Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (19 page)

He dragged his chair closer to the edge of her seat and leaned in. “Otherwise how can he truly know her?” he pressed. The faintest hint of mint and warmed chocolate clung to his breath and she drew in the intoxicating scent of him.

She desperately wanted to attend his questioning. Only…
He does believe in love
. This powerful, confident, and bold gentleman, a duke no less, spoke so candidly, with such assurance of that emotion. “He knows,” she said, at last her voice hoarse. “He knows upon first meeting her. Love is instantaneous—”

“It is not.” He shook his head. “It is born of a deep understanding of one another and comes after many years—”

A snorting laugh bubbled up past her lips. He believed in love but didn’t truly understand it. “Many y-years?” she sputtered. So was the way with gentlemen on matters of the heart. She tipped her head. “Do you imagine there is a prescribed number that dictates matters of the heart?”

His jaw hardened as though he took offense at her laughter. Perhaps a duke was unaccustomed to others finding amusement at his words. “By your admission, Miss Rogers, you’d believe a person can know another person, their interests, their hopes,” he dropped his voice, and his words whispered in that husky baritone wrapped about her, “their desires in just a single meeting.”

She swallowed hard. He was indeed, correct. So why with Sebastian did she allow herself the whimsy of a fairytale?

He pressed on, relentless, lowering his voice even further. “By your admission, you’d believe yourself capable of loving me since that meeting in Lord Denley’s office?”

Her throat worked involuntarily. God help her… He quirked an eyebrow, so coolly unaffected that reality came crashing down around her, and dashed all the fanciful yearnings that had occupied her ponderings. “I—I d-don’t,” she said, wishing her voice was steady. And more…wishing she believed her own words.

His lips turned in a half-mocking, half-knowing grin.

She pursed her lips. Oh, the lout. He believed he knew all; matters of the heart and matters of literature. Hermione folded her arms across her chest. “By
your
own admission, Your Grace, do you believe if we wed tomorrow, you’d be incapable of loving me for, what was it, three years? Four?” She raised an eyebrow. “Five? Or did you fail to mention the requisite number of years one must know a person to love a person?”

Some dark, powerful look blazed to life in his eyes.

And then she pressed her lips together, as a horrifying heat blazed across her body at the implications of the words she’d tossed at him. “Not that I presume you’re in love with me,” she said quickly.

He remained stone-faced.

Unable to quell the nervous tendency that required her to fill voids of silence, she continued on a rush. “Nor do I presume you’d wed me. Tomorrow, that is. Or I suppose any day for that matter. I’m merely saying…”

“Yes?”

She bristled at the wry amusement underscoring that one word utterance. “I believe we were discussing your displeasure with
The
Mad Marquess
.”

“Did you hear it as displeasure?” He rolled his shoulders. “I merely thought I provided an honest critique.”

Which is probably what she most disliked—the sincerity of his opinion about love. She gave her head a firm shake. Nay…
not
love. She disliked his opinion on her book, that was all. “And do you intend to read any more of my…” She coughed and buried the sound in her hand. “Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work?” She held her breath, not knowing why she should await his answer with this breathless anticipation.

“Will I be required to meet and discuss my thoughts with you on his other works?”

“I suppose that might be…er, useful.” Though she couldn’t be certain her response wasn’t born of pure selfishness, a selfishness that had nothing to do with improving her craft and everything to do with being in Sebastian’s company. The same recalcitrant dark brown lock fell across her brow.

They reached for it as one. Their fingers touched as he brushed it back and her breath caught. “Well, then I imagine I will be completing the reading on the remainder of his works.”

“Why?” She should be shamed by the boldness of that whispered question.

“Why, Hermione?” He leaned down so close their lips nearly brushed and everything fell aside; her maid in the corner, the horrifying revelations shared by Papa a short while ago, Hugh’s bitter charges, the story for Mr. Werksman and she braced, desperate for his kiss. “Is it not obvious?”

She managed to shake her head.

“Why, it is because I find myself quite captivated…”

A wild, fluttering spiraled throughout her belly and crept higher to her heart as she tipped her head back, craving his kiss.

“…by your Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work,” he finished.

Mr. Michaelmas?
Her eyes flew open. He studied her with a knowing smile.

Humph. “Oh, er right, very well, then.” She leaned around him and grappled for a familiar book on the rose-inlaid side table. She slapped it into his hands. “If that is all you require, Your Grace, I’ll hand off one of his more recent works to you.” She hopped to her feet.

He remained seated, eying her quizzically. “Have you just dismissed me, Miss Rogers?”

This time, Hermione leaned close to him, so their lips nearly touched once more. “I imagine if you’re so very captivated, you are very eager to begin,” she lowered her voice to a sultry whisper, “reading.” She smiled widely and then clapped her hands once. “Off you go then, Your Grace.”

He stood, his impossibly tall, powerful frame unfurled, swallowing up her shadow making her too-tall self, who never felt small around gentlemen or ladies, feel slight of frame. He glanced over in her maid’s direction and then returned his attention to Hermione. He appeared poised to say something further but then gave a short bow. “Miss Rogers.” With that, he left.

Hermione stood there long after he’d gone, staring at the empty door he’d disappeared behind. She sank into the sofa and gripped the edge of her seat as dread sank like a pit in her belly.

She’d gone and fallen in love with Sebastian.

C
hapter 17

S
ebastian stood beside the empty hearth in his office with the tick-tocking long-case clock as his only company. He clasped his hands behind his back. He periodically glanced over at the book given him by Hermione. Another of her beloved Mr. Michaelmas’ works,
The Bitterest Baron’s Bittersweet Love
. It really was quite an atrocious title, nearly as bad as the author’s name of said book—Mr. Michael Michaelmas.

He should have departed for Lady Brookfield’s ball—he glanced at the hands of the clock—well, at least an hour ago. Perhaps longer. Instead, he’d pondered the very atrocious title of a tartly delivered gift from earlier that morning. And staring into the cold metal grate of the hearth, Sebastian acknowledged that the very moment Hermione Rogers had slapped her copy of
The Bitterest Baron’s Bittersweet Love
into his hands and all but tossed him from her parlor, he would offer for her.

Most gentlemen preferred their wives biddable and docile and he, having dealt with the infuriating nonsense of a younger sister, had imagined he would be one of those ‘most gentlemen’ craving calm and quiet. With Hermione’s tendency to prattle on when flustered, there would never be quiet. And with her passion-filled eyes, well, there would be no calm either. And he found he wanted it. Nay,
her
. He wanted all of her.

By your own admission, Your Grace, do you believe if we were to wed tomorrow, you’d not be capable of loving me for…what was it three years? Four? Five?

Perhaps it would not be very many years after all. Mayhap Hermione had the right of it. He imagined a life with her in it. A union between them would not be the staid, dull match that unified two powerful families. Hermione’s inability to purchase that single leather book for her sister spoke volumes to her family’s financial circumstances, yet, he cared not at all for the wealth she would, or in this case would not, bring to a marriage between them.

He passed his gaze over his own extravagant office with immaculate mahogany Chippendale furniture, the rose-inlaid tables and crisp leather.
This
was the life she deserved. Walls adorned with every last book by Mr. Michael Michaelmas if she so desired.

A knock sounded at the door and he spun. His mother stood, framed in the entrance. “Sebastian,” she greeted.

“Mother,” he turned back to the hearth and consulted the time once more.

“I gather you remember you’d accepted the invitation to Lady Brookfield’s?”

“Indeed,” he muttered.

The flutter of her satin skirts echoed through the space, indicating she’d advanced deeper into the room. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with a certain young lady?” Wry amusement laced her words.

Sebastian faced her. He winged an eyebrow upwards.

“The wool-gathering,” she clarified.

First, Waxham, then Em, Hermione, now his mother. Sebastian tugged at his lapels. “I don’t—”

“Wool-gather,” she supplied, her tone dry. “Yes, I know. Neither did your father.” It was no secret to polite Society that though theirs had been an arranged match, the Duchess of Mallen and the late duke had found love which likely accounted for his father’s insistence on one of those nobly arranged unions. “Neither did your brother-in-law, the marquess,” she continued. “Or—”

“You’ve quite made your point, Mother,” he said tersely.

“Have I?” she asked, arching a blonde eyebrow.

Actually, she hadn’t, and if he were truthful, which he did not intend to be—not with his mother, anyway—he really wished she’d explain the whole blasted thing to him. “Yes,” he lied.

“Well, I’ll say it regardless.” Which was good, as it would not require him to ask. “I’ve never been, nor will I ever be, one of those mamas making demands on you to wed. My happiness in life has never been dependent upon my children marrying but rather on
whom
my children marry.” In that, she was far different than Father. She paused and passed a meaningful gaze over his face. “He was a good father, but he was a duke first, wasn’t he?” she asked quietly. To agree would be to disparage the man’s memory, so Sebastian said nothing. “I’ll not have you marry when your heart is not engaged, Sebastian.” She held her gloved palms up. “But if your heart
is
engaged and you do not act on that, well, then that is something that would greatly disappoint.”

He tightened his hands at his side. He’d already decided he would offer for Hermione, but was his heart engaged? He enjoyed being with her, she made him smile, bothered, and engaged all as one. He froze, unblinking.

I love her. I love her smile and her spirit. I love the mischievous twinkle in her eyes and the challenge on her lips.
Sebastian waited for panic.

That didn’t come.

His mother glanced at the clock, unaware of the turbulent thoughts roiling through him. “If it is the same to you, Sebastian, I’d leave for Lady Brookfield’s ball.” She started for the door and took her leave.

He stared, his gaze fixed on the copy of
The Bitterest Baron’s Bittersweet Love
and suddenly wished he’d left more than an hour ago. He spun on his heel and marched from the room then down the foyer. He needed to see Hermione and tell her she was correct. It wasn’t years. In his case, he’d found love in just days.

Hermione did not care that the rumors had proven incorrect about the Duke of Mallen attending Lady Brookfield’s ball. Just as she did not care that she’d sat in the same spot at the back wall for the better part of two hours. Just as she also did not care that… She shifted in her seat. Well, she did care about the same-spot-business because her back ached quite dreadfully for being in nearly the same position for those nearly two hours.

She craned her neck and strained to the edge of the seat in a move that had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with searching for a certain duke. The set of whirling dancers came between her and the front of the room and she sank back in her chair with a sigh. Perhaps, her efforts did have to do with a certain duke. With the precariousness of her family’s situation, her preoccupation with the affable, ever-charming Sebastian was the height of folly; her feelings for him were nothing but a distraction from any real kind of solution to the troubles plaguing her small, scandalized family.

“Hermione Rogers, given the state of your family’s circumstances you would be better served dancing than sitting as you are.”

She blinked. She’d not thought she’d spoken aloud.

“Hermione!”

She hopped to her feet and finally focused upon the stern matron. “Aunt Agatha,” she said quickly.

“Did you hear me, Hermione?” Her aunt glowered. “You should be dancing.”

“Do you suggest I ask a gentleman to partner me?” The impudent question tumbled from her lips before she could recall it.

Aunt Agatha went slack-jaw.

She didn’t mean to be ungrateful, yet what did her aunt expect? No lady preferred to be the pathetic, pitiful wallflower at the edge of the dance floor. Hermione could no sooner drum up a partner than she could force Cavendish to do the right thing by her family.

Her aunt angled herself in a way that she shielded their exchange from the crowd. “I gather you are aware of your father’s meeting with a certain lord?”

“I am,” she said on a hushed whisper. At least Aunt Agatha had the discretion to not mention the actual gentleman’s name. Even as Hermione’s actions would never warrant notice, one could never be too careful when there was a sea swarming with gossipy
ton
members.

Her aunt gave a curt nod. “If you sought salvation from that one, there will be none coming.”
Oh, God.
She’d desperately prayed Papa had been wrong in this regard. “He is to wed a wealthy heiress and will never dare acknowledge a connection to your family. There is to be a formal announcement…” Her aunt’s words came as if down a hall and she stared unblinking at the ridges upon the enormous Doric column. Hermione reached a hand out and grasped it, seeking support. Elizabeth. Her babe. Addie. They would all be ruined. “…He is here…the…”

She shook her head. “He is here,” she blurted. Sick dread filled her at the prospect of seeing the man who’d robbed her innocent sister of her virtue. Her significant height allowed her to look with ease over her aunt’s shoulder. Hermione scanned the crowded room in search of a familiar gentleman with hair so fair it was nearly white.

“Are you listening to me, Hermione?”

She jerked her attention back to Aunt Agatha. “Yes,” she lied. She’d heard just bits and fragments of her aunt’s flurry of words.

“If you are not prepared to make this great sacrifice for yourself, my dear, at least think of your sister and brother.”

This great sacrifice. That evil, vile, horrid plan mentioned three days ago by her aunt. An act which would never, could never, be redeemed.
Trap Sebastian.
Her mouth went dry at the great appeal of being not his duchess, but his wife. Such a man would never so fail his family as her father had done.
You’ll never have to worry for Addie, Hugh, or Elizabeth’s future again.
The venomous thought snaked around her mind, spewing its poison.

“I see you’re considering it,” her aunt snapped. “Which means you are not as foolish as I’d imagined.”

“Thank you,” she said between tight lips.

Alas, her aunt failed to hear or care about her niece’s sarcasm. “The gentleman has expressed interest enough in you that yours will not be an unhappy union. All you need do, my girl, is coordinate a meeting, and I shall see to the rest.”

Hermione’s stomach dipped at the effortless manner in which her aunt spoke of compromising her niece’s reputation and robbing a man of choice. And, Hermione, who’d never been without words, found herself incapable of mustering a single reply for her avaricious aunt, never more grateful than when she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd. How could this cold, title-grasping woman share the blood of Hermione’s departed mother? Her mother, who’d been so hopelessly in love with Papa that she’d foregone far loftier, more advantageous matches to wed a bookish baronet with a whimsical heart.

She made for her seat, and then froze. The crowd fell away. Her aunt’s scheming slipped her thoughts, and she took a step forward as Sebastian made his entrance. He strode down the stairs, elegantly attired in his midnight black breeches and black jacket, looking for all the world as though he were the owner of the ballroom. Eager matchmaking mamas clamored for his notice. Gentlemen threw their hands up in greeting. Hermione smiled sadly. Her aunt expected her to make a match with him. Yet, by the circumstances of his noble birth and her modest, country lifestyle, they could not be more different. Dukes just a breath shy of royalty wed young ladies of equal blue blood. Hermione and Sebastian barely moved within the same social sphere and then, only by his seeming interest.

Someone stepped into his path, staying his forward movement—a well-matched couple. A handsome gentleman with chestnut brown hair, arm looped through that of a blonde, voluptuous young lady who smiled with such familiarity at Sebastian, Hermione’s insides twisted with jealousy. His smile, a charming gift he now bestowed upon the woman.

Hermione forced herself to look away. Aunt Agatha deluded herself if she imagined more to Sebastian’s smiles than there truly was. Why, he likely smiled that same, dangerous, slightly crooked grin at any number of young ladies and had surely left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. She fisted the fabric of her yellow skirts and looked at the crowd…

…and froze.

Her heart pounded hard as she stared at the familiar, loathsome sight of the rogue who’d destroyed her sister’s heart and shattered the possibility of a respectable future for any of them. She’d known it was likely that they would again meet, and now seeing him grinning and casually sipping champagne, a mind-numbing fury threatened to consume her.

He glanced almost disinterestedly about the room…and then his gaze collided with hers. Momentary confusion filled his eyes and then dawning horror. Lord Cavendish’s lips parted as if in a gasp and he choked on his French champagne, attracting concerned stares.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Good, the blighter deserved to choke for what he’d done. She contained a bloodthirsty streak. But then, when you were a sister that is what you did. You loved fiercely. You donned silly yellow skirts and attempted to catch a husband as though men were trout in a well-stocked lake. And you slayed dragons real and imagined, or in this case, Lord Cavendish the man who’d stolen Elizabeth’s virtue.