Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (18 page)

She cocked her head.

Father sighed. “He has no money.”

“And?” The explosion burst from her lips.

He swiped a hand over his face. “And he’ll not give a shilling to help her or the babe,” he said his words heavy with regret. And with the devastating news he’d become the same wary stranger she’d come to reside with these past years.

“What do you mean he won’t help?” She jumped to her feet. “His reputation will be destroyed if anyone should find out the truth.”

Papa lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I believe he considers himself ruined if his connection to our family is discovered.” He waved a hand. “I daresay he’s correctly surmised I’ll not bring further shame to Elizabeth by demanding justice for his vile actions.”

Hermione grasped the arms of her seat. They were all ruined. In every way possible.

The leather of Papa’s chair shifted under his weight as he leaned forward. “Your sister will be fine.”

She looked blankly at him. That was what he would say.

“Partridge will continue to care for Elizabeth and the babe, and this will have no bearing on the future you carve out for yourself, Hermie.”

A strangled laugh gurgled up her throat and spilled past her lips. Since Mama’s passing, not once had she placed herself first. She’d made every sacrifice gladly and without regret. “Do you think I’m concerned solely about my own future?” What of Addie? Or Hugh? Or Elizabeth and the babe, a child her eldest sister would never be able to care for? She imagined a future for them in which every respectable door was someday closed to her sister, and a brother who’d not have the benefit of an education and would stand to inherit an empty baronetcy that he’d be ill-prepared for.

“I’m merely saying a powerful man would be willing to forgive your family’s circumstances,” he said.

She gritted her teeth at his placating tone, even as her stomach flipped unto itself at her father’s once again illusion of Sebastian.

“Nothing to say?” he repeated. “Your aunt is quite confident a certain
duke
may be that gentleman.” He propped his elbows on his desk, hopelessly wrinkling several pages of the opened ledger. “A gentleman who’ll see nothing more than your beauty and courage and—”

She made a sound of protest. “You’re a proud father, is all.” She’d never before felt beautiful. However, since Sebastian, since his kiss and his waltz and heated looks, for the first time, she’d come to feel not the too-tall, gangly suitor-less young lady, but a woman who possessed the beauty her father now spoke of.

“Bah, how can my daughter not realize the extent of her beauty?” Pride gleamed in his eyes.

Panic stirred in her breast.
This
was Papa and Aunt Agatha’s plans to salvage their family? Some misbegotten hope a gentleman in possession of one of the oldest titles in the realm would fall hopelessly in love with her? Now, that was a story she could commit to page. Which was actually quite a good idea, because with as awful as this day had gone fast down a steep incline since she’d taken her leave of the duke, something good should come from it. She stood and ruffled through the scattered pages upon her father’s desk.

“Here.” He thrust out a pencil.

Hermione took it and grabbed a balled-up page. She unwrinkled the sheet and dashed down a few lines. She promptly folded it and reclaimed her seat.

Papa looked at her with a sad smile. “My dear, you may issue protestations, but a young woman so inspired must surely be a bit in love.”

Another healthy wave of heat climbed up her neck and burned a trail across her face. “Papa, I hardly know the duke. We’ve met a handful of times. Why—”

He held up another finger and shook it back and forth. “Ah, but I didn’t mention anything about the duke.”

She clamped her lips tight. Well, what was there to say now? “It was just one visit,” she murmured, the words more of a reminder to herself.

And a kiss.

And a waltz.

And a kiss.

And earlier that morning… a third kiss.

A knock sounded at the door saving her from her father’s response. They looked as one. Owen opened the door and ducked his head into the room. “His Grace, The Duke of Mallen to see Miss Rogers.”

Her gaze flew to the clock. Just five minutes past nine, it was certainly far too early for a fashionable call. But then, when one was a duke, he was permitted greater freedoms than the lesser mortals. Her heart thudded painfully, suddenly very glad for those freedoms dukes found themselves with. For purely selfish reasons.

The servant cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of showing His Grace to the parlor.” With a bow, he backed out of the room.

Hermione sat frozen. With the news Papa had imparted about Lord Cavendish she should be numbed with panic and yet, more than anything she craved Sebastian’s company. Wanted to see him. Needed to see him.

Perhaps she was not as devoted a sister and daughter as she’d credited.

“You’re destroying your poor notes, daughter,” Papa said gently.

She lightened her tight grip about her page. The words upon the sheet stared mockingly up at her.
…A gentleman in possession of one of the oldest titles in the realm falls hopelessly in love with the impoverished daughter of a scandalous family…

“Are you going to remain in that chair studying those few lines for the remainder of the day? Or will you go see your duke?”

Her head shot up. “He’s not my duke.”

A light twinkle glinted in his eyes. “I imagine he will be your duke if you but let him, Hermie, and he’d be as mad as a Bedlamite to not want you for his duchess. Despite all of our family’s circumstances,” he added. He nodded toward the door. “Now, go, go, my dear. It isn’t every day a duke is made to wait.”

Hermione shoved to her feet and as she made her way over to the door, out of Papa’s office, down the hall then to Sebastian, it occurred to her she was writing her own story.

God help her.

C
hapter 16

A
s duke, Sebastian’s title afforded him certain luxuries. People tended to respect his time and wouldn’t do anything as outrageous as expecting the Duke of Mallen to be kept waiting. He grinned wryly. Standing in Hermione’s parlor, it occurred to him that this was the second time in a mere four-hour time span that he’d been kept waiting. First by his deliberately difficult brother-in-law, the Marquess of Drake. His gaze went to the door. And now Miss Hermione Rogers.

Sebastian took the opportunity to study the small parlor. He did a circle about the room and examined the once extravagant, now extravagantly aged sofa. Slight tears marred the stained ivory fabric. Drawn to a small rip in the back of the seat, he wandered close and touched the worn and battered material. His frown deepened.

My name is Hermione Edith Rogers. I quite detest my middle name. I’ve come to London at the bequest of my aunt, Lady Pemberly, my now deceased mother’s sister to have a Season…

At the time he’d found humor in her tart, terse response to his charges about her being a mystery to the
ton
. He’d sought out his brother-in-law’s guidance in terms of his feelings for this unknown miss, yet he’d not truly allowed himself to consider who
she
was.

She was more than simply Hermione Edith Rogers, with an unfortunate middle name, and a connection to Lady Pemberly. A young lady who happened to read Gothic novels—

“What do you want?”

He started and turned toward the door. Ah. The angry young fellow, Hugh, stood at the entrance of the room. “Hullo,” Sebastian murmured quietly.

The boy flayed him with the fury in his eyes. “I asked what do you want?” Hugh demanded, ignoring Sebastian’s greeting. He entered the room with all the swagger and bravado of a young boy imagining himself older than he actually was.

Sebastian had little experience with children, but ventured the lad to be close to Sebastian’s age when Emmaline had been born.

“Is something wrong with you? I asked what you are doing here?”

Sebastian opened his mouth and closed it. As an elder brother he’d had a good deal of experience with troublesome girls. Angry,
boys
however were beasts of a different sort.

The boy sneered. “You expect I care that you are a duke?” If possible, the lad was even less impressed with the Mallen title than his elder sister. Hugh spat at the floor. “You’re all the same,” he said, a vitriolic fury teeming his words. “Not to be trusted.”

Sebastian started at such cynicism from one so young. He glanced to the door, filled with an even greater eagerness for Hermione’s arrival. It was a sad day indeed when the Duke of Mallen awaited rescue from an insolent lad, from the insolent lad’s
sister,
no less.

“What, nothing to say?” Hugh taunted.

The boy, for all his gruff, earned Sebastian’s respect. He responded with honesty. “I’ve come to see your sister.” Polite Society had the wrong of it. If they wanted to deter roguish suitors for their daughters, they should merely turn this lad loose, chaperones be damned.

Hugh folded his arms across his chest and continued to train that too-old-for-his-years black scowl on him. “Humph” the boy said noncommittally. Sebastian gave thanks Hermione’s brother wasn’t an older, protective version of himself or Sebastian would have been called out somewhere between one stolen kiss and an inappropriate glance. Hugh took a step closer and jabbed his finger at him. “What are you intentions for my sister?”

Sebastian choked.

“Hugh!”

The duke looked to the doorway where Hermione stood framed at the entrance, a narrow-eyed gaze trained on her brother, her arms akimbo.

The boy scuffed the tips of his worn boots along the mahogany floor, a youthful lad once more. He shuffled over to the door, head hung down. “Where’s your chaperone?” Hugh demanded, seeming to find one last boost of courage.

At last, a sensible member of her family who recognized the very important fact, Miss Hermione Rogers appeared to have forgotten at some point.

A young woman shuffled in behind Hermione, her serviceable brown wool gown and the white cap atop her head bespoke her station. Ahh, the oft-absent maid. She disappeared to the far corner of the room and claimed a rosewood open armchair.

Hugh stepped past his sister, but Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder, staying his movements. She leaned down and whispered something close to his ear. He gave a small, tight nod and then with a final black glare for Sebastian, took his leave.

Sebastian broke the silence. “Hermione,” he greeted, a warmth filling his chest at the simple sight of her.

Yet, she hovered at the doorway and he feared one wrong word uttered on his part would send her into flight. Had the same events that transformed Hugh into an angry, spitting-mad young boy resulted in Hermione’s somberness?

“I must confess to being surprised by your visit, Your Grace.” She spoke with the usual directness he’d come to appreciate her for.

Sebastian fished around the front of his jacket. “You dropped this when you left earlier this morning,” he murmured. He withdrew the letter that had fallen from her book at Hyde Park. Not reading the contents of the note had been perhaps one of the hardest chores he’d undertaken in life.

Her dark brown eyebrows shot to her hairline. She sprinted across the room and then she yanked the note from his fingers. Her chest heaved with the force of her upset. She held it close to her breast. More than ever he wished he’d read the blasted sheet.

“Generally a thank you would suffice,” he said sardonically.

“Did you read it?” she asked tightly.

He really should have scanned the damned contents of the note. “You insult my honor with such a question.” The icy cold fury in his rebuttal would have had most people cowering in terror.

Miss Hermione Rogers, however, tipped her chin back as bold as you please and challenged him with fire in her eyes. “Did you?”

“No.” He balled his hands into fists at his side and the niggling of suspicion sank into his mind of the person who’d penned that letter—a gentleman, perhaps the young lady carried a deep love for. Such clandestine missives would certainly indicate why he’d come upon her in Lord Denley’s office and numerous times, unchaperoned at ungodly hours.

The tension in her narrow shoulders seeped from her narrow frame. “So that is why you’ve come?” Did he imagine the trace of disappointment to her question or was that his own desiring?

“Yes.” No. He’d come to see her. He would have come whether or not the folded ivory sheet marked in her initials hadn’t tumbled from the book she’d been writing in that morning.

“Oh.” The whispery soft exclamation definitely contained a trace of disappointment.

“If you’d not fled so quickly, I would have given you the note earlier.” But then he’d have no logical reason to justify a visit, outside the very obvious reason assumed by his friends, family, and the whole of Polite Society—he was courting the young miss.

She continued to fiddle with the folded page.

“It occurs to me, Hermione, you have a devilish tendency of running off.” And he didn’t like it. Not in the least. Particularly when she was running away from him.

Hermione lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Perhaps it is because there is everything improper in our being alone together unchaperoned.” She dropped her voice and glanced past his shoulder. He followed her stare toward the maid with her bent head. “As we’ve been three times thus far,” she whispered, returning her attention to him.

And how very dearly he wished it could be a fourth. He took a step toward her. His fingers burned with the desire to stroke the soft curve of her cheek. “I read your book.”

“My b-book.” Her squawking voice could have rivaled the grey geese at his country estate at Leeds.

“I read the copy of Mr. Michael Michaelmas’
Mad Marquess
,” he clarified.

She blinked and then her eyes formed round moons. “Oh,
the
book.” A breathless laugh escaped her.

He furrowed his brow, not altogether certain of the distinction between the two.

Hermione danced away from him and continued moving backward. She paused beside the torn sofa. “Will you please sit, Your Grace?” She gestured to the seat across from her.

Sebastian strode over. He slid into the seat closest Hermione. Their knees brushed. She sucked in a breath. A thrill of masculine satisfaction filled him at her reaction to his nearness. The minx wasn’t as unaware of him as he’d earlier believed. Hermione grabbed a closed journal atop the table and a nearby pencil. She fanned to the middle of the book and then stopped abruptly.

“And what did you think of
The
Mad Marquess
, Your Grace?”

“Sebastian,” he murmured. “I believe you were correct. It is a story of passion and love and certainly not anything I’d…” He cocked his head and repeated, “Certainly not anything I’d…” He paused. “Miss Rogers are you taking notes on what I’m saying?”

Her head shot up and a guilty blush stained her cheeks. “Uh…no. Should I be?”

“You should not be,” he said curtly. He flicked his gaze from Hermione to the maid with a smile on her lips. He frowned. The last bit of gossip he cared to have bandied about was his recent interest in Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ Gothic novels. He imagined the
ton
would have a great deal of amusement at his expense.

“Sebastian?” Hermione prodded.

He draped his ankle over his knee. “Do you know what I believe?”

She inched to the edge of her chair, bringing their legs in contact once again. “What?” She tapped the edge of her pencil against her lip while closely scrutinizing him.

Except when she asked with that whispery soft entreaty underscoring her words, her smoky lashes lowered, he couldn’t think of much beyond one shocking truth—the idea of marriage to Miss Rogers was not at all unpalatable. Quite the opposite. And he, who’d avoided the parson’s trap and fortune-hunting ladies desiring the title of Duchess of Mallen, found he quite enjoyed the idea of taking this particular woman, this unconventional woman, to wife.

“Sebastian?” she prodded, her eyebrows dipping.

He gave his head a clearing shake. “I believe your Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work isn’t altogether drivel.”

Through the years the sliver of herself that penned romantic tales of forbidden love and scandalous matches had held onto the dream of more for herself. Despite Cavendish and Papa, the whimsical portion of Hermione’s soul had secretly longed for and imagined a gentleman who’d pay call, snip a black strand of hair, then tuck it close to his chest. All truths she’d not admitted, even to herself—until this very moment. She’d imagined a man who’d dash sonnets upon a page, then hold the poem in one hand and a bouquet in the other.

Yet, all of those frivolous dreams were naught when compared with Sebastian’s almost compliment, an unwitting compliment from a gentleman when no gentleman would dare admit to reading a Gothic novel.

“Thank you,” she said, a smile pulling at her lips.

“I imagined a boastful, gloating response more than anything else.”

“I’m not the boastful type,” she said.

“That isn’t to say the work was flawless,” he continued.

Her smile slipped. “I beg your pardon?” She could not call back the indignant exclamation.

He rested his forearms upon the arms of his chair. “Would you prefer I lied to you and said your Mr. Michaelmas’ work can rival the greats?”

“Humph.” She folded her arms across her chest. There really was nothing more humbling than having one’s work picked apart by a lofty duke. A strand of hair fell across her eye. She blew it back. “Well, on with it then.”

“The marquess lacks depth.”

She straightened. “He most certainly does—”

He arched an eyebrow.

Hermione cleared her throat and gave a wave of her hand. “Very well, carry on.”

“His love for the heroine is immediate. He, who pledged to never love falls in love quite quickly and without reservation.”

She scrunched up her mouth. “Well, why would he want to fall in love slowly?”