Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (8 page)

Hermione slowed her step, allowing Addie, Hugh, and the poor out-of-breath maid to catch up. In fairness to her brother, he had little idea that her efforts stemmed from her determination to help him and Addie, and being here in London, attempting to make a respectable match, to help Elizabeth.

“Yes there is,” Addie chided. Her sister, as devoted and dedicated to an inspired story and invaluable research glowered at her older brother. “Why, imagine how dreary and drab an always sunny spring story setting would be.”

“All stories are boring,” he mumbled.

“Did you hear that?” Addie slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling her gasp, and looked to Hermione. “Did you hear what he—”?

“I did,” she replied absently and scanned the empty grounds. Of course a duke wouldn’t dare venture out in this godforsaken weather for his daily visit to Hyde Park. Or rather a rumored daily visit, an invaluable piece of information passed on by the Duke of Mallen’s footman to Aunt Agatha’s maid, and then on to Hermione. In the distance, thunder rumbled its agreement. She settled her hands on her hips and peered across the Serpentine. Rain fell upon the river, tiny pinpricks breaking the smooth surface. And this is why one should not rely upon the gossip of maids or anyone else. The information invariably proved a good deal less than reliable. She sighed.

“I’m cold.”

The unrelenting wind whipped at Hermione’s skirts; the rain battered her face. She stole a sideways glance at Hugh.

He scowled and tugged the brim of his black cap over his eyes.

Guilt tugged at her heart. She really shouldn’t have dragged her siblings along on her search of Hyde Park.

“Papa wouldn’t be pleased to discover you’d dragged us off into the rain,” her brother called out. They both knew the lie to his words.

At one time, their father would have cared. Before Mama died of her wasting illness, Papa had been attentive and diligent. Not this empty shell of a man, who didn’t know if one, two, three, or all of his children had wandered off, or worse, allowed one of his children to be raped by a
charming
nobleman.

She shoved aside the momentary twinge of self-pity for her family’s changed circumstances and devoted her attention instead to the sudden truth—Sebastian Fitzhugh, the Duke of Mallen was not here, nor would he likely be coming. Rain stung her cheeks.

“Miss, the children really should not be out in this weather,” pleaded the maid, Winifred. Teeth chattering, she pulled her cloak close.

No, indeed they should not. Again guilt flared. A young woman, touting along two younger siblings, earned a good deal less scrutiny than a single young lady in the market for a husband. “Very well,” she said on another sigh. “Come along then.” She turned and motioned her brother and sister forward.

Addie groaned. “But I don’t want to return home. Papa is ever so dreary, and Aunt Agatha will be coming over. She’s forever scolding me about not being a proper young lady.”

“That is because you aren’t a proper young lady,” Hugh shot back.

As they began the long trek back to the carriage, Hermione’s siblings continued their bickering.

Another rumble of thunder filled the sky. Only… She furrowed her brow, steady and constant like horses hooves pounding—Her heart quickened and she slowed her stride, all the while scanning the horizon.

It is him.

It had to be.

Battling back the excitement swirling in her breast, Hermione shot a look back over her shoulder at Addie and Hugh as they marched back toward the carriage. “I dropped my reticule at the side of the river,” she lied. “Take the children back. I’ll join you shortly.”

Winifred opened her mouth to protest, but a streak of lightning stole across the greyish-black sky and she jumped, hurrying after her charges.

Hermione waited a moment and then dashed back down the rain-covered grass toward the gravel path alongside the Serpentine. Her vision obscured by the heavy brim of her bonnet, she yanked the strings free and tugged the sopping garment from her head. She did a quick search of the grounds. Where was he? With determined steps she continued on, down toward the riding trail, the thunder of hoofbeats growing closer and closer.

Except with each step she took, the more unlikely it was that the lone rider was her Duke of Mallen. No duke would dare be caught riding in this chilled, rainy spring day, certainly no sensible one. Perhaps the brooding dukes, hiding some dark secret would brave thunder and lightning and welcome the fury of the storm. She rather suspected her
nefarious duke
required a tremendous storm.

Rain dripped into her eyes and she brushed back the moisture. A midnight black horse burst into view. She squinted as the creature bearing down on her drew closer. Her heart thudded wildly.

Sebastian. Her
charming duke
.

Then Hermione did what all great heroines attempting to gain attention from their prospective suitor did within the pages of a book. She rooted herself to the riding path. And waited. And waited. And—

Bloody hell!

A scream lodged in her throat as she stared down the eyes of the fierce, black beast. Hermione dove out of the path of the galloping stallion then tumbled, rolled and toppled over herself. She skidded down the slight slope. Her breath caught with the inevitability of disaster. She slid toward the water. A slight breath of relief escaped her as she stopped one slippered foot from the edge of the Serpentine. “Humph.” She stared up at the thick, billowing storm clouds above. Rain pelted her face and blinded her.
Well, that is certainly not how I’d intended for this to go.
She grunted and shoved herself onto her elbows conceding there was nothing even slightly romantic about a lady being caught in the rain, on her buttocks with her skirts rucked about her knees.

Oh, every last heroine she’d written who’d found herself thus was surely nodding their fictional heads in approval. A despairing laugh bubbled up past her lips.

His curse split the tempestuous storm. “Are you hurt?”

She didn’t think she’d been hurt. Then she registered the deep, mellifluous baritone. She located the owner of that husky question.

The Duke of Mallen cut an impressive path toward her, his black cloak whipped wildly in the wind. The muscles of her throat worked with the force of her swallow as she revised her earlier, impulsive opinion of rainstorms and injured ladies.

He dropped to one knee beside her and doffed his hat then tossed it aside. Concern lined the angular plains of his cheeks. “Have you been injured, miss…” He lifted his gaze to hers and the momentary flash of recognition sparked in the emerald irises of his eyes. “Miss Rogers,” he greeted as formally as if they were meeting in a drawing room and not in the empty Hyde Park with rivulets of rain running into his mouth.

She bowed her head. “Your Grace.” His horse danced nervously along the riding path, whinnying its distress with the rumble of thunder.

The duke narrowed his eyes.

Was he displeased at that perfunctory greeting? He was a duke. Perhaps those peers a step below a prince expected more reserved greetings—even from ladies. In a park. During a storm. Without a chaperone.

“It is a pleasure to see you again” he growled. How very odd. She’d never taken him as a powerful noble who’d do something as primitive as growl.

Fury flared in his eyes. “What in bloody hell are you doing out in this weather, Miss Rogers?”

An unexpected warmth unfurled in her belly. Why, he was worried about her. No one worried about her. Certainly not her father or siblings. Nor her aunt. She was the single, stable element within their broken family. But this man…

“Miss Rogers?” he snapped.

This man expected an answer. “Er…” But God help her. What was the reason for this planned “meeting”? Her mind raced as Mr. Werksman’s demand for a brooding duke, and her insistence on an affable duke faded with her awareness of him as a man.

He folded his arms, drumming his fingertips along his drenched black cloak. “Has the rain addled your senses?”

Oh, the lout. “I—I…”

He thrust his face close, running a searching stare over her face. Hermione swallowed hard, her body thrilling with an awareness of him. She couldn’t very well say she’d orchestrated this incident, planned it out with the strictest intentions of making
him
her brooding duke. All words, actions and sensible thought fled. Her family’s circumstances, Father’s despondency, Elizabeth’s situation, all lifted when presented with his nearness.

He cast his gaze about, wholly unfazed by
her
nearness. “And where is your chaperone? What manner of parents, aunt, guardian, or whomever is charged with supervising you allows a young woman to go off in this weather?” The furious rumble of his voice warred with the thunder for supremacy.

Hermione bit back the truth on her tongue: deceased mothers and lax fathers made for poor guardians. “Er…I just sent her back to the carriage. I forgot something and came back for it.” Which wasn’t altogether untrue.

He scoured her face, and the intelligent spark of his eyes bespoke a man different than any other she’d ever known. Hmm, an
intelligent
duke. Who knew those rare creatures existed? A thick blanket of silence stretched between them. The blistering sting of rain pelted her cheeks and pinged like a thousand pinpricks upon the river’s surface.

If palpable outrage hadn’t stemmed from apparent concern of her well-being, she’d have been quite cross with his high-handed response. No one had been concerned about her in so very long, she’d all but forgotten the wonderful feeling of being cared after. Instead, she’d taken on the role of
de facto
parent and protector to her three siblings.

Then something hot and volatile shifted in his eyes, replacing the fury and concern. He trailed his gaze downward over her person, to her very exposed, lower legs. His expression grew pained. Of course lofty dukes would even feel the pain of an icy rain. A groan escaped him.

Had he groaned? “Are you all right?” It certainly
sounded
as though he had. She followed his intense focus and her cheeks blazed.
Oh, my!
Perhaps it was not the rain, after all.

“Fine,” he said, his voice garbled. Hermione scrambled to shove her skirts down over her knees. Some hot, indefinable emotion blazed to life in his eyes. In spite of the rainy cold, heat climbed a path up her neck, and warmed her insides, driving back the chill, the rain-dampened garments, so all she knew and all she felt was him.

Then the look passed. Did she merely imagine any interest in his emerald green eyes? Which surely she had because dukes did not admire rumpled, wet and graceless ladies who had the ill-sense to run around London without a chaperone, as he’d quite succinctly pointed out mere moments ago.

“Forgive me,” he said loudly, his voice carried through the rain. “Are you hurt?”

She strove for nonchalant miss. “I am well, Your Gr—eep.” Her words ended on a high-pitched squeak as in one fluid motion he rose and swept her into his arms.

Her heart pounded in rhythm to the thunder, deafening with its powerful intensity. She should be thinking of the
Nefarious Duke
and all the many words she could now commit to the page for Mr. Werksman’s story, but for all the words she did possess, the feel of him against her, the sight of his sun-kissed gold, unfashionably long hair—a splash of light in this dark day—could never be captured for any story.

He set her on her feet and she mourned the loss of his fleeting warmth.

She cleared her throat. “Well, then.” She glanced past his shoulder to where her sister, brother, and maid had disappeared a short while ago. Or had it been a long while ago? Time blurred together.

He bent and retrieved his black hat and jammed the thoroughly ruined piece atop his head then held out his elbow.

“What are you doing?” she blurted.

“Escorting you to your carriage.”

Her heart kicked up a frantic beat. She touched her fingers to the fabric of his rain-dampened cloak and accepted his escort. They started the long trek to the entrance of the park.
All in the name of research
. Perhaps if she repeated the words as a silent litany she might come to believe it.

“I find I’m intrigued, Miss Rogers,” he said when the empty London streets pulled into focus.

She stole an upward glance at him as they continued walking. “And what has you so intrigued, Your Grace?” She searched for a plausible explanation as to what would send a young lady out in this raging storm.

“Your dance card.”

She glanced at her wrist, wrinkling her brow in search of this supposed dance card.

“Two nights ago,” he clarified. “Throughout the night you penned notes upon your card.”

“Oh.” Her mind whirled rapidly. “Er… I was…” What could one really say? She couldn’t very well admit,
Oh, you see, I craft stories for a mere half crown and selected you as the subject of my current book. I’m merely conducting research
 … “I was marking down…” Nothing. She had no plausible explanation that wouldn’t make her look like an absolute ninny. She pulled back her hand. “Er…if you’ll excuse me. I see my maid.” At least the carriage, anyway. Hermione dropped a curtsy. “I thank you for your assistance.” She stepped around him.