Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (3 page)

C
hapter 3

A
fortnight after her sister’s masterful plan, Hermione was forced to acknowledge the now obvious truth: it was a good deal more difficult finding a dark, brooding duke at the height of a London Season than she’d ever believed.

It was
particularly
difficult when a lady found herself relegated to the role of forgotten wallflower. That was rather redundant. Still, for all the bothersome business of being the most unsought young lady on the fringe of notice, there were a good many benefits to being that forgotten wallflower.

Hermione angled her head and studied the smiling couples, the flirting misses with their coquettish smiles and the roguish gentlemen with their improper glances.

Pale pink roses littered the floor. He strode over, pulled her close and…
She wrote the words upon her otherwise empty dance card. But for some doddering gentleman with a balding pate and florid cheeks, she’d still not managed to wrangle up a suitable gentleman, let alone a duke, for her research. All the other details to her story had fallen neatly into place, inspired by the opulent, lavish world of glittering Society.

Hermione sat back in her chair on a sigh. Still no duke, though. Not in an entire fortnight of attending balls and soirees and dinners. She’d sat a silent observer to the gentlemen and ladies about her. She’d found a young marquess with a dashing smile as well as a wicked earl with a hard glimmer in sapphire blue eyes.

She tapped the tip of her pencil upon her delicate card, distractedly. Perhaps she’d amend her story, pen a note to Mr. Werksman, and convince him there were not enough stories of wicked earls and sly marquesses, and that those gentlemen were vastly more enjoyable to young lady readers and…

Hermione dropped her pencil. Mr. Werksman wanted a duke. He’d been quite clear in his specific requirements for this particular project. Her heart pounded madly. She was running out of time, fast. Which certainly wasn’t helping the birth of this particular story. She dusted her damp palms together, detesting this sense of panic. She had written through the years for her love of the written word. In a world where she’d always been plain Hermione Rogers with slightly crooked teeth and a remarkably uncurved, rail thin frame, writing was the one thing that had felt extraordinary about her.

Most would consider her a bluestocking. She preferred to think of herself as an author, an observer of life. And she’d been successful.

Until Mr. Werksman and his blasted brooding duke.

Hermione stared absently out at the ballroom floor, into the sea of twirling lords and ladies. The orchestra concluded a lively country reel and the dancers erupted in a smattering of polite applause. The sounds of merriment came as if from a distance. Panic built steadily inside her chest. She’d been failed by so very many. Since Mama’s passing, Papa had failed her. Lord Cavendish who’d presented a façade as an honorable gentleman. And now, for the first time in three years, words which were the one constant in her life now failed her.

Her aunt Agatha would say she was better served in finding an appropriate suitor to solve her family’s woes. Except all the gentlemen she’d ever known had proven themselves wholly unreliable.

The mere pittance Hermione received for her stories represented far more than monetary salvation. Mr. Werksman’s payments represented the sole control she had in life over anything. If there were no stories, there were no funds, and if there were no funds there was no control over her own destiny, no helping her siblings, no….She took a steadying breath. This isn’t what it was supposed to be. This pressure. Necessity now warred with her love of her craft.

Hermione looked out to the dance floor once more and froze; the sense of being watched pierced her troubled thoughts. With a frown, she quickly surveyed the crowded ballroom. “Don’t be a ninny,” she muttered. Her fantastical musings were a product of too many stories of too many vile characters, dashing heroes, and frustrated hopes. No one studied Hermione Rogers. Certainly not here in London and yet…

The pinprick of awareness coursed through her. She did another sweep of the ballroom. The dancers performing the intricate steps of the Danse Espagnuole parted. She sucked in a breath, frozen.

A gentleman stared at her over the rim of his champagne glass. With his tall, well-muscled frame he possessed the manner of beauty that made weak young ladies stammer and forget essential details such as their names and the importance of propriety. Hermione gave her head a clearing shake at the sheer implausibility of such a man as he studying such a woman as she. Oh, she was not being modest or self-deprecating. She knew what she was in terms of a beauty and had rather accepted such a truth—she’d never possess the grandeur of those blonde, sought after English beauties. Which was quite fine. She vastly preferred the idea of having the affections of a gentleman inspired by her mind. The dancers moved, cutting off her direct view of the stranger.

She reluctantly shifted her gaze away. Except… Unbidden, her stare wandered out across the ballroom. Her heart quickened. Even with the great space between them, his eyes pierced her.

Look away, Hermione.
As much as she longed to honor the wise words at the edge of her conscience, she could no sooner tear her gaze away than she could cease putting stories to paper. No man had a right to be so coolly refined and in possession of such tousled, thick golden hair. The harsh, angular planes of his face and the aquiline nose bespoke power and strength. One such as him deserved a story. She scratched a handful of words upon her dance card. Oh, the stranger could never be a nefarious duke, but he could certainly be…

“Hermione!”

A startled shriek escaped her, earning curious stares from the lords and ladies around her. She hopped to her feet. “Aunt Agatha.” Her heart sank at the dandified fop accompanying her aunt, he in his orange pants and a canary yellow coat. Really, who said either of those colors went together? They didn’t.

Ever.

Not that she, attired in her too-ruffled yellow satin monstrosity, had any right to pass judgment on the attire of others. Yet, she’d had little say in the gowns selected by her aunt. She at least recognized the absolute silliness of such elaborate, blindingly bright fabric…even if the gentleman condescending her with his stare now could not recognize the same flaws in his garments.

Her aunt cleared her throat. “Lord Whitmore, this is my niece, Miss Hermione Rogers.”

He swept his arms wide and dropped a deep bow, so low she suspected the heavy amount of oil in his greased, tight red curls could send him toppling to the floor. Her lips twitched. Now, that would indeed be a delicious piece to any stor—“Ahem.” Lord Whitmore peered down the length of his nose at her.

Hermione sank into a deep curtsy. “An honor, my lord.”

“Of course it is.”

She furrowed her brow at his cool, clipped tones. A hero this one would never be…in any story.

“My niece is recently from the country.” Agatha pursed her lips, likely wishing she had more praise to sing of her niece than…
she’s from the country
. “Isn’t that right, Hermione.”

“It is,” she answered automatically. Her aunt’s gaze narrowed. Hermione’s mind spun. But really, what did Aunt Agatha expect her to contribute to such a statement? “Er…that is…I am from the country.” There, that was a touch more elaborate.

“I imagine you find London quite stimulating from the tedium and provincialness of the country.” He tugged at the lapels of his coat. “You know, the lack of stimulating discourse with the less intelligent, simple country dwellers.”

At his arrogant supposition of those living outside his hallowed streets of London, Hermione narrowed her eyes. She far preferred the honest sincerity in the villagers of Surrey to the condescending lords and ladies who mocked with both their words and eyes. She schooled her features into an expressionless mask. “Oh, indeed. I imagine those
country dwellers
,” from which she herself was one, “wouldn’t even have the intelligence enough to realize the word provincialness is in fact not a word.”

Aunt Agatha’s eyebrows shot to her hairline.

Lord Whitmore scratched his brow. Then, a sudden rush of color blazed across his cheeks. “W-well.” He jerked on the lapels of his coat once more, spun on his heel, and marched off.

It really was such a shame when one possessed such a name as Whitmore and happened to be wholly witless. Another suitor scratched from the proverbial list. And by the tightness of her aunt’s mouth—a once more displeased Aunt Agatha.

She fought back a sigh.

“Hermione Rogers, if you continue this way, you’ll remain unwed, and you require a husband more than any of the other ladies here.”

That certainly didn’t seem like something her aunt could speak of in such absolute terms. Oh, it was most likely there were no other scandalized, impoverished families present, at least to the extent her family had managed to bungle it up.

Still, her aunt surely could appreciate that, though Hermione didn’t expect one of those dashing, sonnet-writing gentlemen, she still aspired for at least polite …and certainly not a cruel one. “He called into question the intelligence of all those I—”

“I don’t care if he called into question God’s creation of the universe, you need a husband,” her aunt gritted out between tightly clenched lips.

So, it would seem Aunt Agatha could
not
appreciate Hermione’s desire for, at the very least, a nice gentleman. Now she knew.

Her aunt drew in an audible breath, more flustered than Hermione remembered. “Now, Hermione,” Aunt Agatha began, “I promised your father I would see you wed to a wealthy, respectable,”
but not respectful
, “nobleman. I am doing this for your mother. My sister. I intend to present those who’d be willing to have you.”

A snort escaped Hermione, which she buried into her palm as a cough. “Pardon me.” How very hopeless her aunt made her sound.

Only the hint of Aunt Agatha’s nearly black irises were revealed through the narrow slit of her gaze. Her aunt motioned to the seat. “I’ll return in a short while with another gentleman and this time I expect you to be perfectly polite and proper—”

She opened her mouth.

“Even if he insults the whole of the ballroom. Make. A. Match.” With that, her aunt stormed off, marching through the crowd with a military precision better reserved for the king’s army than a matchmaking aunt.

With a sigh, Hermione reclaimed her seat. A determined matchmaker was what her aunt was. “All stories need a determined matchmaker,” she murmured under her breath. She picked up her pencil and wrote a handful of words onto her still partner-less dance card and then let it flutter back to her side. She studied her aunt’s forward progress through the crowd. She really was grateful to Aunt Agatha for throwing her support behind her and acting as her chaperone, but really, did she possess such a low opinion that she would—Hermione leaned forward in her seat. That she would… Her aunt…

…now spoke to a rotund gentleman. The corpulent fellow scratched at his sage waistcoat. Oh, dear. No, her aunt wouldn’t expect her to make a match with a stranger closer to Papa’s age than Hermione’s twenty-two years. Perhaps the greying gentleman was merely a friend of Uncle Horace. The man tugged out a kerchief and dabbed the gleaming beads of sweat upon his drenched brow. With his eyes, he followed her aunt’s less than subtle point across the ballroom, through the sea of dancers.

Right to Hermione.

And though Hermione would never be so shallow as to determine a gentleman’s suitability by his appearance alone, she
would
be particular enough to avoid the suit of one older gentleman who licked his lips, leering at her like she was a glazed sugar biscuit.

She groaned, grateful for the total lack of people around to hear the unladylike expression of annoyance.

They started across the room.

Bloody wonderful.

C
hapter 4

S
ebastian made it a point to avoid marriage-minded misses. Following his ponderings that evening in his office, he knew at his age, it was of course inevitable that he’d have to do right by the Mallen line and secure a duchess. He would when he found the one wholly unimpressed by the title of duke. So as of now, he had little interest in a wife.

Which was perhaps why at that precise moment, his gaze wandered off to the forgotten edge of the ballroom floor. And why he happened to see
her
.

From over the rim of his champagne glass, he studied the young woman and her silly, blindingly bright yellow skirts. With dark brown, very nearly black, hair pulled back in a severe chignon, and rather nondescript features, there was nothing about her that would immediately pull at a man’s attention. But then with the small pencil attached to the dance card on her wrist, she jotted something upon that card.

He sipped champagne and across the heads of dancers performing the steps of a quadrille, he continued to study her. Even seated, he detected the way the fabric of her gown clung to her slim, willowy frame. Sebastian made to turn away when she suddenly looked up. Her narrow shoulders stiffened and she passed her gaze throughout the room, as though feeling his stare upon her person.

Sebastian blamed it on boredom, the tedium of attending mundane amusements night after night, but the young woman’s furtive movements intrigued him. And he’d not been intrigued since Miss Sophie Winters; the young woman he’d courted who had opted to wed his closest friend, Christopher, Earl of Waxham. Even if the courtship had only begun as a ruse, it had become something more and—The dark-haired stranger across the room caught her lower lip between her teeth, seeming lost in thought. Her eyes widened and she hastily grabbed her pencil.

With her dark hair and slender frame she didn’t possess any of the soft, golden beauty he preferred in women. Something about her commanded his notice, demanded his attention, if for no other reason than to understand the intense glint in her eyes and whatever the hell it was she marked down on that card.

Then her eyes collided with his. Any other young lady would have dropped her stare demurely to her lap, yanked her gaze elsewhere. The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. The bold as you please wallflower at the back, central portion of the room returned his stare, moved it over him, almost methodical in her perusal. She then proceeded to mark something else upon her card. She returned her eyes once more to his. He stared back, expecting her to glance away. Only, she tipped her chin up a notch and shamelessly held his gaze.

“Mallen, never tell me you’re woolgathering in your advancing years.”

He started. Droplets of champagne spilled over the rim of his glass. His close friend, the Earl of Waxham, grinned. “Waxham,” he drawled, hardly needing Waxham to point out that he was getting on in years. Most especially not on this day. He looked about, resisting the urge to shift his focus back to the note-taking wallflower. “And wherever is the lovely Countess of Waxham?”

“Otherwise occupied by your sister,” he said, inclining his head.

Sebastian searched about and located the two young women at the corner of the room, enrapt in their conversation. They periodically glanced his way, gestured, and whispered. He narrowed his gaze. This was never a good thing; to be the object of scrutiny for two scheming women. “And I gather you have no idea what has them so enrapt this evening?”

Waxham’s lips turned up in one corner in a lazy grin. He tugged at his cravat. A dull flush climbed his neck. “No idea.”

Sebastian snorted. He could easily recognize a lie. Particularly from the man he’d considered a friend since Eton and Oxford. But for the tension between them when they’d vied for the now Countess of Waxham’s hand, the two had been fast friends since early on. He glanced out across the floor in time to detect Miss-Note-Taking-Miss scratch another something upon her card. “Who is that?” he asked quietly.

Waxham looked about. “Who is who?” He furrowed his brow.

The duke gestured discreetly across the ballroom to the young woman now tapping a distracted rhythm upon the floor, a discordant beat to the lively reel played by Lady Denley’s orchestra.

His friend scanned the ballroom. “Lady Tisdale?”

Lady Tisdale, the notorious widow in her dampened gold, satin skirts. “Not the Lady Tisdale.” He jerked his chin once toward the young woman in her silly ruffled, yellow skirts.

His friend caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed. “Er…Lady Alcott?”

Sebastian closed his eyes a moment and counted to five for patience. “Not the Lady Alcott. That woman,” he said impatiently.

“Mallen, there are any number of women present. You’ll need to be a bit more specific.”

“The young lady in the yellow dress.”

Waxham swept his gaze over the area, at last settling on the lithe stranger. He again wrinkled his brow. “I’ve no idea.”

“Humph.” How could no one have an idea as to the lady’s identity? Surely someone knew her. Or of her. At the very least a name.

A dawning understanding glinted in his friend’s hazel eyes. “Ahh,” he said with the same deliberate slowness as one who’d uncovered the tombs of Egypt.

Sebastian knew enough to not let his friend, sister, mother or anyone in between bait him and yet… “What?” he snapped.

“I merely am remarking that a young woman has captured your notice.” He paused. “At last. Which will, of course, spare you from your sister and Sophie’s matchmaking.”

Traitor. Sebastian had known his bachelor state had surely been the topic of discussion between his meddling sister and her dear friend, Sophie. He took a long swallow of champagne, and then blinked, his friend’s words registering.

He choked around the mouthful of liquor. “She has not captivated me. Well, not in a sense that I’m admiring the lady,” he amended. It had been more those long fingers about the tiny pencil at her wrist that had occupied his attention for too much time now. They really were quite delicious fingers that roused wicked thoughts…if one was the roguish sort. Which he was not…

“Captured your notice.”

He yanked his attention back to Waxham. What was the other man on about?

His friend shot him a pointed glance. “I didn’t say she’d
captivated
you.” He grinned. “I merely pointed out she’d captured your notice.” Sebastian silently cursed as Waxham pressed on, worse than a matchmaking mama. “I imagine we can easily have Sophie or your sister orchestrate an introduction.”

“I’m certain.” The answer sprang fast to his lips. He took in the toe-tapping miss. “She certainly doesn’t possess the…oh, go to hell, Waxham,” he mumbled and downed the remaining contents of his crystal flute. His interest in the nondescript woman had nothing to do with any matter of physical awareness but an interest in just what in the devil she’d scribbled onto that card after looking at him.

Just then, a greying woman in elegant silver satin skirts paused beside the young woman, calling her attention away from Sebastian. The older woman, he searched his mind for the woman’s name…Lady…Pembroke, Pemerley, Pemberly. The matron gestured to the dandified fop beside her.

Sebastian’s mouth tightened. Lord Whitmore. Known as something of a mother’s boy and one who abused his horseflesh, the young lady, even with her plain, nondescript features could certainly do better in terms of suitors. A good deal better.

Just then, Whitmore spun on his heel and marched across the ballroom, a crimson splash of color upon his cheeks.

Lady Pemberly gesticulated wildly, her face flushed. The young woman’s slightly too-full mouth moved rapidly. Whatever she said caused great splotches of color to flood the woman’s cheeks. She spun on her heel and started across the ballroom.

The young lady stood there a moment, looking about as though to ascertain whether anyone had witnessed her public dressing-down, and then reclaimed her seat.

He was suddenly filled with a desire to know the odd young woman’s name, which of course made little sense. Marriage-minded misses did not intrigue him.

Yet, this one did.

As if reading his thoughts, Waxham drawled, “You do realize for stating you have little interest in the lady, you’ve not removed your gaze from her since I arrived.”

“Go to h…” His words trailed off.

Her head shot up and she glanced out across the ballroom floor. He suspected she’d once again found him with her stare, except… He followed her narrow-eyed gaze to Lady Pemberly. The old matron stood conversing with Viscount Bull, a widower on his third wife, in the market for a fourth.

And, he returned his attention to the spritely creature. By the manner in which she surged to her feet, she gauged the viscount intended to include her as a possible fourth viscountess. The young lady all but sprinted through the hall, earning curious stares from those she weaved between.

Sebastian deposited his glass upon a passing tray. “If you’ll excuse me, Waxham.” His friend’s laughter trailed after him as he set out in search of the young woman. Sebastian trained his stare forward, discouraging matchmaking mamas and eager debutantes. He tightened his jaw. He’d become accustomed to dodging such advances through the years; young women, who’d scheme, steal, or seduce for the title of Duchess of Mallen.

He exited through the end doorway that emptied out into a long corridor and caught a flash of bright yellow skirts as they disappeared around the corner. Sebastian quickened his stride. His experience avoiding those marriage-minded misses, of course, should have taught him the perils in following after unwed young ladies. He turned right at the end of the hall in time to see the lady slip inside a room.

He hesitated. Perhaps the young woman sought out an assignation. Though the plain young lady who’d sent off Whitmore in a huff didn’t strike him as one to engage in clandestine trysts. So, it begged the question: what would one such as her be doing darting about the halls of their host’s home? He shoved aside the years of caution ingrained into him and started for the door. Sebastian paused outside the room. If the young lady intended to meet a lover, she’d do to have a good deal more caution than to leave the door ajar. He angled his head to study her furtive movements.

She moved about the room with a purposeful stride. Logical and reasonable, he was not given to flights of fancy as was his younger sister, Lady Emmaline, recently the Marchioness of Drake. Yet, studying the ruffled creature, he considered all manner of nefarious intentions that had sent her here. He glanced back down the hall. He really should leave and yet… He returned his attention to the woman now running her fingers over the walls of Lord Denley’s office. He rather suspected as a favor to his host he really owed it to the man to determine what this stealthy creature was doing away from the festivities and searching his room.

She paused, her slim body in profile and folded her arms about her chest. A loose strand escaped her orderly chignon. The dark tress fell over her eye. She blew it back and continued to peruse the room. The soft tread of her slippers padded across the earl’s Aubusson carpet. The loud scrape of furniture being shoved across the floor echoed out into the hall. “Bloody hell,” she muttered.

In spite of the threat of discovery, a grin tugged at his lips. Ladies of his acquaintance did not curse. Though, the peculiar lady would likely never breathe those words aloud if she knew a duke was before her, he found it…her…endearing.

She cursed again.

His grin deepened, suddenly very eager to learn the identity of a woman who filled her dance card with mysterious words, cursed in private, and boldly commandeered her host’s private office.

It could have just been poor, rotten luck or fate’s way of telling her its precise thoughts on her fleeing Aunt Agatha and Lord Lecherous Eyes, but at that precise moment, walking a distracted path about Lord Denley’s office, Hermione’s toes collided with an ill-placed King Louis XIV chair.

She gasped and captured her foot in one hand. “Bloody hell,” she muttered and hopped up and down on her uninjured leg. Tears smarted behind her eyes. She glared at the offending piece of furniture. “Blasted dark.” Most of her stories featured darkened rooms and clandestine meetings, yet with her toes smarting she could now admit there was nothing at all romantic about the inky night.

She continued to rub her toes through the thin fabric of her yellow satin slippers. She lowered her leg and her foot became entangled in the layers upon layers of ruffles. “Bloody hell,” she cursed again and sprawled backward into the now-convenient King Louis XIV chair. A strand of hair escaped the neat coiffure arranged by the maid sent round by Aunt Agatha. She folded her arms across her chest and blew back the lock. The recalcitrant piece fell right back across her brow.