Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (14 page)

From his vantage point at the corner of the ballroom, alongside a massive Doric column, Sebastian had studied Miss Hermione Rogers’ every move since she’d entered Lady Smith’s ballroom and it was therefore how he knew she had torn her hem. He’d wager all his landholdings her efforts were a ploy to be free of Lord Bull.

Sebastian gripped his glass hard. The blinding fury at the fiend’s attentions receded. He grinned over the rim of his champagne glass at Hermione’s resourcefulness in sidestepping loathsome Lord Bull’s ogling. Sebastian studied her with such intensity, he also knew she’d torn her hemline quite viciously and with clear deliberation to avoid the bastard’s lecherous grasp.

Now, the young woman wound her way through the crowded ballroom. Her pretty blue-eyed stare darted periodically about the room as though she searched for someone. And the fool part of him wished he were the specific someone she sought. She stole through a doorway at the opposite corner of the room and disappeared down the hall. It appeared, however, she simply sought privacy to attend to her gown. Sebastian finished his champagne and set it on a servant’s tray.

It really would be quite foolish to follow the young lady. Particularly with a sea of curious lords and ladies wondering as to his connection with Hermione. Not that there was a connection. There were a handful of chance meetings and one afternoon visit. And a kiss. And a Gothic novel by Mr. Michael Michaelmas.

And a kiss.

With a silent curse, Sebastian skirted the edge of the ballroom floor and moved past the waltzing couples. He walked toward the hall she’d disappeared down a short while ago and pressed ahead in foolish pursuit of Hermione…

…and promptly collided with a tall, lithe figure exiting the hall. He steadied the familiar, endearing form.

Hermione shrieked and pressed a hand to her chest. “Your Grace.” She scowled. “You startled me.”

He rather preferred her treating him not as a duke but as she would any other man. Ultimately, despite Society’s view, he was more than a title. “Forgive me. That was not my intention.” His
intention
had been to follow after her and see where she’d gotten herself off to this time.

Her black eyebrows met in a single line. “Were you sneaking on me, Your Grace?”

A longing filled him to hear his name upon her lush, red lips once more and he damned the guests and the gossip and wished but they two remained.

Concern flared in Hermione’s eyes. “Are you all right, Sebastian?”

He jerked. “Er, fine.” He tugged at his lapels. “Quite fine.”

She wrinkled her mouth in an endearing little manner. “You appear to be woolgathering.”

Sebastian recoiled as her charge was so very similar to Waxham and his sister’s. “I do not woolgather, madam.” Except, since she’d entered his life he’d existed in a perpetual haze.

She snorted. “Because you’re a duke?”

“Because gentlemen do not woolgather.” He folded his arms at his chest. “Except for perhaps your mad marquess.”

Surprise flared to life in her eyes. “You read it,” she blurted. The glimmer of excitement in her eyes and the slight parting of her lips held him entranced, so he was forced to amend his early protestation.

It would seem he did woolgather. He gave his head a shake. “I’ve not finished it.” There were still a handful of pages he still must attend to.

She sank back on her heels, the life seeming to go out of her. “Oh.”

And, because she appeared so blasted dejected, he admitted the truth to this young lady, more a stranger than anything else. “Your Mr. Michael Michaelmas will never rival Aristotle or Chaucer.” He held a hand up when she opened her mouth, surely to deliver a stinging diatribe. “However, his work is quite…”

Hermione leaned close. “Yes?” she prodded.

“Enjoyable.”

A pleased little smile turned her lips slowly up at the corners and he may as well have plucked the moon and stars from the sky for as radiant as she was at his admission. “Well, then,” she said. “You must keep it, Sebastian. A person always remembers their first.”

He choked.

“Oh, my!” Concern filled her face. “Are you all right?” She made to pat him on his back.

He waved her off. “Quite, quite,” he said, his voice hoarse. But damn, if Hermione Rogers with that single statement hadn’t roused all manner of wicked thoughts, each one involving the young lady herself; his lips upon her breasts, his hand between her legs as he proved her correct—a person always remembered their first.

Hermione moved her gaze to a point beyond his shoulder. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and troubled the flesh. He’d never envied a tooth—until this moment. It was a damned travesty for a damned tooth to know the pleasure of that lip when he himself should—

He followed her gaze and frowned. Lord Bull shoved his cumbersome frame between guests, his lascivious stare trained on Hermione.

She sighed. A single breath of air that somehow told so very much.

His gut tightened. He far preferred Hermione smiling than this resigned creature before him. Sebastian reached for her dance card and scratched his name down.

Hermione looked blankly at her card. “What are you—?”

He extended his elbow. “Dance with me.”

She looked once more to Lord Bull, nearly upon them and then placed her fingers upon his sleeve and allowed him to guide her to the dance floor as the orchestra struck up a waltz. He thought she might refuse if the cumbersome Bull wasn’t barreling down on them, and that honesty of her reaction caused a damned odd lightening in his chest.

For with Society as witness, Sebastian danced with a young lady—who saw him as more than a duke.

C
hapter 13

“W
hy must you force us to come along?” Hugh muttered, breathless from the quick clip Hermione demanded of him and Addie.

“Oh, do hush.” Addie pinched Hugh on the shoulder. “I’d rather accompany Hermione than be forced to visit with Aunt Agatha.”

Hermione slowed her determined stride and paused. Her sister careened into Hugh who pitched forward and righted himself. “Be careful,” he snapped.

A gentleman favored their little trio with a scowl and stepped around them, wisely continuing in the opposite direction.

She frowned at her sister. “Be polite, poppet. Aunt Agatha has been gracious enough to sponsor me for the Season.” Not that she particularly enjoyed the London Season. Quite the opposite, really.

“She’s rude,” Addie said with all the honesty of a child. “And I don’t like her. She called Elizabeth simple and told Papa she should be sent away,” Addie said on a rush when Hermione opened her mouth to scold her for her unkind words of Aunt Agatha.

Fury licked at Hermione’s insides. She was not naïve. She well knew Society’s views on men and women such as Elizabeth—a shameful secret for most families. Elizabeth was not a matter of shame. Hermione loved her with the same devotion she did Hugh and Addie.

“He probably doesn’t care enough about her anyway,” Hugh mumbled. He kicked at a small stone. The pebble caught some gentleman in his knee. “And he’ll probably do exactly as Aunt Agatha says, now.”

The dandy with purple satin breeches glared at Hugh and muttered something about guttersnipes.

She took Addie by the forearm and guided her away from passerby, to the front window of a bookshop. Hermione crooked her finger and Hugh reluctantly dragged himself over. “Listen to me, Hugh. Papa will not send Elizabeth away.”

Addie’s blue eyes formed wide circles. “He won’t?”

She folded her arms. “He would have to give me away first.” For all of Papa’s failings, she did not doubt his love for Elizabeth and knew he’d not ever do something as heartless as to send the young lady away from her family.

Hugh scratched at his dark brown locks. “Isn’t he trying to give you away?”

She tipped her head. “Giving me away?”

“To a husband.” His lips pulled in a grimace.

She tweaked his nose and he swatted at her hand, in clear annoyance of the motherly gesture. “He’s hoping I marry. He’s not giving me away, silly.” She tweaked his nose once more; this time to strictly bother him. “Now come, I’ve to see Mr. Werksman.”

Addie groaned. She yanked at Hermione’s hand. “Can’t we first go into the bookshop?” She stuck her finger out. Hermione followed the point to the lone little shop at the corner just across the street.
Ye Olde Bookshoppe.
“Surely you must have some sense of obligation to other authors. A commitment to reading and allowing your sisters and brother to—”

“Oh, very well.” Hermione laughed. She was not scheduled to meet with Mr. Werksman for at least thirty more minutes and Hugh and Addie did not have many opportunities to be away from the townhouse.

Addie clapped her hands excitedly and all but sprinted toward the bookshop.

The maid Winifred hurried after the girl, placing a staying hand on Addie’s shoulder to keep her from racing into the street. While Hermione and Hugh moved at a more sedate pace. “Hugh, Papa—”

“Do not defend him.” He glared at her. “I don’t need you to defend him. I know what he is.” He sprinted into the street.

“Hugh!” she cried as he stepped into the path of a fast-moving phaeton.

The world froze. The rumble of carriage wheels and the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves flooded her ears, drowned out all sound. And then a large hand shot around Hugh’s slender arm and jerked him back from certain, calamitous ruin.

The world resumed spinning. Hermione cried out and raced over. She ran her hands up and down Hugh’s arms. “Do not ever do something so foolish again,” she cried. She jabbed a finger into his chest alternating between a desire to throttle him senseless and hold him forever. “Do you hear me?” She threw her arms around him.

He shoved against her. “Stop,” he mumbled against the fabric of her chest.

And then, as he jerked away from her arms, she blinked, registering the appearance of Hugh’s sudden and unexpected savior. “You,” she blurted.

Sebastian stood impossibly elegant in his black cloak and a wry smile on his face. “Generally, a ‘thank you for your intervention’ would be suitable, but I shall settle for a mere ‘Hello, Seba…’” His gaze drifted over to Hugh. “Your Grace,” he amended for the benefit of the boy’s ears.

Except Hugh, with his knowledge of Lord Cavendish’s crimes against Elizabeth, was far too world weary to not detect that infinitesimal pause and slight correction. He narrowed his eyes into thin slits and placed himself between Hermione and Sebastian.

Hermione dropped a curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said on a rush. “I am eternally grateful for your timely appearance.” Even if Hugh appeared anything less than pleased in that moment. She cleared her throat. “This is my brother, Hugh Rogers.” She nudged him with her elbow when he remained silent.

“Er, right, a
pleasure
, Your Grace.”

The ghost of a smile played upon Sebastian’s lips at the insolent emphasis on that one particular word.

“If you’ll excuse us. We need to be going,” Hugh mumbled and tugged at her hand, all of a sudden seeming to possess a good deal of enthusiasm to visit the bookshop across the street.

Hermione placed a hand upon his shoulder, staying his movements. She gave him a pointed frown. She understood his reservations, but still she’d not have Sebastian think her family bore a total lack of decorum. Except, as they stood amid the bustling street with carriages rumbling by, Hermione found herself without a single thought in her head. She peeked up at the cloudless blue sky. She supposed she could speak on the weather. At least, that is what Aunt Agatha would have urged. Then, even in light of her desperation she couldn’t bring herself to be that hopeless as to forsake meaningful discourse for something as trite and trivial as—

Hugh jabbed her in the side.

“Lovely weather we’re enjoying,” Hermione blurted. Desperate times and all that.

Sebastian inclined his head. “Indeed, it is,” he said, without any hint of emotion in those three words.

“Now can we leave?” Hugh grumbled.

They really should. She sighed. Sebastian extended his arm. She cocked her head, studying the offering, really not quite able to make sense as to why Sebastian, the 5th Duke of Mallen, now stood with his arm held out—toward her.

“May I accompany you to…?”

“The bookshop,” she supplied. She gestured across the street to the modest structure with the tilted wooden sign above the entrance. “That would be lovely.” And it would. For reasons that had everything to do with additional research for Mr. Werksman’s brooding duke novel.

Liar
. She placed her fingers along his coat sleeves. Even with the fabric between them, a thrill of awareness coursed through her, warming her fingers, and spreading throughout her belly.

Hugh stepped in front of them. “We do not require assistance.” He folded his arms. “I’ll escort my sister and you can continue on with…” He narrowed his eyes. “And furthermore, what are you doing here? Are you following my sister?”

Her fingers tightened reflexively about Sebastian’s arm. “Hugh,” she ordered sharply. Since he’d learned of Cavendish’s ill-treatment of Elizabeth he’d become an angry, bitter, too-old-for-his-years boy.

Sebastian shook his head. He looked on at Hugh with a solemn expression on his harshly beautiful face. “You are a devoted brother.” He cast a sideways glance at Hermione. “I daresay you shouldn’t reprimand him for being protective of his sister’s reputation.”

Hugh puffed his chest out and a flicker of pride and a fleeting moment of respect replaced his earlier fury with Sebastian’s presence. But then the look faded. “You didn’t answer my question, Duke.”

Hermione groaned. She would kill him. Horribly and quite gladly.

The faintest flicker of amusement flared in Sebastian’s eyes. “I am a board member at London Hospital, which is…” He flicked his finger toward the end of the street. “…on this same street, and I’ve a meeting to attend.”

The boy grunted a rather noncommittal response.

Hermione’s limited experience with the nobility had proven those capricious lords and ladies self-indulgent, indolent creatures. They didn’t serve on boards of hospitals; they didn’t rescue boys from being trampled by a reckless phaeton. And yet, this one did. Her heart fluttered.

Hugh jerked his chin toward the bookshop. “I suppose you may escort us.” This time, he took care to look across the bustling cobbled road before stepping out.

Hermione and Sebastian trailed behind at a more sedate pace. “I am so sorry,” she said breaking the silence. “For Hugh. I’m afraid he’s becoming increasingly difficult.” A vast understatement. “Since my mother died.”
And my father ceased being a good parent.
She withheld that last personal piece, unwilling to let Sebastian into the world of her father’s failings. They picked their way across the street.

“How long has your mother been gone?” The quietly spoken question was nearly lost to the noisy, London street.

She stole a glance up at him. “Six years. He’s not been the same since.” None of her family had. She stared at Hugh’s small shoulders. As though he knew they now spoke of him, her brother threw a glance over his shoulder and scowled.

Sebastian gently squeezed her arm. The heat of his touch burned her skin. She paused and looked expectantly up at him. “I am so sorry for your loss,” he spoke in the hushed somber tones of one who also had known loss.

“It is all right,” she said softly. “It was a long time ago.” Except the pain of Mama’s loss, a woman who’d acted out stories with Papa for the pleasure of her children, and whose singing voice could rival a nightingale, would forever remain.

She made to start walking onward once more, but Sebastian stepped in front of her, halting her path. They stood on the edge of the cobbled road among the calls of vendors hawking their wares. The rich green of his eyes a deep jade, the glint within the dark irises more somber than she ever remembered of the genial duke. “The loss of a parent is one that always remains, though, doesn’t it, Hermione? Yes, we carry on as we once did, and smile and laugh, and move about our goings on, but the memory of that loss will always remain.”

She swallowed past the swell of emotion in her throat. He spoke as one who also knew loss. “Who—?”

“My father,” he supplied, correctly surmising the question upon her lips. He nodded to where Hugh stood outside the bookshop. He’d stuck his leg out and tapped his foot in an agitated manner. “I imagine the loss of a parent when one is just a child transforms a person,” he murmured. “Hugh loves you.”

She caught the inside flesh of her lower lip. It didn’t always seem that way. “He’s quite miserable most of the time.”
All the time
.

“I remember myself as a boy Hugh’s age.” Sebastian snorted. “He’s not different than most children. Boastful. Proud. Obstinate.”

Odd, she’d never imagined a duke did something as plebeian as snort. She tipped her head.

A loose blond strand of hair tumbled over his eye, giving him an almost boyish look. Her fingers ached with a need to push back the tendril, to feel the silken texture of hair far too glorious to belong to a man who already possessed everything under God’s golden sun. And she who’d always prided herself on being the clear-headed, logical member of the Rogers family found herself captivated by a man who belonged more in the pages of one of her books. She swallowed.

His brow furrowed. “What is it?”

Her gaze flitted over to her brother. “Hugh is growing impatient.” She stepped around him and hurried ahead. Sebastian’s long legs easily caught up with the slight distance she’d placed between them.

They reached the front of the shop and Hugh growled. “Finally. I imagined you intended to stand outside making calf-eyes at the duke all day.” He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him.

Hermione choked as embarrassment churned inside her belly. “I…wasn’t making calf-eyes at you,” she said on a rush.

The duke’s lips twitched.

“I wouldn’t,” she continued, a defensive note threaded those words. “I’m certainly not the kind of young lady who—”

“Would make calf-eyes at me. I understand.” He motioned behind her. “I am more than willing to allow you to continue and debate the point, if you feel inclined—?”

She shook her head hard. She most certainly did not feel inclined. The only inclination she had in this precise moment was throttling her brother. She stared at the door Hugh had just disappeared behind. “He’s becoming increasingly difficult,” she muttered.

“Is he?” Humor tinged his question.

She started, not realizing she’d spoken aloud. “Forgive me,” she said on a rush.

He ran his gaze over her face. “There is nothing to forgive.” His intense emerald eyes lingered on her lips and for one slight moment borne of madness, she imagined he might kiss her. The familiar warmth whenever he was near blazed to life, threatening to consume her. And shamefully, she wanted his kiss and would gladly take it, here amid the busy London streets in front of God and everyone, just to know the pleasure of—