Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (2 page)

Addie paused mid-stride. “I have it!” She jabbed a finger at the air.

Hermione really hoped her sister had something because she was remarkably out of ideas. “What is it?”

“You need a duke.”

Hermione blinked several times. “I need a
duke
?” She cocked her head. She had a greater chance of success sprouting wings and flying across the English Channel than landing a duke.

Her sister laughed. “Not to wed, silly. Dukes don’t wed impoverished young ladies from the country.”

Ah, even innocent young girls knew that much. “Indeed, they don’t,” she said dryly.

“You merely need a duke for your story.”

Hermione considered the discarded pages littering her floor and then looked back to her sister. “I know. Mr. Werksman asked me to deliver a story featuring a duke within the month. I—” Addie slapped the sheet against Hermione’s chest. “Oomph.”

“Not for your story. You need a duke for your research.”

She tossed aside the paper and tickled her sister in the sensitive spot at the crook of her elbow until the little girl squirmed breathlessly. “But I thought you said I don’t need to meet someone to write of them.”

Great snorting laughs escaped her lips. “S-stop! I—I s-said…” Another bleat. “S-stop.”

She relented.

A cautious glint entered Addie’s eyes and she inched away. “What I
was
saying is that if you can’t find inspiration within yourself, you must seek it without.” Her grin widened. “If you can’t write a story about a person you’ve not met, well then, you must meet him.” Eager excitement sparkled in the girl’s eyes and she clapped her hands. “You require a duke.”

For the inherent silliness in her sister’s explanation, there was, to Hermione’s writer’s mind, a good deal of sense in those words. Except… “I can’t merely drum up a duke for research purposes.”

Addie waved a finger in front of her face. “Ah, in Surrey perhaps not. But when you go to London, you shall.” She slapped the pages down upon Hermione’s desk. “I see no other choice.” Then in a dramatic flourish she swept the back of her hand across her brow. “If you fail to find one, then your story shall never be told.” She straightened. “Or, your story shall never be told
well
.” She picked up one of Hermione’s many books. “
London’s Most Spectacularly Seedy Establishments
.” Her eyes formed moons in her face. “Are we going to go to these seedy—?”

“No.” Hermione ended the question before it could be asked. Even though they did accompany her on her research trips, her younger siblings were certainly not going
anywhere
remotely seedy.

“But your research!”

She laughed. “How very dedicated you are to my research.”

“Well, someone must be,” Addie mumbled.

Hermione bristled. “Whatever does that mean?” She didn’t care to have her dedication to her craft questioned—even if it was by a judgmental eleven-year-old younger sister.

Addie shrugged. “Of all the authors I know, you’re—”

“I’m the
only
author you know.”

The girl merely continued over her. “—the only one who writes of dashing noblemen and powerful princes set amidst the dark world of London, yet you’ve never been there.”

Hermione folded her arms. “I’ve been there.” Even if there was merit to the claim, no author liked to have the integrity of her work called into question.

Her sister snorted. “When you were
six
.”

“Seven,” Hermione said defensively. “And what do you know of it?” She never spoke of those long ago days or the city of London, largely because Addie was indeed correct—she remembered nothing but the thick of fog and the heavy grey clouds overhead.

“Partridge mentioned that our family hadn’t always remained shut away. She said we—
you
,” she amended, “Elizabeth, Mama, Papa…” She waved a hand about. “That you used to go places.” An excited glimmer shone in her eyes. “And now I, too, shall go to London and have an adventure!”

Regret pulled at Hermione’s heart. She’d become so accustomed to how their small, broken family had been forever transformed by Elizabeth’s illness and their mother’s subsequent death, that too often she forgot how those events had robbed Hugh and Addie of so many experiences known by other children. She dropped a kiss atop her sister’s brow.

Addie wrinkled her nose. “What was that for?”

“Just because I love you.” Had it been Hugh, he’d have run from the room in disgust from the kiss alone. The words of love would have sent him tearing down the old Roman roads, as far away from any such sentimentality as fast as his little legs could take him. Addie however, smiled widely. Hermione pointed to the door. “Now, if you’d rather debate my abilities to write those stories that you claim to love than get ready for our grand adventure…”

Her sister giggled. “You know I adore them.”

“I know you do.” She smiled. “Now, go. There are some final things I must see to.”

“Very well,” Addie said with a sigh. She skipped from the room, not bothering to close the door behind her.

With purposeful strides, Hermione strode over to the damaged violin atop her stack of research books. She trailed her fingers over the wood, once smooth and immaculate; the cherished instrument of a child who’d been so very proficient in all things musical. Violin in hand, she made her way from her room, down the cold, dark corridors of their modest cottage. The silence occasionally punctuated by the bustling steps of the two maids in their employ who hurried to prepare the Rogers family for their impending departure.

She picked her way down the steps and walked to the back of the house, through the kitchens and outside into the overgrown, once well-loved garden. Hermione paused at the threshold. Sunlight bathed her face, warm and comforting and she raised a hand to shield the glare of the rays from her eyes.

Unmindful of propriety or the fabric of her gown, Elizabeth knelt on the ground, still damp from last evening’s rain. She tipped her head toward a rose bush and inhaled the scent. The actions of her lovely sister, now twenty-five and possessed of a golden beauty, were more suited to a young woman, tending her gardens, happily wedded. Then, impulsively, Elizabeth grabbed the bloom by its thorned stem.

Shaken from her reverie, Hermione raced down the slick grass onward to her weeping sister. “Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.”

Partridge jumped up from the chipped stone bench but Hermione reached Elizabeth first.

She fell to a knee beside her sister and set aside the violin. “What happened, love?” she asked gently.

Her sister rocked back and forth. “B-bit me. The rose bit me and…” She let loose another round of noisy tears.

Hermione drew her into her arms and simply held her until she quieted. She drew back and brushed her fingers over Elizabeth’s tear-dampened cheeks. “Better, now?”

Elizabeth sucked on her injured digit. “No.”

“What if I say I brought you this?” Hermione asked, and reached for the violin.

An excited squeal replaced all previous upset and Elizabeth made an awkward grab for the instrument. “I play. You say I play.”

“Of course you can play,” she said handing over the violin.

Elizabeth sank into an inglorious heap; her skirts rucked up about her legs, Hermione forgotten. Her sister tugged clumsily at the strings with stiff, awkward fingers, periodically emitting a coarse whine as a discordant song filled the air.

Hermione brushed a hand over her sister’s silken tresses. “I have to leave, love,” she said softly.

Her sister never picked her head up, giving no indication she heard or was outwardly affected by the truth that her sister, once best friend, now useless protector, would leave.

Partridge held Hermione’s gaze and gave a sad, knowing smile.

She tried again. “Did you hear me?” But Elizabeth remained fixed on her damaged violin. A pang struck Hermione’s heart. She didn’t know what Elizabeth understood, how she felt; it was as though she’d become trapped in a world of her own. “I have to leave.” She stroked the top of Elizabeth’s head. “I’m going off to London.”
To be somber and serious and not at all happy.
She stared at a butterfly fluttering about from one wildflower to the next.

The memory of those words uttered a lifetime ago, on the edge of a river before their world had been thrown into upheaval danced silently through the air.

How eerily wrong Elizabeth had been. On the last day of their normal happy existence, Elizabeth had imagined they had their whole lives to be somber and now, staring at her so blissfully unaware of the impending doom facing them, there was nothing somber about her elder sister.

It would fall to Hermione to set her family to rights. As her sister Addie had pointed out, all she needed to do was find one duke to tell her story. She had six weeks to find a duke, conduct her research, and tell her story.

How difficult could it be to find a dark, brooding duke at the height of a Season? Why, London should be fairly teeming with dukes of all sorts. All she needed to do was pluck one from a gathering…

C
hapter 2

T
he day the Fourth Duke of Mallen’s heart stopped beating, he’d not been an old man. Granted, he’d not been a very young man either. Five years shy of his sixtieth year and the picture of robust health, the late duke could have comfortably wrestled men thirty years his junior. Or, that is what Sebastian Fitzhugh, now 5th Duke of Mallen had believed at the time. The illusion of his father’s resilience and indomitability had been broken with one gasp, a shattered glass of brandy, and then a blank-eyed stare.

In that moment, that single defining moment, Sebastian had realized one significant, very pivotal point. When a man died, the material wealth and powerful connections left behind meant nothing. It had been a staggering realization for a son who’d been carefully schooled on his responsibilities and obligations to the ducal line since he’d been no more than a child.

Seated at the desk once belonging to that late, great figure, Sebastian studied the page laid out upon the immaculate surface of his mahogany desk list.

Age 31

Serve on Board of London Hospital
 √

Have profitable estates
 √

End sister’s childhood betrothal established by the 4th Duke of Mallen
 √

Marry off sister
 √

Marry off sister to best friend, Christopher Earl of Waxham

Sire an heir

He placed a ledger along the bottom of the page, obscuring the last three damning words he’d written six years to the date when he’d stepped into the role of duke. Words his father would have viewed as extraneous and irrelevant in the scheme of his life.

The items he’d accomplished really weren’t unimpressive. He drummed his fingertips on the sheet. Why, he did serve on the Board of London Hospital as was evidenced by that clever little check and he had severed the childhood betrothal established between his sister Emmaline and the Marquess of Drake. He frowned. Granted she’d been the one who’d severed the arrangement and then promptly accepted an offer from the same gentleman anyway. But that was neither here nor there.

Yet, if he were to be wholly honest—with at least himself—he hadn’t accomplished much in his thirty-one years; certainly nothing worth mentioning, anyway. Which wouldn’t matter to most gentlemen. No, most would be content to embrace the carefree life of bachelorhood and the revered title, especially with all familial obligations firmly wedded and happy.

It did matter when presented with his father’s early death and his own advancing years. And it would have mattered to his father. A great deal. His sire had instilled in him a commitment to the ducal responsibilities from the moment Sebastian uttered his first word, Da. From then on, each lesson had been carefully ingrained into the only son and heir to the late Duke of Mallen.

He turned his attention to the far more impressive list on the right—the one that served as a comparison of all other lists. On this day, the page before him was all the more poignant. A reminder of a life lost. A reminder of everything accomplished despite that early death. It also served as a reminder of Sebastian’s own mortality…and failings.

He set the sheet down and sat back in the familiar folds of his leather winged-back chair. In mere moments, his late father had gone from stout health and happy to dead of an apoplexy, Sebastian stepped into the role of duke but had not relinquished his own hope.

But on this day, restlessness filled him. He shoved to his feet then strode over to the sideboard. He’d never had much use for the maudlin sort, those sentimental fellows who were free with their emotion. He grabbed a decanter of brandy, pulled off the stopper and then splashed several fingerfuls into a glass. Not because he passed judgment on them for that emotion but rather with the responsibilities he’d undertaken, learning the role of heir to a dukedom and then eventually the dukedom itself, well who had the time for those sentiments?

Sebastian carried his glass over to the window and pulled back the curtain with his other hand. He stared down into the busy streets below. Black lacquer carriages bearing lords and ladies heading to the evening’s amusements, as they did every evening, a city tableau that had likely played out upon the same pavement below ten, thirty, and fifty years ago. And at the end of your life, what did you have? He swirled the contents of his glass.
If a man is fortunate, Sebastian, when he leaves this Earth he’ll have left his estates thriving and his coffers full.
The memory of those words rang so clear, his father’s voice fairly boomed off the very walls.

“Responsibility, commitment, and honor.”

Next to the successfully managed estates, his father had extoled powerful familial connections above all else. Sebastian’s lips twisted wryly. So much so, the man had betrothed his five-year old daughter to another duke’s son. A union that had in no way taken into consideration those two small children or their future happiness.

Sebastian took a sip. If his father could hear those treasonous thoughts, he’d have rolled over in his well-cared for grave. With his passing, however, he came to appreciate in death, what a man left behind, the real legacy that remained was his family. That was the real mark he made upon the earth. At no point had anyone who’d shared remembrances of the late duke ever mentioned a blasted thing about the well-run properties and the colossal wealth he’d amassed. The only one who truly spoke with any real fondness of the late duke was Sebastian’s mother.

For some inexplicable reason, the duke who’d valued power, honor, and strength above all else—had somehow—fallen in love with his wife.

Sebastian had also come to appreciate, the very insignificant mark he would make if his heart were to suddenly attack him, as had happened to the previous duke. And that was the toll by which he measured himself. Not the wealth or the estates or the familial connections. At thirty-one, his father had a wife he loved and an heir. In his life he’d go on to produce a daughter, Emmaline.

A knock sounded at his office door. He stiffened, and turned just as his mother pulled the door open and stepped inside “Sebastian,” she said with a smile. She drew on her long, white evening gloves.

He inclined his head. “Mother.” He searched for a hint that she remembered the significance of this very day, but the softness in her expression gave little hint of pained thoughts.

She sailed into the room, her silver satin skirts snapping about her ankles. “You’re intending to join me this evening?” His mother stopped beside his desk.

Glass held in salute he said, “As a dutiful son, I cannot imagine a place I’d rather be but at Lord and Lady Denley’s ballroom.” And he’d prided himself on being that dutiful son.

Her laugh cut into his words. “So very dutiful you’ve not attended a single ball in a fortnight.” Alas, it seemed it was never enough.

He inclined his head. “Has it been a fortnight?” He quite detested the tedium of the events. The simpering ladies shoved into his path by eager mamas who’d have nothing more than the illustrious title of duchess for their daughters.

“And not a single event at Almack’s,” she carried on.

“Almack’s, is it?” He took a sip of his brandy. She was matchmaking. “Is there a certain lady?”

She blinked. “Beg pardon?”

Sebastian waved his glass. “Almack’s, my appearances at events? I take it there is a certain lady you’ve selected for my duchess.” As it was she’d already been far more patient than most other mothers.

His mother pursed her lips. Her graceful face devoid of wrinkles gave little indication of her years. “Oh, hush. I know better than to matchmake for you. You have very specific,” she arched an eyebrow, “requirements in your duchess.”

He gave a lazy grin and then finished his drink. “I do at that,” he said with a deliberate vagueness that resulted in another arched eyebrow. Though he expected both his mother and sister would be indeed quite shocked if they were to glean the very precise items upon that mentioned list his mother now spoke.

His mother chose that inopportune moment to glance down—at the damning page upon his desk. Sebastian moved with alacrity. He crossed over so quickly, droplets splashed over the rim of the glass. She snapped her head up. “Sebastian?”

A dull heat climbed up his neck. He finished the contents of his glass and set it down hard—away from his lists. “We should be leaving.” Now. Before, with a mother’s intuitiveness, she pried a bit more about the pages he’d left in plain sight. The last thing he wanted this evening was to discuss the items contained within those sheets. Particularly with his mother.

She sighed, fiddling with her gloves. “Indeed, you are correct.” But still she did not move.

He propped a hip on the edge of his desk and discreetly slid his ledger over the first exposed sheet. “Lady Denley’s?” he asked, remarkably ill on discourse. This whole subterfuge business was better suited for those brooding, gloomy dukes of which he’d never been accused of being.

“Yes.” Still, she remained.

Sebastian shifted on the desk, angling toward the other visible and damning page. “I daresay Emmaline will be there.” Though that was no longer a certainty. With her daughter Regan, his sister and her husband had become quite domestic. A pang of envy struck.

“Undoubtedly,” she said wryly.

He slid another ledger atop the list. A momentary relief filled him at the protection of the exposing thoughts contained upon those carefully written pages. “We should take our leave.”

“Yes.” She paused. “You did mention that now. Twice.”

“Did I?”

“You did.”

By the lingering look she gave him, there was more she intended to say. She opened and closed her mouth several times and he braced for the eventual mention of his ducal responsibilities. Responsibilities he was, and had been, very aware of since he’d been a boy in the schoolroom with stern tutors. He’d been more fortunate than most first-born nobles with scheming mamas. His mother had never been the scheming type—not in the matter of marriage, anyway.

She wandered away from his desk and he expected she’d make her way to the front of the room, but she strolled over to the sideboard. Wordlessly, she trailed her fingertips upon the smooth, mahogany surface, her gaze fixed upon the bottles. She picked up a single decanter. Her shoulders went taut; the bottle trembled in her hands.

And he knew. Just as he’d known long ago by the shattered glass, the screams, and then the flurry of servants.

“Do you know,” her words so faintly spoken barely reached his ears. “I sometimes think I’m the only one who still marks his passing.”

Of course she remembered. How foolish to believe a woman who’d so loved her husband should fail to note the date of his death. He fell silent, discomfited by her uncharacteristic show of sadness and more. A deep-seeded guilt dug at him, for the traitorous thoughts he’d had of his father. “You’re not,” he said gruffly. “I think of him.”

She stroked the bottle of brandy almost reverently, a link to that dark day of her past. “I know,” she said and turned back to him with a sad smile. “Of course it would be foolish to think you or Emmaline wouldn’t think of him with some fondness.”

Again guilt settled hard in his belly for the resentment he still carried for lessons imparted and expectations instilled. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable revisiting that moment, in this office, on this day outside the privacy of his own thoughts.

His mother returned her attention to the bottle. “But then, that is how love is,” she said softly. “When you love someone you see only them and you cannot imagine in losing that person, that anyone should suffer in the way you yourself are suffering?” She picked her head up. “Does that make sense?”

Sebastian managed a terse nod.

Mother gave her head a shake. “You are right.” She set the bottle down. “We should be going.” With a sigh, she sailed to the front of the room, breaking the pall of sadness. She paused at the entrance, looking back. “Oh, and Sebastian?”

He inclined his head.

“If you’d rather no one see whatever words were on those very important pages, I suggest you place them in a more secure place. Now, shall we? I’d wager there is at least one marriageable lady who’ll earn your notice.” She gave a wink and then took her leave.

A wry grin tugged at his lips. Unlikely. The singularly interesting lady he’d courted, a woman he could have imagined something more with, had gone and wed his best friend. Deuced rotten luck, that. Shoving aside regretful musings of Miss Sophie Winters, now the Countess of Waxham, he took care to follow his mother’s advice. He lifted one ledger and freed the poorly hidden list and then hesitated and ultimately, shoving back the last page to reveal those quite humbling, rather humiliating three words, with a glaring line slashed through them.

Fall in love.

There was greater chance of his carriage taking flight over the Thames than such being accomplished at the wholly uninteresting dull affair in Lady Denley’s ballroom.