Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (9 page)

The duke stepped into her path, blocking escape. She sighed. Of course, a duke would not be so easily dismissed. Especially the charming ones. “Do you know it occurs to me…” He caught a rain dampened strand of hair in his fingertips and tucked it behind her ear. Her breath lodged at that innocently sensual gesture. “…you didn’t answer my question.” He lowered his head, his mouth close to hers. His breath, a delicious blend of coffee and mint, caressed her lips.

“I didn’t?” She struggled for a single coherent thought. “I’m sure I did.” Raindrops stung her eyes and she blinked them back.

With a gloved finger he collected a bead of rain before it trailed into her eyes. “Oh, no, I’m sure you didn’t.” How could a voice sound both seductive and stern? “Furthermore, it doesn’t escape my notice the unusualness in you, a lady being out in this weather, Miss Rogers.” His penetrating stare yanked her from the spell he’d cast.

With his questioning words, she sank into her only opening to freedom. Gasping, she stepped back with feigned indignation. “You dare question my honor as a lady!”

His eyes went wide. “I—”

She wagged a finger. “How very ungentlemanly of you, Your Grace.” Hermione dropped a hasty curtsy. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I shan’t tolerate such disrespect.” With that pathetic farcical drama she sprinted toward her carriage, feeling more than a bit guilty at the unfair charges she’d leveled at him. A lady must do what a lady must. Especially author ladies concealing their craft. The damp soles of her slippers slid across the wet grass and she threw her arms out to steady herself. All the while a pinprick of awareness pierced her neck and she stole a quick glance back.

The Duke of Mallen remained rooted to the spot. He beat his hand against his sculpted thigh, a bemused glint in his eyes as he followed her flight.

Hermione swung her gaze forward. She’d never before been accused of cowardice, but something of his presence, an unexplainable aura that had nothing to do with his title and everything to do with
him
teased her and worse reminded her why young ladies did foolish things and tossed away their reputations all for the pleasure of a man. It would seem she, practical and plain Hermione Rogers, was not immune to the lure of a charming, too-handsome nobleman. But then, Sebastian was no mere nobleman. Hermione groaned, humbled by the depth of her own weakness.

She approached her carriage. The driver hopped down from the box and tugged the door open. He handed her inside, and then closed the door behind her.

“Papa will be most displeased,” Addie lamented, taking a single look at a bedraggled Hermione.

She gave her sister a wan smile. “I’m sure he will.” The lie came easily. Poor Addie still operated under the grand illusion Papa noticed his children.

“I don’t think he’ll even notice,” her brother grumbled.

She gave Hugh a pointed look. His lips settled into a mutinous line, but he fell silent.

As the carriage rocked forward, Addie launched into a flurry of conversation about the rain and the sheer beauty of the crystal droplets—ever a hopeless romantic. Hermione tugged at the curtain and peered outside. Her heart thudded wildly at the duke’s retreating frame, her gaze fixed until he became nothing more than a dot upon the dreary, stormy horizon.

The memory of his fathomless green eyes trained on her exposed leg filled her, drowning out her sister and brother’s bickering, the outward chill, her maid’s annoyance. In that moment, he’d looked at her as though she was not simply plain, too-thin Hermione Rogers, but rather as an object of beauty. The implausibility of a duke expressing any interest in a lady of lesser nobility was best reserved for the pages of her books. Except, he’d noticed her today, and by his own account, two nights ago when he’d said…

The curtain slipped from her fingers and fluttered into place.

When he’d said…

Throughout the evening, you made notes upon your dance card…

Which meant he’d observed her mark her card not once, but numerous times. In her haste to be rid of him a short while ago and spare herself the embarrassment of revealing the truth, she’d fled. Hermione adjusted her cloak. Except, only now did she realize the duke had acknowledged to studying her throughout the evening.

Which really should have very little bearing on the role that he would serve in her life. Yet, somehow it mattered. Even as she knew the perils in such a thing mattering. Her fingers ached with the need for a pencil so she might commit these confounded emotions to paper. Perhaps all her heroines had it all wrong…

C
hapter 9

F
or a man concerned with an early death, Sebastian reckoned he really should have more of a care than to stand in the middle of Hyde Park in the midst of a deluge, but by God he’d been expertly handled…by a slip of a young lady, no less. Lightning cracked across the blackened sky, and when presented with the new possibility of dying by lightning strike, he managed to at last set aside his fixed interest in the suspicious Hermione Rogers.

Sebastian trudged through the rainy grounds of Hyde Park, hoping his faithful, if skittish, horse had not abandoned him to his own devices. The wind kicked up and slapped his cheeks with stinging drops of rain. All the while, Miss Hermione Rogers and her lean limbs exposed to the cool air clung to his mind with an annoying tenacity, the one bit of warmth on this dismal day.

With one stumble and an accidental lifting of skirts, the young lady, once plain, was, well…no longer plain. Instead, she was a young woman with impossibly lithe legs that conjured all manner of wicked thoughts, all of which involved those lithe limbs wrapped about a man’s waist.

He doffed his useless, hopelessly ruined hat and beat it against his leg. What manner of woman embarked out on this infernal day on her own? Likely the same woman seated at the edge of an evening’s festivities, penning notes upon her dance card. He’d be daft as old King George himself to not realize there was certainly more to the mysterious young lady. Having avoided far too many parson’s traps these years, he knew better than to feed into this dangerous, insatiable curiosity of the lady’s goings-on. Or, he
should
know better, anyway.

The nervous whinny of his horse penetrated his musings, and he wandered to the edge of the walking path. Bolt danced back and forth.

“Easy, boy,” he murmured, gentling the fractious creature. The giant, black stallion tossed its head back, and his silken mane sent drops flying. Sebastian claimed the reins. “Hardly fair to require you to come out in this all to avoid my sister and mother’s matchmaking.” He patted Bolt’s withers.

The faithful horse whinnied his agreement. Sebastian placed his foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the mount. With a little nudge of his knees, he urged the horse forward, and gave him some much deserved freedom. He streaked through the lush, empty grounds of Hyde Park, stretching his strides. Wind and rain whipped at Sebastian’s face and he embraced the invigorating cold upon his skin.

He guided his horse through the empty London streets, on toward his townhouse in Grosvenor Square. The old, faithful servant, Carmichael, who’d been with his family since his youth stood at the entrance—the man always had an uncanny ability to know when someone approached the front door. Sebastian dismounted. He tossed the reins to a waiting footman and bounded up the steps where he shrugged out of his drenched cloak then handed it as well as his ruined hat to the butler.

“Your Grace,” Carmichael greeted.

“Is she…?” Sebastian glanced around.

“The Marchioness of Drake left only a short while ago,” the older man replied, a twinkle in his old eyes.

“And my mother?” he asked, starting for the stairs.

“Has gone out, Your Grace.”

Sebastian took the stairs two at a time. His wet Hessians left a sopping trail of moisture in his wake. He reached the main landing and strode down the hall, pausing when he reached his chambers. Drawing a deep breath, he pressed the handle and entered his rooms, closing the door behind him, expelling the breath in a long sigh.

In the privacy of his room, he allowed himself to consider the dubious Miss Hermione Rogers. He’d been accused of many things in his life. Ducal bore—by his sister. Pompous duke—by his brother-in-law. No one, however, had accused him of being a lack-wit. And he would have to be a total lack-wit if he did not acknowledge Hermione’s dubious behavior.

He tugged free his cravat and tossed it to the floor. Young ladies did not go sneaking off in their host’s home in the midst of a ball and rifle through the gentleman’s personal desk. Nor did young ladies dash notes upon their dance cards. And they certainly didn’t go out unchaperoned, for a walk in Hyde Park on a day when the birds themselves had sense enough to stay sheltered. He shrugged out of his jacket. It joined the cravat in an ignoble heap then he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

Who was this Miss Hermione Rogers, other than Lady Pemberly’s niece, who should arrive mid-Season? Of course, it was more likely there was nothing at all amiss with the young woman’s peculiar behaviors. He’d never been one with an overactive imagination but if he did, he’d have said Hermione was orchestrating their meetings, as evinced by the manner in which she studied him, intelligent eyes, committing his every detail to memory. He could have his solicitor make inquiries about the lady…

Sebastian shoved back the idea as quickly as it had come. He’d not be reduced to subterfuge. Furthermore, those sapphire depths didn’t glitter with greed nor had she rained false compliments upon him. Rather, she’d met him in Denley’s office and Hyde Park with the same, proud, bold challenge flaring in her eyes, his title as duke be damned.

Sebastian strode over to his armoire. No one truly took the time to learn his interests or desires beyond how it pertained to the damned title. Certainly not his father, the man who’d molded him. And what was more…Sebastian wanted to know about the woman Hermione, herself.

The door opened. His valet slipped inside and Sebastian gave silent thanks for the interruption that stopped the flow of his confounded thoughts. The servant cast a forlorn glance at the rumpled attire and then moved with a purposeful march Wellington himself would have been proud of, past Sebastian, over to the armoire. He pulled the doors wide and pulled out each necessary piece, one at a time.

Wordlessly Sebastian allowed himself to be dressed into comfortably dry garments. How
did
a gentleman learn about a young lady? He furrowed his brow. Even with his fascination of Hermione he’d not engage gossiping servants or resort to the scandal sheets. Nor could he obtain information about the young lady without rousing the
ton’s
suspicions. Waxham hadn’t known of her or about her. Sophie and Emmaline and his mother would interpret his interest as that of a romantic kind.

Which it was not.

Assuredly not. He appreciated his women with voluptuous forms and blonde hair and….

Yet, as Sebastian accepted a jacket from Winston and pulled it on, he recognized there was something also quite pleasing in slender, lithe limbs and narrow waists. An unwitting grin pulled at his lips. There was also something to be said for a spirited lady undaunted by his title.

He stared at the door a long moment. Perhaps, the best way in which to discover the secrets of Miss Hermione Rogers was not through friends, family, or gossip. His lips turned up in a slow smile. Perhaps it was in spending time with the lady herself, solely for research purposes, of course. After all, it begged an answer as to why a woman not at all his type had so captivated him…

Seated upon the frayed red sofa, Hermione sifted through the ink-marked pages and absently stared at them. She tapped a finger against the top of one sheet. They really should be numbered. That way when her sister inevitably sneaked into her rooms and read through the pages, Hermione would have some semblance of the order of her plot.

Addie peered over her shoulder. “I believe the part where she meets the duke at the ball comes first.”

Yes, that of course made the most sense considering that was where she’d met the duke. She moved the page up in order. With a sigh, Hermione laid them down on the marble-top table in front of her one at a time. A loud rhythmic tapping interrupted her concentration. She frowned at her brother. From over at his seat by the window he tapped the edge of his foot against the floor-length crystal pane. “Do not do that,” she scolded. “You’ll break it.”

He stopped and swung his legs over the side of the window seat. “I told you Papa wouldn’t notice you’d dragged us out in the rain,” Hugh shot from across the room, his words directed at Addie.

Addie frowned.

“He cares, Hugh,” Hermione said softly. For both his and Addie’s benefit. The truth was Father
didn’t
care about much anymore.

He grunted and returned his attention outside.

“What if they meet in the park instead of the ball?” Addie suggested.

Hermione gave her head a distracted shake. She’d considered that point. Except, that wasn’t how the meeting had first taken place. There had been no great rainstorm with streaks of lightning. There had been a quiet office at a dull ball. Addie was indeed correct. The dramatic exchange between a duke and his heroine in a park, unchaperoned was by far the grander, more sensational beginning of any story. A wistful smile played at her lips as she thought of Sebastian, the Duke of Mallen. No, she could not change the meeting.

“Who is that?” Hugh asked from over by the window.

She picked up another page and considered what direction to take her duke and his heroine. “Who is who?” Hermione murmured distractedly.

Addie jumped off her seat and skipped across the room. She leaned over her brother’s shoulder. “Who is
he
?”

“That’s what I just asked,” her brother groused.

Addie sighed in a wistful manner that would require considerable watching in a handful of years, lest an undeserving scoundrel sway her. “He has the most glorious golden-blond hair. Even more glorious than Lord Cavendish’s.”

The page slipped from Hermione’s fingers and sailed to the floor. Her heart thudded wildly. Of course it was silly to imagine that just because her sister spoke of a blond-haired gentleman he’d be a
certain
golden-haired gentleman. Still, she hopped to her feet and sprinted across the room. She peered over her siblings’ shoulders. Her heart picked up its frantic beat.
Sebastian!
The duke’s long-legged strides carried him up the handful of chipped, stone steps.

They stared as one out the window. He chose that precise, inopportune moment to turn his gaze upward. The Rogers siblings leapt back as one. Hermione raced over to the table littered with her notes. “Hurry.” The terse order snapped her brother and sister into motion.

“Here,” she muttered and stuffed a handful of sheets into her brother’s arms.

She sprinted back to the window, just as the door closed behind Sebastian.

“What am I going to do with these?” Hugh groused from over her shoulder.

She raced to the table and gathered together the remaining sheets. Addie accepted the pages Hermione thrust her way without complaint. “Why is there a gentleman here?”

Hermione stacked her pens together. Surely, there was some mistake. Sebastian had no business here.

“Why is there a gentleman here?” Addie persisted, relentless with her questioning.

“I don’t know, dear.” She took her by the shoulders and guided her toward the front of the room. “Bring my papers to my chambers.”

“Humph.” With a frown, Addie trotted behind her brother.

Hermione returned to the window and peered outside. If Addie and Hugh hadn’t been present she might have convinced herself she’d imagined the Duke of Mallen’s unexpected appearance. A lofty duke, with a golden halo of loose curls didn’t visit the homes of lesser lords of quite dire financial circumstances.

A knock sounded at the door. “My lady?”

She slammed a hand to her chest and turned to greet the servant who’d taken on the role of butler for their family.

“His Grace, the Duke of Mallen,” the younger man in his well-worn livery announced the duke and then took his leave.

Hermione stood. She swallowed hard as the duke trained his gaze over her person, probing and searching. She detested her awareness of him as a man, as he studied her in a quite perfunctory manner. When the ormolu clock ticked away the moments and still he didn’t speak, she tipped her chin up. “Your Grace,” she greeted. She dropped a belated curtsy.

Sebastian quirked a golden eyebrow and with an unnerving quiet, strode deeper into the room. He moved with such languid grace, her heart fluttered. She smoothed trembling palms over the front of her skirts. “W-would you care for tea?” she offered, remembering belatedly there was but a handful of servants and hardly the means for pastries for visiting dukes.