Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (23 page)

“Did you hear me?” Addie called out again. “I asked why I couldn’t go to—”

“Because you can’t,” Hermione said for the tenth time that morning, and surely the fiftieth time since she’d informed Addie three days ago she would not be allowed to attend the hastily thrown together ceremony in the Duke of Mallen’s townhouse.

Addie pouted. “But now I’ll never see a wedding.” She hung her legs over the side of Hermione’s bed and kicked them back and forth in a distracted manner. “Hugh has already said I will never find a husband and that Elizabeth can never marry.” She stopped swinging her legs. “If I don’t attend at least your wedding, then I’ll never see one.”

Hermione turned to face her sister, managing her first smile in three days. “You’ll find a husband.” A small smile. But a smile, nonetheless for her sister’s grand flourish for the theatrics. In marrying Sebastian, Addie would have everything she deserved in life.

That should bring her some solace. Only, it didn’t. A swell of emotion clogged her throat. She’d sacrificed Sebastian’s happiness for the well-being of her sisters and brother. Her siblings would at last be protected and she? Her heart spasmed. Well, she’d lost the right to happiness.

Her sister hopped off the bed and skipped over. She tugged at Hermione’s arm, pulling her back from her despondent musings. “Do you love him?”

She managed a jerky nod as her throat worked.
With everything I am. I do.

“Does he love you?”

A sob caught in her throat. She covered her lips in an attempt to disguise it as a cough. Perhaps he had. Once. But never again. The truth of that nearly cleaved her in two.

Alas, her sister was far more mature than most eleven-year-olds. Four lines of worry creased the girl’s brow. “Why aren’t you happy?”

Pain dug at her heart. “I did something bad, poppet,” she whispered. Something unforgivable.

Addie scratched her head. “To your duke.”

He’d never been hers.
I was going to offer for you, madam…

Except, he almost had been. He’d almost cared enough, respected her enough to make a formal offer for her. In spite of her family’s lesser rank, when dukes married the daughters of other dukes and much more higher titled ladies than a mere baronet’s daughter, he would have wed her. A bitter laugh bubbled up past her lips. Instead, she’d forced his hand and in doing so had killed any affection he might have held for her.

Addie rocked back and forth on her feet. “Are you all right, Hermione?” Her lower lip trembled. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Fine, poppet.” Hermione sucked in a shuddery breath. “I’m just fine,” she lied and mustered a smile. She’d never be fine again.

Some of the tension went out of her sister’s plump cheeks. “What did you do?”

She couldn’t simply acknowledge to an inquisitive child that she’d done something wrong and expect the girl to let the matter rest. “I’d rather not discuss it, love.” The wrongs she’d committed were so great that Hermione could never dare sully her sister’s innocence with the truth.

Addie tugged her by the hand and pulled her over to the bed. She put her palms on Hermione’s shoulders and shoved her down. Hermione grunted as she landed on the mattress. Her sister planted herself in front of her path of escape. “Out with it.” Addie stared, an expectant look on her chubby face.

Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples. The girl’s innocence a paradox of her own mature darkness was too much. She shifted her gaze to the opened book atop her small desk. “Do you remember reading
The Entrapped Earl
,” she began, speaking in the only terms that might make sense to a young girl.

Addie nodded. “The earl fell hopelessly in love with a young lady after one meeting.”

Hermione nodded, and then reached for the volume. “But she wanted more.”

Her sister slid onto the spot alongside Hermione. The bed dipped under the slight addition of her weight. She wrinkled her nose. “She wanted money,” she said with a staggering maturity.

Is that how her sister and other readers had taken the heroine, Lady Louisa’s actions? Hermione frowned. “No,” she said slowly. “She wanted security.”

“Aren’t they the same?” Addie gave her a questioning look. She held her hands up on either side of her, mentally weighing each item she ticked off. “We have Partridge and servants and mayhap not new books, but we have old books and all of that is because of money. Are you sure they aren’t the same?”

“No.” Addie gave her a pointed look. “Yes. Well, perhaps a bit,” she said a touch defensively. She’d not wanted security for herself. She’d wanted it for those she loved.
You wanted money
, a voice jeered. She made an impatient sound and surged to her feet.
I wanted him.
“Regardless, he loved her…” And the security that would come in being wed to him. “And Lady Louisa loved him, but she needed him for security and…” And she’d robbed him of choice. Where was the love in that? Oh, God.

“Money,” Addie repeated, pressing the knife of guilt deeper. “She wanted money.” She hopped to her feet. “The earl could not ever truly love a woman who’d wed him for that reason.”

Her sister may as well have twisted that vicious dagger into Hermione’s heart. The idea Addie should so hate that character dug at Hermione’s insides. At some point, she’d forgotten they spoke of the fictional Lady Louisa who’d sacrificed all to trap an earl. “You did not like Lady Louisa,” she whispered. For to save her family, Hermione had become that woman. A ragged sigh escaped her. In shattering Sebastian’s trust, she’d forsaken any right to happiness, and likely Addie would never know the sacrifice…

“No, I don’t like her,” Addie said simply. “I despise her.”

The muscles of her stomach tightened.
God help me, so do I.

Addie furrowed her brow again. “What does this have to do with the duke?”

Everything
. She gave another weak smile. “Nothing at all, poppet. Nothing at all.” She cleared her throat. “Run along, sweet. I have some things to see to before…”
My wedding.
She couldn’t bring herself to form those words.

Her sister let out another disappointed sigh. “Very well, then.” Addie stomped over to the door. She spun back around and jabbed her finger toward Hermione. “But I shan’t allow you to attend my wedding, either.” With that angry outburst, she yanked open the door. The wood panel shook on its frames as she slammed it in her wake.

It would seem in trapping Sebastian, Hermione had become no more than one of those odious characters who could never be redeemed, a figure so detestable one’s sister could not even like them. Her heart clenched as she recalled the animosity in Sebastian’s once teasing eyes.

And what was worse, she’d now wed a gentleman who could not even bear the sight of her. Hermione buried her face into her palms and wept until she thought she might break.

C
hapter 21

H
ermione’s neck fairly burned with the probing stares directed at her. She shifted on her feet and silently pleaded with Sebastian’s butler to open the blasted door to spare her from further scrutiny.

Her father rapped again.

Perhaps the duke had changed his mind. A panicky little laugh worked its way up her throat. Perhaps he intended to renege on his word just as Lord Cavendish had and then they’d all be well and truly ruined.

The door opened suddenly, quashing all her fears. The butler, an older, expressionless man passed a gaze from her to her father, and then back to Hermione. Wordlessly, he motioned them inside.

She stole a longing glance at her father’s old, black carriage.
I cannot do this. Not even to save my sisters and brother. I cannot wed Sebastian knowing he’ll forever resent me—

Father touched her hand and she jumped. “Come along, dear,” he murmured.

Hermione forced her feet to move forward and walked with wooden steps to the threshold. She paused. Her gaze fixed on the gold knocker etched with two lions. The fierce creatures were frozen in a gold roar. It would appear even the duke’s inanimate objects hated her. She curled her toes as she imagined meeting his very proper, ducal family and just what they would think of a too-tall, plain miss with a hideous yellow dress who’d trapped the duke.

Their footsteps echoed noisily from the white Italian marble foyer, the sound reverberated off the sweeping ceilings. She looked up, up, ever upward to the stunning pastel scene of cherubs atop their fluffy white clouds. Hermione gulped. She could fit her entire cottage into this massive space. Not, truly. But very nearly close to—

“You must be Hermione.”

She jumped and slapped a hand to her racing heart as she turned to greet the woman who swept down the winding staircase. Regal, elegant and in possession of flawless skin and blonde hair, the older woman could be none other than the duchess. “Your Grace,” Hermione dropped a curtsy. Weren’t all duchesses oft frowning, staid figures? All the fictional ones she’d crafted had been.

The woman came to a stop before her. Her kind stare lingered upon Hermione’s swollen eyes. She smiled gently. “I am Sebastian’s mother, the Duchess of Mallen.” She held out her arm. “The parlor is more comfortable for a meeting than a cold, empty foyer.”

How could the lady be so…
nice
to the woman who’d stolen her son’s chance for happiness? Hermione sank into a deep curtsy; the familiar sting of shame scorched her entire being. “It is an honor,” she murmured and then hesitantly looped her arm through the duchess’. The older woman steered her forward. They walked in silence through the house. She took in the crimson carpet lining the halls, the satin wallpapered walls. The duchess led them to an expansive parlor. She motioned for Hermione to enter. Hermione stepped inside and paused. She flicked her gaze over the lavish fixtures, the tall long-case clock and the crimson sofas with more angry lions upon the arms of the seating.

Her Grace motioned Hermione forward. “Won’t you sit?”

“Thank you.” A ball of emotion lodged in her throat and she swallowed it. Why was this woman smiling and kind? She must surely detest her as much as Hermione detested herself. She slid onto the edge of the nearest chair.

The duchess turned to Papa and they exchanged greetings. “Your Grace, a pleasure, indeed a pleasure,” Papa said as he claimed a seat alongside the duchess. “Isn’t it, Hermione? It is not every day that one meets a duchess.”

Hermione cringed.
Be silent, Papa. Be silent
.

Alas, her father had failed to truly see his children since the death of his wife so he’d not see something as desperate as pleading eyes now. He continued to prattle on. “Then, my Hermione will be a duchess.” He tugged his lapels, proudly. “Not that I’m surprised, of course. She’s quite a special girl.”

She winced.

“Honorable.”

She flinched.

“Respectable.”

She winced again.

“And intelligent. Do you know,” he dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. “She pens quite—”

“Papa!” Her sharp command emerged as a high-pitched squawk. He looked to her questioningly. She gave her head a curt shake.

The duchess gave her a commiserative smile, as though she’d interpreted Hermione’s personal shame and sought to assure her that all was well here—which was quite wrong for so many reasons. Nothing was well here.

Papa frowned and appeared ready to protest Hermione’s plea for his discretion. He looked about. “Will we have the privilege of seeing the duke?”

Or had the duke come to his senses and realized Miss Hermione Rogers and her scandalous family was not worth having? But then, in this, she’d not been truthful with him either. He knew nothing of her history or her reasons why. A half-sob, half-laugh escaped her. As though her motives should ever matter to him.

“Indeed you will.” A familiar voice drawled from the doorway.

Sebastian
. Hermione surged to her feet, as did the others present. Her heart fluttered wildly as the deep, familiar baritone washed over her, even in its anger, somehow warming. Everyone and everything fell away; the hatred he carried for her, her reason for being here, the vile thing she’d done. There was only them, as they’d been before Lady Brookfield’s ball. Then he turned a harsh, unrelenting stare on her, and the fleeting moment was shattered. She shifted on her feet. “Your Grace,” she said, her tongue wooden. She dipped a belated curtsy.

He motioned to a seat.

Gratefully, she slid into the comfortable folds of the chair. Papa and the duchess doing likewise.

Sebastian did a cursory search of her person and then he flicked his stare over to Papa, promptly dismissing her. Is this how it would be for the remainder of her life? Tears smarted behind her eyes and she blinked them back.

More merriment than she remembered in years wreathed her father’s wrinkled face. At least one of them should be happy. “I was just commending to the duchess on your fine selection in a bride.”

She repressed a groan, praying for the return of the laconic, morose papa and not the prideful, boastful one.

Sebastian arched a cynical eyebrow and she longed for the hardwood floor to fall away from her feet and swallow her whole.

“Quite loyal, my Hermione is. A wonderful daughter and good sister.”

She fixed her gaze on Sebastian’s immaculate cravat unable to meet his coolly mocking eyes. All the while Papa gushed effusive praise. So removed was he from life that he did not know, nor realize, Hermione had forced the duke’s hand. This was no marriage of love or affection or mutual respect—all such sentiments were strictly on her part.

“There is no more beautiful girl than my—”

“That is quite enough, Papa,” she bit out. She flushed as three pairs of eyes swung her way.

Sebastian held her gaze for a moment. She braced for the icy condescension and disgust at her suddenly garrulous father’s bombastic compliments. She tipped her chin defiantly back and boldly met his gaze. The fight drained out of her at the remoteness of his stare as he turned his attention to Papa. She hugged her arms to herself as Papa proceeded to talk. And talk. And then talk some more.

The butler appeared at the entrance of the room with a smiling, brown-haired, brown-eyed woman and a tall, commanding gentleman with blond hair and a small child in his arms. “The Marquess and Marchioness of Drake,” the servant announced.

Sebastian’s sister.

Except, Hermione remained fixed on the small girl. Mayhap no older than two years of age, she possessed full cheeks, red lips, and the widest cornflower blue eyes. The little girl looked at Hermione and smiled. “Hullo,” Hermione said quietly. She lifted her fingers and waved at the babe. The girl flapped her hand in an awkward wave and then as though excited, bounced up and down in her father’s arms and with a squeal buried her face in his chest. Emotion flared in Hermione’s breast as she imagined a different babe with Elizabeth’s golden-blonde hair and sweetly innocent smile. And the reminder flooded her of why she’d done exactly as she’d done in Lord Brookfield’s office.

“Hermione?” Sebastian murmured with the gentle concern she’d come to know of him.

She hopped to her feet once more and dimly registered the marchioness had spoken. To her. She looked wordlessly up at her husband-to-be. Cold ice filled his eyes, and she knew she’d merely imagined any hint of warmth.

Lady Emmaline cleared her throat. “My brother mentioned you enjoy Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work,” she said softly.

“He did?” Hermione blurted. Which would mean he’d at least cared enough about her to mention her to his sister. Surely that meant something? She looked at her husband-to-be once again. He looked at a point beyond her shoulder. Or mayhap not. She shook her head, dispelling wishful yearnings. “Uh, yes, I quite enjoy…a Gothic novel.” There was something obsequious in claiming to like one’s work—even if others didn’t know she was,
the
Mr. Michaelmas.

Emmaline laughed. “You must be quite special if you’ve managed to convince my stodgy brother he’s been wrong all these years about a Gothic novel.” She wandered closer and claimed Hermione’s hand. “I always said when a young woman captured my brother’s heart—”

“The vicar has arrived,” Sebastian said harshly. His interruption killed the words on his sister’s lips.

Hermione looked to the door where a small, slender man of indeterminate years now stood. He took in the collection of individuals and then audibly gulped at the fierce glint in Sebastian’s eyes.

A muscle ticked at the corner of her husband-to-be’s mouth. “Shall we begin?” he asked coolly.

Unless she was prepared to add another great scandal to her family and see Addie and Hugh also ruined, it seemed she had little choice.

“It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined…”

She’d been crying.

Sebastian stared over the vicar’s head at the ornate, gold-framed mirror. Considering the circumstances surrounding their hasty union, he would imagine those salty drops were tears of great joy for having secured the title of duchess, and yet the wide, dark circles under her eyes and the pinched set to her mouth indicated the lady’s sadness.

The vicar’s monotonous tone droned on and on, echoing about the still parlor. But for his sister, mother, brother-in-law, and Hermione’s father, there was no cheerful crowd, no observers, and no guests.

And for the love of God, why, did he care that she’d been crying? Because damn it, he did. Because he was a weak, blasted fool.

Hermione remained stoically silent. With the exception of a breathless ‘Sebastian,’ she’d not uttered a single word to him. Not even when her father had placed her hand upon his shoulder.

“Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak…”

Her red, swollen eyes suggested the lady had been crying for the better part of three days. Sebastian kept his attention on the clergyman officiating the services, but unbidden he stole another glance at the tall, proud woman with her expressionless face and remote gaze. He could not make sense of the aching pain in her striking blue eyes. She had everything she wanted. Her title of Duchess of Mallen. Yet, she wept. What reason was there for her tears? Had she expected he should celebrate in their circumstances?

He didn’t want to care how she felt or why she felt as she did. He wanted to feed the seething fury deep inside, for it protected him from the agony in knowing he’d loved a woman who didn’t exist. He’d been schooled by the late Duke of Mallen, trained to be level-headed and practical in all matters. Secretly, in the privacy of his own thoughts he’d scoffed at his late father’s expectations of him, insisted on a meaningful match based on love. Of course, his father, even in death was proven correct. Ina matter of days, a handful of meetings, three stolen kisses, and a Gothic novel, Sebastian had given his heart to a woman he barely knew. Perhaps there was something to be said for logic, after all.

His parents had been fortunate. Emmaline and Drake, as well. Those unions, however, had been mere chance. There was no matter of chance or romance in what he and Hermione had shared. By her own admission, he’d merely represented an ideal match for his title alone. He rubbed a hand his chest to ease the dull ache there.