxed Elizabeth into doing things no young lady should ever do and left her with nothing more than a babe in her belly and a tattered name should anyone uncover the truth, which invariably they would; particularly when the babe was born. “I would much rather hear about what Aunt Agatha had to say to Papa.”
Having tired of staring down into the gardens, Addie sprinted across the room and evaluated Hermione’s belongings scattered about the room. “Papa said you’ll make a match and save us all to which Aunt said ‘mph-mph.’”
Hermione looked at her sister quizzically. “What?” Aunt Agatha, their late mother’s only sibling had upended their lives but a week ago. In that time, the lady had spoken with the clear, clipped tones to rival the best English governess.
A slightly crooked grin split the young girl’s cheeks. “I couldn’t hear what she said because the door was closed.” And because the Countess of Pemberly clearly had greater discretion than her flighty brother-in-law, the impoverished baronet with a scandalous family. “I’m sure it was all splendid things about how lovely you are.”
“You’re just being loyal.”
“Well, a bit.” Hermione’s lips twitched at her girlish honesty. “Aunt Agatha said you must make a match immediately.” Worry gleamed in her eyes. “She said even with Elizabeth being simple she could still have any duke in the realm. But you’re also lovely.” Yes, how very faithful Addie was. Her sister continued. “Papa said lovely enough to at least make a favorable match.” Addie hitched herself onto the edge of the bed. “Though not the best match. To be entirely honest, I’m not altogether certain what would be the best match. I’d personally prefer to have a gentleman with golden curls like Lord Cavendish…”
As her sister prattled on and on, Hermione looked below at Elizabeth once more. Feeling Hermione’s gaze, Elizabeth’s looked up. “Hullo, Hermione!” she shouted, excitement tinging her words.
Hermione mustered a smile and waved in return. “Hullo,” she mouthed.
Elizabeth shook her head, cupping a hand about her ear. “I canna hear you, Hermie,” she shouted, her words no longer the articulate ones of a cultured young lady but rather garbled and rolled together. “Speak louder.” Then, this was her sister and where strangers might struggle to make sense of those inarticulate words, Hermione heard them as though it were a language only they two spoke.
“Are you listening, silly?” Addie called out loudly from her spot upon the bed.
Hermione gave Elizabeth one more wave and then returned her attention to Addie. “Indeed.” She let the curtain fall and returned to her desk. “You were saying?” she asked with a wink.
“Are you excited to finally have a London Season?”
She sighed and slid into her uncomfortable, but familiar writing chair. “Yes.” No. It was a total waste of their already non-existent funds. All in the hope of growing the coffers with a lofty match.
“I do wish I was the one having a London Season.”
Hermione trailed her fingertip over the last words she’d written. “Someday you will.” She’d see to it that her sister did.
The younger girl stretched her legs out in front of her and hooked them at the ankles. “Do you suppose you’ll be forced to wed some odious, horrid, corpulent gentleman with rotted teeth and garlic-scented breath?”
Hermione’s lips twitched with amusement at the colorful image presented by her older than her eleven years, romantic of a sister. “Do you imagine our father would wed me off to some odious, horrid, fat gentleman with rotted teeth?”
They looked at each other and shared a grin. Addie wagged her finger. “Do not forget the garlic-scented breath.”
“Of course.” Hermione laughed. “How could one ever forget the garlic-scented breath?” Her merriment faded on a sigh. The greater likelihood is that he’d wed her to the first gentleman to ask for her hand—if such a gentleman existed. “Perhaps I’ll not have a garlic-scented gentleman or a lofty lord. Perhaps I’ll be content to become an old spinster penning my stories.”
Addie laughed. The lines of her plump cheeks settled into a somber mask. “Hugh said it is not enough. He said you can sell a story every day for the rest of your life, and it still wouldn’t manage to cover…” She tapped her lip. “Whatever it is we require funds for.”
Food. The handful of servants they retained to maintain a respectable household. Elizabeth’s nursemaid—a woman, who’d been with their family since Elizabeth’s birth who still cared for the young lady.
That
was what they required funds for. She winged one eyebrow upwards. “Never tell me you have so little faith in my abilities to make a match.”
Addie hopped up. “Don’t be silly.” She skipped over and stopped at Hermione’s elbow. “I know you’re outrageously talented. I always tell Hugh if you’d been born a gentleman then none of us would need to ever w… Is this a new story?” Without seeking permission, she made a greedy grab for one of the wrinkled pages.
“It is.” And coming along rather poorly. When all the other stories had just come… This one did not.
Addie opened the crumpled sheet, smoothing her small palm over the wrinkled mess. She quickly scanned the page. “Humph.” That noncommittal, ambiguous humph no writer ever cared to hear, was far worse than mere silence.
“What is it?” Hopefully, Addie in her infinite wisdom would know just why this story wouldn’t come.
Her shoulders moved up and down in a slight shrug. “It seems…” She set the page down and moved to the next.
“Yes?” Her sister had been her most loyal supporter. Well, between Addie, Hugh, and Papa. The rest of the world would never, could never, know of the work she penned. She picked up the most recently completed page and perused it.
Addie peered over her shoulder and read. “It certainly isn’t your finest work,” she said, her little mouth screwed up in concentration.
Perhaps Hermione preferred the humph and silence after all.
Addie plucked the lone page from her hands.
“The duke stood, a nefarious grin upon his lips. He strode toward her. Very, very deliberately….”
Hermione’s lips pulled in a grimace, hating her sister’s unerring accuracy in this. Her stories contained tiny pieces of her soul and this particular one of the dark, brooding duke had proven rather soulless. The blasted story would not come. She wrinkled the page back into a ball and tossed it to the floor.
Yes, by far not her most inspiring work.
Work was not something a young lady did. No, the polite young lady starved with a smile on her lips and a deferential curtsy rather than ever do anything as plebian as to earn wages. Desperately needed wages to provide for her eldest sister. Or more exact, a half crown for every story penned as Mr. Michael Michaelmas.
Horrid name. She really wished she’d have put a bit more thought into the nom de plume.
Her sister glanced up from another wrinkled sheet. “It’s really not your worst book.”
A sharp laugh burst from Hermione’s lips. “Er, well thank you. I think.”
Addie returned her attention to the page. “Perhaps it is…” She shook her head forlornly. “It is so, so…”
“So?” She hated that she wanted to know. But if her greatest supporter became her most difficult critic, then she really needed to know the string of words following that ‘so’.
“Uninspired!” The words exploded from Addie. She picked up another discarded piece in her spare hand and alternated her gaze between the sheets. “From just three pages, I cannot see him. And he is so important. Your duke,” she clarified. “
The Nefarious Duke
, it is a clever title and yet I don’t see him on any of these pages.” Her little legs began to beat a frantic pace over the floor. Back and forth. Back. Then forth.
As a poor baronet’s daughter tucked away in the countryside, her world was rather small. “I’ve never known a duke.” She knew nothing of dukes and princes. Nor had she journeyed to London since she’d been a girl, younger than Addie herself.
Her sister snorted. “You’ve never known a highwayman either yet you did an admirable job with that telling.”
“Thank you,” she said automatically.
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
Her lips twitched and she stifled the smile lest Addie believe she was making light of her. She wasn’t. Addie had been her staunchest supporter and avid reader. She’d not mocked her for submitting her stories to Mr. Werksman’s company, or dreaming of worlds upon a page. Addie took her role as story adviser seriously. Very seriously.
Hermione looked down at her seventh attempt upon this particular page. As her sister continued her frantic pacing, she stared at the ink-marked sheet. Perhaps all the stories before this were of a young lady in the countryside with a dark, mysterious nobleman who found his way into her corner of the world. This… She scanned the page…This tale was of a world she didn’t know nor understand. A story set in London with the loftiest of all the noble titles.
