Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (24 page)

“Your Grace?” the vicar prodded. “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

He felt Hermione’s stare trained on him and internally cursed her. “I will,” he said tersely.

The vicar continued.

Sebastian balled his hands into fists. No, he didn’t care about the scheming miss. Only…

There had been that frozen moment where she’d stared longingly at Emmaline’s baby, Regan. She’d waved to the girl in an altogether un-title-grasping like move. Those women, whose company his wife now kept, cared for jewels and fabrics. They didn’t smile at babes or look at the husband whose title they’d stolen with sad little eyes. “Goddamn it.”

The vicar stumbled through his verse as Sebastian’s mother and sister emitted shocked gasps.

“Will you get on with it?” he managed between clenched teeth.

The vicar stammered along.

“Hermione Edith Rogers, Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Silence met the vicar’s question. A good deal of silence. The ormolu clock atop the mantle tick-tocked away the moments.

The aggrieved looking vicar cleared his throat. “Miss Rogers,” he urged, his tone fairly pleading.

Sebastian shot an impatient glance at Hermione and stilled. For a moment, a very long moment, it appeared she could not bring herself to speak the two words. He stared at the tight, drawn corners of her lips, her wan complexion. If she cried off now, she’d be ruined and he’d be spared the eternal reminder of his folly in trusting Miss Hermione Rogers. Anxiety clenched like a vise about his heart. Why, in spite of her betrayal did he want her to utter those binding vows?

“I will,” she whispered, her words so soft he struggled to hear.

The vicar leaned close. “What was that, Miss Rogers?”

“I will,” she blurted, this time louder. She drew in audible breath. “I will,” she repeated, as though trying to convince herself she wished to do this thing.

He frowned. Which made little sense. She’d orchestrated everything that came before, in order to bring herself to this moment. Yet, her reaction was not one of an eager, thrilled-to-be-a-duchess young woman he’d expect of a fortune hunter.

“…I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“It is done,” she whispered.

It was done.

The jovial discourse of Hermione’s father and Sebastian’s family blended and blurred; their words all ran together as he stood beside this woman who was now his wife. He searched for words, something to say to this woman he’d trusted. Now knowing, she was really no more than a stranger. “Breakfast.” And a liar.

She tipped her head at an endearing little angle. “Beg your pardon?” And why did he still find her endearing? Why, when everything was nothing more than an act where Hermione was concerned?

He motioned to their small assembly of family members who filed out of the parlor with the vicar, leaving them alone. “I imagine it is expected we join our guests for a
celebratory
breakfast.”

She flinched at the mocking emphasis he placed on that one word.

He held out his arm. “Let us get on with it then.”

Hermione eyed it a moment and then looked up at him. “I am so, so sorry, Sebastian.”

He flexed his jaw. “It is a bit late for regrets, Your Grace.” No mere apology could wipe away the bitter pain she’d wrought.

Her lips turned up in a sad little smile. “Your Grace,” she murmured as though tasting the title.

A familiar resentment coursed through him.

She held her hands up. “It was not about your title.” She glanced down at her palms a moment. “Or it was.” She sighed. “It was,” she said once more, seemingly to herself. Her words knifed through him until she raised her shocking blue eyes to his. “But I was truthful when I said it was not solely about your title,” she whispered. “I need you to know that I—”

He jerked and took a step away from her. “There is no reason for lies, Duchess,” he hissed. “You do not need to maintain false—”

She closed the distance between them and stood so close the tips of her slippers touched his toes. “It is true,” she said, her tone stronger, bolder, the Hermione he remembered who’d challenged his presence in Lord Denley’s office that first night. “I’ve no reason to lie.” She bit down on her lower lip.

He narrowed his eyes at that slight, telling movement. “What other lies do you carry, madam?”

A guilty blush splashed her cheeks. She glanced over his shoulder at the door. “We should join our guests. If you’ll excuse me.” She dipped a curtsy and danced around him.

He gripped her loosely about the forearm.

She glanced down, eyes widened on his hand upon her person.

He pulled her close.

Her thick dark brown lashes fluttered. “W-what are you d-doing?” That question, a sultry, seductive whisper conjured all manner of wicked deeds involving Miss Hermione Rogers, now Her Grace, Hermione Fitzhugh, the Duchess of Mallen.

He filled his hands with her buttocks and drew her against the vee of his legs. “I’m kissing you, madam.”

A little moan escaped her lips. “Why?” she asked, even as she pressed her form against his.

Why, indeed?

Then she stilled, her words came out steady and controlled. “You don’t even like me.”

No, he did not. He loved her, even as he did not know her. He tightened his jaw. He would never give her that power over him. Not again. “I don’t care to talk,” he growled. He wanted to burn the taste of her into his memory and be done with her. He attempted once more to claim her lips. She turned her head and his kiss grazed her cheek.

“But you’re cross with me. It’s not altogether pleasurable kissing a person when cross.”

He closed his eyes a moment and calmed the desire churning inside him. “You’re incorrect, Hermione.” This hungering for her was as fierce as it had been at their first meeting.

“Why would you kiss me?” Did she want him to desire her? Why should the lady care when she already had everything she’d required of him in that damned title of duchess?

“I want to,” he settled for at least that truth. For as much as he detested what she’d done, he wanted her. But then, that was love; illogical, imprudent, and all things unwise.

She shook her head. “I’d rather not…not…”

He shot one eyebrow up. “Yes?”

She gesticulated wildly with her hands. “Do anything.” Another crimson blush stained her cheeks. “Er, that is anything of the
romantic
nature.” He tightened his lips to keep from pointing out that with the desire still flaring between them, there was no need for romance in their exchange.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You do realize you’re now my wife.”

She frowned, a slight expression that conveyed displeasure and annoyance. “I, of course, know that.” The lady was cross with him? “I do realize you’ll require an heir.
However
, it will be beneficial for us to wait.” Her words conjured seductive ponderings all involving her upon her back, arms outstretched in invitation. He was still the same, imprudent bastard where his wife was concerned. Under his intense scrutiny Hermione’s color deepened. If her cheeks turned any redder, she’d set her face afire. “That is, until we better know one another,” she finished lamely.

With his outrage, the last thing he should crave was this scheming temptress in his bed, but God help him, despite her betrayal he wanted her. He wanted to claim her lips, taste her mouth, lay her down and part her legs with his knee, laying siege to her body, showing her just how pleasurable it could be when kissing someone while cross. “You do not want me to make love to you, then?”

Her eyes formed round moons amidst a burning red face.

He lowered his head closer. “Madam?” he whispered against her lips.

Hermione trailed her tongue over her lips. She gave her head a jerky shake. “No.” The whispered rejection appeared dragged from her. And for all the lies she’d told, by the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her flushed cheeks, her slightly parted bow-shaped lips, Sebastian knew she added an additional lie. She wanted him. Whether she’d admit as much to herself…or him.

“God help me, why do I still want you as I do?” he asked on a groan. He took her mouth under his, swallowing whatever lies were on her lips. She collapsed against him and he mercilessly plundered her mouth, his kiss, hard and demanding. He wanted to punish her and mark her all at once. He swept his tongue inside and boldly stroked hers. She met him with eager thrusts as their tongues danced in a forbidden dance of lovers.

Hermione moaned into his mouth and he swallowed the whimpering sound of her desire. Sebastian drew her close to his throbbing manhood and her head fell back on a soft cry. He moved his attention down her neck to the modest décolletage. He planted a series of kisses upon her satiny soft skin until she gripped his hair and anchored him in place. He wrenched away from her and set her aside.

Hermione blinked wildly, looking much like a night owl caught out in the day.

“You do not want me to make love to you, madam.” He inclined his head. “As you wish. I’ll honor your request.” With that he spun around and stalked out of the room; her labored breathing punctuating his every step. Bloody hell, he hated himself for loving her as he still did.

C
hapter 22

W
hen Hermione was at last able to remember that her name was Hermione Edith Rogers… She wrinkled her nose. Well, that wasn’t quite right. She was Hermione Rogers no longer. When she was at last able to remember her name was Hermione Edith
Fitzhugh
, Duchess of Mallen, and her heart didn’t pound an annoyingly erratic rhythm, and her body didn’t thrum with desire in remembrance of Sebastian’s kiss—she managed to move her feet forward.

She stepped out into the hall. A nervous maid shuffled back and forth on her feet. She dropped a curtsy upon catching sight of Hermione. “Your Grace,” she said on a rush. “His Grace asked me… That is…” The girl blushed. “He asked me to show you to the breakfast room.”

Hermione looked about for the duchess the young woman spoke of and then froze at the sudden realization—she was now that woman. “Of course, thank you,” she said lamely. She quite detested her new lofty title. A simple miss provided so much more obscurity than a ‘Your Grace’.

As she followed behind the maid in stoic silence mortification ate Hermione’s insides. Her husband, in his unwillingness to wait and escort her himself to the celebratory meal had indicated quite clearly for his servants that this was no happy occasion. And in the servants knowing…well, then all would know.

At the end of the hall, rumbles of laughter and chatter echoed, eerie in the otherwise quiet townhouse. Hermione turned to the young servant. “Thank you,” she murmured.

The woman dropped a curtsy and hurried away. Hermione hovered outside the breakfast room. She didn’t want this. Most assuredly she didn’t want Sebastian in this awful manner. Yet, it was, as he’d said, a bit late for regrets. She’d made her choice and in so doing, had sealed their marital fate. Hermione closed her eyes as the tinkling sound of laughter spilled outside the room once more. Odd, how others could smile and laugh, while her heart was breaking.

Cowardly, she wanted to remain on the fringe of the festivities and yet, she still found the courage to shove away from the wall and step inside the room. A momentary silence filled the room as conversation came to a screeching halt. Then the guests surged to their feet. Hermione glanced about the table. The duchess’ warm eyes, Emmaline’s kind ones, the marquess’ somber ones… she found Sebastian. And Sebastian’s detached ones.

Then activity resumed in a flurry as a servant pulled out a seat beside her husband. She cleared her throat and hurried to take her chair. Everyone reclaimed their seats. A servant carried over a plate from the sideboard with eggs, ham, cold beef, and buttered bread. Her stomach churned at the mere sight of food. She offered him a smile and then picked up her fork, grateful to at least have a plate to fix her attention upon.

“Tell me, Hermione, what is your favorite work of Mr. Michael Michaelmas?”

The question brought her head up. Emmaline smiled expectantly at her. Alas, there was to be no reprieve from anyone’s attention. Not this day. “Er…I’ve always enjoyed,”
The Entrapped Earl
until her sister made that horrid, if accurate, inadvertent juxtaposition between Hermione and the now loathsome Lady Louisa. “
The Mad Marquess
,” she substituted. It would forever remind her of Sebastian’s husky baritone as he recited lines when he’d taken leave of her. At her side, he stiffened, as though he followed the direction her thoughts had traveled.

Emmaline inclined her head. “That is quite a wonderful read,” she concurred. “Though I personally enjoy
The Entrapped Earl
.”

Hermione snapped erect. The marchioness had read her work. Read it…and enjoyed it. Since the fateful moment Hermione’s world had shattered into a thousand million shards, the other woman’s words brought the faint stirring of happiness. The old familiar rush for a pencil and journal filled her. She’d been so beset by grief she’d denied herself the one comfort she’d found in life. Words.

Emmaline continued. “The earl who falls so desperately in love with—”

“Lady Louisa,” she supplied automatically.

Emmaline gave an eager nod. “Yes, that is right. Lady Louisa who weds the earl only of extreme necessity, but her need to wed him did not mean she did not desperately love him—”

“That is enough,” Sebastian spoke through gritted teeth.

Silence met his furious command.

Alas, Emmaline appeared far braver and bolder than Hermione, for she grinned at her brother and carried on. “The clever Mr. Michaelmas realizes that not everyone or everything is always as they seem.” She swung her gaze back to Hermione. “Wouldn’t you agree, Hermione?”

A swell of emotion climbed her throat and she managed a nod, feeling like the greatest deceiver. Everything about her was a lie. Then Lord Drake whispered something into his wife’s ear, calling her attention back to her devoted husband. In that moment, it had seemed as though Emmaline knew what had driven Hermione. Which was quite impossible. No one knew the extent of her family’s circumstances. The other lady’s words had felt like a pardon, only…Hermione stole a sideways peek at her husband. She craved absolution from just one person, and by the hard set to his mouth and icy glint in his green eyes, it was an absolution that would not be granted. She shoved her fork around her plate.

Her father called out from across the table, stilling her movements. “Tell me, Your Grace, did my Hermie,” her ears burned with the horrid endearment, “ever tell you about the time she rescued her youngest sister, Adeline, from several wild boar?”

She cringed with embarrassment at her father’s tendency to romanticize everything and he chose that perfectly awful moment to attend to the wedding breakfast. Was it any wonder she’d developed a penchant for writing Gothic novels?

Sebastian’s shoulders went taut. “Did she?”

She hardly knew what to make of that belated, noncommittal ‘did she?’ “It was not a wild boar, Papa,” she murmured. “Just a pig.” Several of them. Addie, excited for the droving and determined to see the three or four hundred livestock making the trek to London, stumbled into the path and been unceremoniously trampled by the massive creatures.

Her father tore into his buttered bread. He spoke around the mouthful he’d bitten off. “Merely being modest, my girl is.”

“No, I’m not,” she replied instantaneously. She looked to her husband. “It was not a wild boar.”

Her father waved his remaining piece of uneaten bread about. “Bah, a pig, a boar, all really the same.”

No, no they really weren’t.

“Addie injured her leg quite badly. Hermione carried her back home.” His chest swelled with pride. “The entire way.”

Well, that much was true.

“My, how very heroic,” the dowager duchess said on a rush, as it became apparent the bridegroom had no opinions to share on Papa’s story.

The marchioness’ eyebrows shot up. “You have a sister, then?”

“I have two. Elizabeth is the eldest and my closest friend,” she said quietly. “And I’ve a brother.”

Then, fortunately, Sebastian’s mother said something at the opposite end of the table, which called everyone’s attention away from Hermione, and more away from mention of her siblings. Not that she was ashamed of Elizabeth. She wasn’t. Elizabeth, in her innocence and sweetness was more good and kind than nearly everyone else she knew, but the
ton
would see nothing more than a young woman who should be locked away from her family and love.

“I was unaware you had another sister.”

Her fork clattered to the plate. Hermione glanced at her husband. “I do,” she said curtly. She reached for her glass and took a long sip of warmed chocolate while praying his outrage over her actions killed any interest in her past.

“Is your sister wed?” The duke was nothing if not persistent.

Hermione tightened her hold upon her porcelain cup. “She is not.”

“And—”

She directed her attention to the partially drunk contents of her glass. “I also have a younger sister, Addie,” she said quickly, interrupting his question. “But then you know that.” She hoped her sardonic words would elicit perhaps some trace of amusement in her harshly beautiful husband’s face.

He may as well have been carved from stone.

“And Hugh…”

“Ah, yes, Hugh, your younger brother.”

She nodded once.

“You did not feel inclined to have your family join the celebratory occasion?”

She winced at the mocking edge in his words. “I think all things considered, Sebastian, there was no longer a need to pretend.”

He snapped his mouth shut, as she at last managed to effectively silence him.

The lady did not like to speak of her family. That much was clear. Sebastian studied her distracted movements as she pushed her fork about her untouched plate, her gaze fastened to the cold ham. Was she ashamed of her family?

He recalled her earlier blush at the story shared by her father. Most ladies would have welcomed praise rained upon them. Hermione had shifted in her seat with pained embarrassment. And more, in her father’s telling of the story, Sebastian had been forced to view her as more than just a scheming, fortune-hunting miss, and instead see a lady who’d plucked her sister from a droving and carried her injured younger sibling all the way home.

“Do you know,” he began, his words freezing her movements. “It occurs to me I know nothing about you. Your middle name is Edith.” He paused. “I presume that wasn’t a lie.”

A little smile played about her lips. “If I were to lie about my name, I’d choose something a good deal more interesting such as Serena or beautiful like Georgiana.”

Had she been any other woman, he’d have believed she was in search of compliments, yet not Hermione. In her unwillingness to speak of herself, that much was clear. He ran his gaze over features he’d once considered plain. Hermione suited her. Not because it wasn’t beautiful, but because it possessed an element of uniqueness. He tightened his grip about his fork, hating himself for wanting her despite her betrayal. Wanting her even as she asked him not to visit her bed.

She colored under his regard. Yes, she could insist she did not want to share his embrace, but the manner in which she’d returned his kiss spoke of her passion—really the only truthful thing about her.

From down the end of the table, Emmaline called out to Hermione, quashing his desire. “Where does your family hail from, Hermione?”

“Surrey.” She popped a piece of ham into her mouth, the first bite she’d taken, and a likely ploy to deter any further questions.

Sebastian’s intrigue redoubled. He reached for his steaming glass of coffee and blew on the contents. His wife, all the while, shifted under the force of his scrutiny.

The lady’s father seemed quite eager to fill the silence where his daughter did not. “We have a splendid cottage, don’t we, Hermione?” She remained stonily silent. “We’ll be returning tomorrow.”

“You will?” Her shocked question reverberated awkwardly throughout the room.

The baronet gave a slight shrug. “Can’t remain here. Must be back.”

A panicky glint lit his wife’s eyes. “Surely you’ll not bring Addie and Hugh. You c…” She took in the curious stares trained on her and glanced down at her plate.

“Hermione quite loves the country,” her father explained to the table. “The splendid cottage and all. Oh, nothing near as grand as the duke’s home. Now Hermione’s, too, I suppose,” he said with a chuckle. “But many happy memories we have there.” The man’s merriment seemed to instantly slip and in its place descended a somber, almost empty mask that seemed to belong to an altogether different man than the garrulous gentleman from a moment ago. Then the other man fell as silent as the grave and didn’t utter another word through the remainder of the meal.

At last the wedding breakfast came to a blessed end. The guests rose, almost as one. Hermione remained rooted to her seat, unblinking.

Sebastian touched the back of her chair and the slight movement pulled her from her distracted state. She surged to her feet as the guests filed from the breakfast room. She hurried wordlessly past him and matched her father’s pace.

And as the small gathering reached the foyer, it occurred to Sebastian by the way in which his wife arched on the balls of her feet, she appeared ready to take flight with the guests. His mouth tightened. For one who’d orchestrated their discovery at Lady Brookfield’s, her reaction hardly seemed fitting of one eager to find herself the current Duchess of Mallen.