Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (26 page)

He forcibly thrust it aside. There would be time enough for regret and fury the remainder of their lives. For now, there was at least this that was good between them. “I want you, Hermione.” He’d wanted her since she scribbled those mysterious words upon her dance card in Lord Denley’s ballroom.

The muscles of her long, graceful neck moved. “I lo—” He claimed her mouth, drowning out one more lie, even as he ached for her declaration to be real in every way. She twisted her fingers in his hair, her tongue boldly meeting his in a thrust and parry, and then he drew back.

Ignoring her incoherent protestations, Sebastian angled her leg upward. He tugged off her stockings and then raised her calf close to his mouth. “I thought you didn’t want to share my bed.” He worshiped her silken skin with his lips as he’d longed to since there’d still been propriety and kidskin gloves between them.

“I lied.” The admission tumbled hoarse and desperate from her lips.

He froze at the mocking reminder of every other lie she’d told. She stiffened. Did she realize the implications of those words? Unwilling to let the ugliness surrounding their hasty marriage interfere at least in this moment, he guided her up and worked loose the long row of buttons. “I hate this gown,” he muttered.

She nodded jerkily. “I-I d-do, too.”

They spoke simultaneously. “Too many goddamn buttons.”

“Too yellow.”

Sebastian wrenched the back of her dress. It gave a satisfying tear and sent small pearl buttons spraying the floor. He lifted it over her head and tossed it aside. “I assure you, madam, my loathing for this gown has nothing to do with the color.” Her chemise followed.

“A-are you c-certain?” A breathy gasp escaped her as he drew her chemise off. It landed in a soft whoosh upon the floor. “Because…”

He kissed her into silence. “I’m certain,” he said against her mouth, his voice hoarse with a desire he’d carried for too long. He worked a hand between their bodies and brushed the downy thatch of dark brown curls that concealed her center. Her body’s heat scorched him. It threatened to set him ablaze and he would be content to die by fire just for the pleasure of knowing her warmth.

“O-oh, dear.” Thick brown lashes swept down, concealing the sapphire irises of her eyes. He slipped a finger inside and she bucked against him. “Sebastian,” she rasped.

He continued to work her, to stroke her, until she writhed wildly beneath him, incoherent in her desire. Then he stopped and drew back, needing to feel her body against his without the sinful barrier of clothing between them.

She clenched the fabric of his jacket, pulling him, attempting to drag him close once more. Sebastian shrugged out of his jacket. He tossed it to the floor, and then yanked his shirt over his head. It joined the rapidly growing pile of clothing at the foot of the bed.

Hermione edged herself up onto her elbows. She demonstrated the same bold curiosity she did for life, studying his methodical efforts as he pulled off his boots, and then he divested himself of his breeches. She widened her eyes. “Oh, my.”

Pride swelled and a primitive growl rumbled from deep within his chest at her appreciation of his form. He slowly lowered himself above her. He braced himself upon his elbows, framing her in the shelter of his arms. He found the sensitive point where her neck met her ear, worshiping it with his lips. “Never have I wanted another the way I want you,” he whispered against her lips.

Hermione moaned and folded her arms about him. She scraped her fingers lightly over the span of his back. “And I you.” Her words ended on a moan, as he drew her lobe into his ear and sucked. “Th-that i-is…” Another cry as he lowered his mouth to her breast. “Wh-what I m-meant is that…” He blew air softly onto the puckered tip of her flesh. “I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

He froze, his gaze locked upon her flushed skin, pink from his attention as she once more sucked him into her web of deception. His jaw tightened as he remembered just what she’d wanted of him.

She stared at him through thick, sooty lashes. “Sebastian?”

“Everything before this might have been a lie, Hermione, but this is real.” He moved his gaze over her face, both loving her and hating her all at the same time. “This is the most honest, real thing between us.” He inserted a knee between her thighs and settled himself between her legs. Sweat dotted his brow as he positioned himself against her center. Ah, he’d longed for this moment and hated he still craved her as he did. His shaft leapt in anticipation as he brushed the soft curls.

She dusted her knuckles along his jaw. “Not everything was a lie.” His heart filled with a desperate desire to believe the lies on her lips. “Part of it,” she whispered, shattering the fledgling hope he still carried. “But never how I felt about you, and—”

He’d not ruin this moment with the lies between them. “Hermione?” He reached between them and his fingers found her nub, eager and wet for him. She gasped.

“Yes, Sebastian?” she asked on a pleading moan.

With each breathless exhalation or word uttered, she drew him deeper and deeper into her snare. “Stop talking.”

She arched her hips in a primitive dance. “Th-that is h-horribly r-rude of you.” She let forth a keening cry.

“Stop talking, please,” he said hoarsely. For he feared if she didn’t, he’d never shake free of her hold. He rocked against the entrance of her womanhood and a groan rumbled up from his chest. His shaft throbbed with an exquisite ache at the scorching heat of her.

“V-very w-well,” she said, the most cooperative she’d been in the entire ten days he’d known her.

He stilled, running his gaze over her heated, arching body. Had it been but ten days? In ten days she’d upended his world, robbed him of his heart… A hiss escaped him under the weight of that revelation. Ah, God, he still loved her. Loved the woman he’d imagined her to be and now he merely made love to an empty shell of a dream he’d once carried in his heart.

“Sebastian?” The question emerged halting and tentative when Hermione was never anything but unabashedly bold.

He shook his head, concentrating on the pleasure he now knew in her arms, more pleasure than he’d ever known with any other woman. Reality could intrude its ugly head when their hearts no longer raced in time to the same frantic rhythm. For now, he knew nothing more than a hungering to claim her—at least in this primitive way of man. Sebastian slid himself inside her with an excruciating slowness. With a moan, her legs fell open, as she widened herself to his exploration. He paused when his shaft reached the thin barrier that marked her innocence. Beads of moisture formed on his brow from the exertion of holding back when all he wanted to do was thrust hard and fast into her hot, wet center.

Her lids fluttered open. “Make love to me.” She caressed his cheek. “I love you, Sebastian,” she whispered.

Her words, even as they were a lie, filled him with a hungering to claim her in every way. There would be time enough for reality later.

“Forgive me,” he groaned and with a flex of his hips, he thrust inside, shattering the thin barrier that had divided them. A spasm of pain contorted her face. Her cry was a silent one and all the more agonizing for it. He stroked his palms along the edge of her jaw. “Forgive me,” he repeated, the effort of not moving freely and laying full and total claim to her body the greatest chore he’d ever been tasked.

She scrunched up her mouth. “Th-this r-really isn’t a-any longer all th-that pleas…” Her words ended on a hiss as he began to slowly move inside her.

He claimed her lips in a quick kiss. “Isn’t all that what, love?” he asked, pumping his shaft in deep, languid strokes.

“Oh, dear, this is q-quite…” She arched her hips and met his increasing rhythm. The most delicious duel of two lovers. She flung her arms wide and grappled with the coverlet, fisting the fabric. Sebastian groaned, increasing his speed. Thrusting deeper. Harder. Faster. Then she stiffened. Her body trembled and her scream echoed off the walls as she slipped over the precipice. “I love you.”

Her words plunged him over the edge and he joined her amidst an explosion of white light. “Hermione,” he shouted, his voice hoarse, and then he collapsed atop her, spent, his heart racing.

She trailed her fingers up and down his back in a slow, soothing movement that forced his eyes closed.

He rolled off her and took in the gentle sheen of sweat that set her skin aglow. The pleased little smile upon her lips. His gut clenched as he acknowledged that for her betrayal…he still wanted her. Wanted to believe her words of love, wanted more than just the pleasure of her body. He closed his eyes.

What a bloody fool, I am.

A moment ago, he’d imagined there was no greater chore he’d undertaken than tempering his desire when all he’d wanted to do was thrust hard and fast inside his wife’s tight heat. He spared one more glance for his new bride. He’d been wrong. About so much where she was concerned.

Sebastian swung a leg over the edge of the bed and the mattress dipped with the shift of his weight. With swift, jerky moments, he stood and collected his garments. He pulled on first his shirt and then swiped his breeches off the floor. All the while he dressed, his
wife
studied him. Hermione caught his gaze and then quickly drew the sheet up, covering her naked body from his attention. She followed his every movement with wide eyes. He frowned and reached for his boots. It was a veritable sin to conceal such beauty. He pulled on the one.

“Sebastian?” His name emerged as a hesitant question. “Are you going somewhere?”

He drew on his second gleaming Hessian. “Yes,” he said tersely.

She looked to the closed door and then back to him. “Oh.”

Sebastian grabbed his rumpled black jacket and shrugged into it. He started for the door.

A slight thump echoed about the room, followed by the pitter-patter of hurried steps on the hard wood floor. Hermione placed herself between him and the door, the white satin sheet draped around her, giving her the spirited look of Athena the warrior facing down Typhon in his great rampage of Olympus. “Where are you going?”

His frown deepened. As a duke he’d never before been expected to answer to anyone for anything…and he most certainly didn’t intend to begin for this pert miss who’d stolen the title duchess for herself.

She jabbed a finger at his chest. Hard. “I asked, where are you going?” His wife’s sudden movement loosened the grip she had upon the sheet. The right corner slipped, exposing the creamy white swell of her right breast and he was besieged by the desire to take her back to bed and make her his once more. “Sebastian?” she prodded.

Alas, it appeared he would now be expected to answer to at least this woman. He flexed his jaw. “I am leaving,” he forced out past clenched teeth. He could not stay here. He’d done the honorable thing in wedding her despite her betrayal. If he remained, he risked losing the rest of his heart and if he did, she would only destroy him.

“Yes,” she said, her earlier bravado replaced by this hesitancy. “I see that. I asked where you are going.”

Away, before he did something foolish like give her his heart forever. He stomped around her, but she was possessed of an indomitable spirit. With a staggering resolve she blocked his path.

Sebastian folded his arms. “You’ve already informed me that you don’t intend to leave for Leeds.” He spoke in the bored, lazy tones he’d practiced as a youth training for the role of duke.

The slight frown on her lips hinted at annoyance. “That is correct.” She narrowed her eyes and took a step toward him. “Are
you
leaving for Leeds?” Would she care if he did?

Now that she had her title as Duchess of Mallen there was nothing further she required of him. She therefore shouldn’t care if he went to his clubs or down to greet the devil himself for snifters of brandy. Yet, the slight flicker of hurt in her piercing bluish, nearly black eyes gave him pause. “No, I’m not going to Leeds,” he said when he could formulate words once more. Did he imagine her soft sigh of relief? He strode around her and took the remaining steps to the door. He pressed the handle when she called out…

“Then where are you going?”

She was nothing if not persistent. She exhibited the same tenacity for answers as she did for titles. “My clubs, madam.”

“Oh.” At that relieved ‘oh’, he faced her. “You’ll return later this evening, then?” she asked and he despised the hesitancy in her question. This tentative woman bore no traces to the bold creature who’d stolen into Lord Denley’s private office.

“I will not be returning,” he said, before he changed his mind, took her in his arms and slept by her side until the end of time.

The sheet dipped again. She shifted the fabric and held it close to her breast. “You—?”

“You have your title. You now have my townhouse. I’ll take rooms at my club. We may come to some understanding in terms of our relationship at a later time.” He pressed the handle. “There is, of course, the matter of the heir.” Her quick, shuddery inhalation of air knifed him, and he loathed himself for that deliberate barb. Then with a steely resolve—he left.

And
that
, was now the hardest thing he’d ever done.

C
hapter 24

1 month later

London

H
ermione tapped her feet upon the wood floor, her concentration focused solely on the page before her. After all she’d struggled to put pen to paper and tell the story of the brooding duke, now the words flowed freely. And they tumbled from her, cathartic and healing in ways that saved her from the agonizing pain of Sebastian’s abandonment. Ignoring the ache of her overused wrist, she scratched furiously away at the paper. She paused and flexed her fingers, then dipped her pen into the crystal inkwell.

“I should imagine you’d be done by now,” a familiar child said from the doorway.

Hermione dropped her pen. Ink splashed her otherwise flawless page. She shoved back her chair. “Hullo, poppet.”

Addie skipped into the room. Hugh hovered in the doorway. Papa had sent them to London to reside with Hermione as Elizabeth increased with child. Of course, the request was really made by Hermione and came after Sebastian’s departure. He’d gone to his clubs…and never returned. And if she were being truly honest, her reasons were largely selfish. The quiet that came from living alone in this lavish, too extravagant home had nearly driven her mad. She’d summoned her siblings not even two days later.

With a sigh, Hugh entered the room. He dragged his heels in an exaggerated manner. For Papa’s negligence these years, he’d still been a male figure in an otherwise wholly female household.

Addie reached for Hermione’s most recently completed page.

She intercepted the girl’s efforts. “It is still drying, my dear.”

Her sister let out a little huff of annoyance. “Very well.”

She couldn’t afford any more delays. In a surprisingly magnanimous gesture, Mr. Werksman had granted her a fortnight to complete her latest story, which she suspected had to do more with the sample piece he’d read rather than any real kindness on his part. He would not, however, be tolerant of any further delays.

Addie folded her small arms behind her back and leaned over to read the pages. Hermione held her breath, filled with an almost dreaded anticipation of her reaction.

Hugh flung himself into a nearby sofa. He swung his legs furiously back and forth. “Duchesses don’t write stories,” he said, with all the world-weary wisdom of a stern-faced papa.

She frowned. “I do.” Her brother grunted, letting her know just what he thought of a duchess who wrote. She studied the angry little boy, forced to acknowledge the truth of his words. Duchesses didn’t write. But then, she really wasn’t much of a duchess anyway. Rather, an Unexpected Duchess as the papers had originally begun writing of her. And that had been the most kind of their vitriolic posts about Hermione Fitzhugh, the Duchess of Mallen.

Plain fortune-hunter. A somewhat clever play upon the pairing of words, if she were being wholly objective. Title-grasping wallflower. Though, she would have gladly welcomed title-grasping miss; the other made her sound like a horrid vine-y plant. For all polite Society was wrong about, in terms of truths and gossip—in this regard, they’d proven unerringly accurate. She sighed. Then it wouldn’t require the intelligence of all the collected ancient Greek philosophers to surmise the duke’s moving out—on his wedding night, no less—certainly did not hint at a happy union.

“Hmm,” Addie murmured, pulling Hermione back from her musings.

“What is it?” She involuntarily clenched the muscles of her stomach as she awaited her sister’s criticism.

A slow smile formed on Addie’s lips. “Oh, Hermione, it is just splendid.”

“Truly?” Her heart kicked a funny little, quite pleased rhythm. “Do you think so?” This was a good deal better than her sister’s earlier disappointment with her initial attempt. Or, rather initial attempts.

“Oh, it is!” Addie spun away and threw her arms wide. “I feel his love now. He is once again charming.”

“Silly drivel,” Hugh muttered from his seat. The two ladies frowned at him. He glowered. “What? It is.”

Addie planted her hands on her hips and glared. “Someday you’re going to fall in love, Hugh Rogers, and I’m going to laugh and laugh and remind you of just how miserable you were this moment.”

“I won’t.” He recoiled. “I would never do anything as foolish as become Papa.” He shot a glance at Hermione. “Or Hermione.”

Her heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”

Hugh slashed the air with a hand. “He came calling on you. Made you believe he cared.”

“He married her.” Ever romantic Addie, still unjaded by life defended the absent duke.

Hugh snorted. “And he left. He didn’t want anything more of her than Lord Cavendish wanted of—”

“Hugh!” Hermione said sternly, interrupting his shameful flow of words.

The anger went out of his taut frame and a contrite expression settled over his face. Then fire flared in his eyes. “He doesn’t love you.”

She knew he was merely a boy; a hurting, angry, wounded little boy, yet his words burned like vinegar tossed upon an open wound.

Addie gasped. “That is a horrid thing to say. Who could not love Hermione?” She suspected Addie’s was more a rhetorical question than anything else, and appreciated the devoted girl’s support.

“The duke,” Hugh said with an almost gleeful spite. “That is who.”

Hermione flinched.

Addie flew across the room. “Don’t you say that!” She stuck her angry fingers out like small little daggers and lunged for Hugh. “Don’t you ever say that!”

Hermione raced to interject herself between her sister’s outraged fury and her hostile brother. She caught Addie about the forearm and forced her to a stop. “Shh, it does not matter,” she lied.

Addie studied her a moment. “It does,” she said softly.

Hermione released Addie’s arm and returned to Sebastian’s desk, which she’d claimed as her own. She clasped her hands tightly together and made a show of studying the pages to keep from having to form a reply. In this, the young girl was correct—it
did
matter. A familiar pain pulled at her heart.

She didn’t care about the unkind words written of her in the papers. Words that, for her actions at Lady Brookfield’s she was wholly deserving of. But she did care that Sebastian did not love her. Hermione drew in a slow, shuddery breath. The excruciating pain of loving one who never could or ever would love you was hardly the romantic piece she’d imagined within her stories. It was ugly. And cruel. And harsh. The kind of agony that robbed you of sleep, and had you crying until your eyes were puffy and swollen and you were empty of the useless salty drops.

Hermione touched her fingers to the edge of her most recently completed page. There should be some sense of joy at the completion of this story that had nearly gone untold.
So why am I empty?

“It’s because of Elizabeth, isn’t it,” Hugh’s question emerged haltingly, devoid of his usual anger and resentment.

His words drew her back from her pained musings. “What do you mean?”

His mouth tightened. “Well, he’s a duke and he is mad you have a sister who is simple.”

Her heart tugged.
Oh, Hugh.
So, this is what he believed. She perched a hip on the edge of the desk while plucking her mind for appropriate words to this very important conversation. “This is not about Elizabeth.” Then, Elizabeth was just another secret she’d kept from Sebastian. Still, she didn’t believe he’d resent the young woman’s existence. How could anyone who knew Elizabeth, her gentle spirit, her absolute joy in the face of great darkness, ever begrudge her for living?

“Then, what is it about?” Addie asked, sliding into the leather wing-backed chair at the foot of Sebastian’s desk.

“This is about me,” Hermione said softly.

“It’s because he didn’t want to marry you, but you forced him to,” Hugh added.

Before Hermione could reply, Addie turned to Hugh. “That doesn’t make any sense, Hugh. A lady cannot force a gentleman like the duke to wed her unless he wished it.”

Hermione glared him into silence.

Alas, he possessed her same spirit of persistence. “If he loved her then why doesn’t he live here?”

Addie frowned, and Hermione could all but see the wheels churning in her little girl’s mind. She scratched her brow. “Why doesn’t he live here?” She tapped the tip of her finger against her lip. “And why do you still have those hideous yellow gowns aunt insisted you wear if you’re a duchess, and Hugh,” she motioned to her brother as though there were perhaps another Hugh present, “is a duchess’ sister, so why does he still not attend Eton?”

“I daresay I wouldn’t even know which of those very important questions to answer.” Hermione went and took her sister by the shoulders. “Now, off you go. I need to finish my story for Mr. Werksman.” She steered the girl toward the doorway.

“You’re trying to be rid of me, aren’t you?” Addie shot a pointed frown over her shoulder as Hermione guided her out of the room. “You always do that when you don’t want to talk about something.”

“Perhaps.” She winked. “But I do have to finish
The Nefarious,”
Now Charming. “
Duke
.”

Addie dug her heels in and glanced back at her brother. “And how come he is always allowed to remain?”

“Because I’m older,” he shot back.

Because he was constantly causing mischief.

Her sister snorted. “You’re only eighteen minutes older.” She turned swiftly back to Hermione. “Why is he allowed to remain? He’s rude and foul and—”

Hermione clapped her hands once, interrupting the remainder of those inciting words, and settled for the bane of every child’s question. “Because, I said so.” Her sister’s lips formed a moue of displeasure and then she stomped from the room.

“Elder sisters,” she muttered under her breath and then slammed the door in her wake.

She folded her arms across her chest.

Hugh scuffed Sebastian’s Aubusson carpet with the tip of his boot. “What?” he asked defensively.

She continued to study him in silence. He dropped his gaze to the floor. “You are Papa’s heir. As the eldest boy, you have a responsibility to protect your sister from hurt.” She wandered closer. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He hesitated and then gave a jerky nod. “Have you finished?”

Hermione sighed at his belligerent tone. Her brother was in dire need of a strong, male influence in his life, of which their family was remarkably lacking. “That is all.”

He started for the door and then froze. “I hate him,” he uttered the familiar three lines to the thick door with such vitriol a shiver stole down her spine.

He and Addie, they’d been forced to grow up far sooner than they should have. “Oh, Hugh,” she said softly. She closed the distance between them. “Look at me.” When he remained immobile, Hermione dropped to a knee and touched a hand to his shoulder, forcing him around. “Look at me,” she repeated, infusing a firm edge to those three words.

He reluctantly met her gaze.

“He loves you and he is, for all his failings, remarkable in other ways.” After all, most any other baronet, prince, or nobleman between would have sent Elizabeth away after her illness had robbed her of her mind. Papa had not. He continued to, at least through Nurse Partridge, care for her. The flaws against his other children could slightly be pardoned for the devotion he’d shown Elizabeth.

“Not Papa.” Hugh wrinkled his nose, in a way so very much like their younger sister. “The duke.
Your
duke.” He glared at Sebastian’s desk, nearly singeing the duke’s inanimate possession with his heated ire. “He’s just like Papa—”

She sank back on her haunches, stunned. “He is not, Hugh.” Sebastian hadn’t stopped caring for his family. He’d merely ceased caring about her. Those were entirely different.

“Then he’s just like Lord Cavendish.”

“No.” A denial exploded from her. “No, he’s not.” Lord Cavendish represented the basest, most vile aspect of a black-hearted human being. In taking advantage of a beautiful woman, who in her mind would remain a forever child, he’d demonstrated a depravity that chilled. “He is
nothing
like Lord Cavendish.” She held up a finger when he made to speak. “I wronged
him
, Hugh.” Her admission stunned him into silence. He stared wide-eyed at her. She cuffed him gently under the chin. “Come, you’ve read the pages to know what they’ve accused me of.”

“They say you trapped him.” His frown deepened. “I didn’t believe you really did. I…” His words trailed off and he glanced at a point beyond her shoulder. His stark shock conveyed his disillusionment, far more painful than any words of disappointment he might have hurled at her. It occurred to Hermione, that for all his outbursts toward her and about her, a sliver of him had still believed her a worthy, honorable person.

Her heart flipped unto itself with shame at the realization she’d shattered perhaps that last bit of faith he had in an adult presence in his life. She touched his shoulder. He jerked his arm back as though repelled by her. “I did it for you,” she said, knowing even as the words left her mouth how empty they were.

Addie had been correct. Hugh still did not attend school, Hermione still couldn’t rely that Elizabeth’s care would be seen to. What had she done for anyone, other than shatter Sebastian’s trust and steal an empty title?