Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love

by Christi Caldwell

  For the lack of brooding in this particular duke, he evinced the other qualities quite perfectly.

  Dry wit.

  Haughty.

  Commanding…

  She took a step toward him, eying him with a renewed interest.

  “What is it?” He straightened from Lord Denley’s desk and took a step away.

  She continued to advance. “Nothing,” she murmured. Why, perhaps she’d unfairly dismissed him, after all. He retreated until the back of his legs knocked into the leather wing-back chair opposite Lord Denley’s desk. And with a shortage of dukes she couldn’t afford to be too choosy. She gave a nod. He would do. Rather, he would have to do.

  Hermione dropped a curtsy. “Good evening, Your Grace. I shall leave you to your thoughts.” She turned on her heel, crossed to the entrance of the room, but something made her pause. She shot a final look over her shoulder.

  The duke stood, studying her through thick, hooded lashes. She swallowed past a tight throat. Yes, he far more belonged as the subject of a sculptor’s work. For even with all the words she craftily assembled, she could never manage to string together an adequate number of them to capture his beauty.

  He quirked an eyebrow.

  Her cheeks burned at being discovered studying him so. Hermione fumbled with the lock and jerked the door open. She fled Lord Denley’s office. Now that she’d located a duke, nay, this specific duke, well it shouldn’t be at all difficult to ascertain the gentleman’s whereabouts.

  She disregarded the odd fluttering in her belly that surely had far more to do with the sudden excitement to return home to begin work on the story tasked her by Mr. Werksman. Her ruffled skirts flapped noisily as she sprinted down the halls toward the ballroom. Though, if she were being truthful, at least with herself, she could admit that she, and every other young woman favoring those dark, brooding dukes had been wrong.

  There was something also intriguing about the too-affable, too-handsome, golden-haired ones as well.

  C

  hapter 6

  The following morning Hermione picked her way down a crowded Whitechapel Street. The sole footman in her family’s employ trailed close behind. Not one given to a flare for the dramatics, Hermione readily admitted she found solace in his presence. If for no other reason than the flinty-eyed stares directed her way. And yet, she stole a glance at the vendors hawking their wares, part of her thrilled with the blur of sound and bustling activity. Possible story scenes played out within her mind…she gave her head a shake. “Focus,” she muttered under her breath. She needed to focus on her upcoming and unannounced meeting.

  Hermione trained her gaze on the small wooden sign atop an increasingly familiar establishment. Following her meeting with the duke last evening, she’d been inspired to pay her publisher a visit. The dreaded difficulty she’d had penning this blasted story replaced by sudden genius. It was that inspiration that sent her out now, without an appointment, to Mr. Werksman.

  Hermione paused at the establishment tucked between two shops. “I’ll be but a moment, Herbert,” she said to the faithful footman.

  He touched the brim of his cap and rushed back to the carriage, setting himself up as a kind of sentry outside Mr. Werksman’s publishing house.

  She climbed the three steps and pressed the handle of the door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit quarters. She peered around the empty, noiseless shop. The clatter of passing carriage wheels and the shouts of vendors penetrated the crystal panes at the front of the small space. “Hullo? Mr. Werksman?” Her quietly spoken question may as well have been shouted for all the force with which it resounded off the walls. Hermione wandered deeper into her publisher’s office, toward the cluttered desk. She frowned. “Mr. Werksman?” she called again.

  An annoyed rumbling met her question. The bespectacled, bald, smallish man exited from a side room off the back of the shop. He continued muttering to himself, his head bent low over a sheet of paper in his hand.

  “Mr. Werksman?” she repeated, this time louder.

  The man looked up from his work. “You, again, Mr. Michael Michaelmas.” She’d met him but two times since she’d arrived in London and apparently had exhausted his patience. He tugged a kerchief from the front of his coat and dabbed at his moist brow. The pages in his hands slipped to the floor. “I didn’t summon you.” He scratched his brow. “Did I?” he muttered, more to himself. The first two meetings had been at his bequest. “I don’t think I did.” This one was not.

  Hermione rushed over. She knelt and proceeded to collect the sheets. “You did not,” she said hurriedly.

  “And your story is not due for another fortnight.”

  She fisted the pages in her hand. “Three weeks,” she amended. She forced herself to lighten her grip and took a steadying breath. “That is, we’d agreed upon three additional weeks.” Hermione rose awkwardly with the bundle in her hands. She held them out. “However, there was a matter I wished to speak with you about.”

  He accepted the pages without so much as a thank you. “I am quite busy, Mr. Michaelmas.”

  She scrunched her mouth up tight. She quite understood the need for discretion in their missives and in her writings. She didn’t accept it and didn’t care for it but certainly understood how a squeamish, standoffish man such as Mr. Werksman would hesitate to pay a female writer for her stories. She did not, however, understand this need for pretense.

  “Mr. Michaelmas?” he prodded and dabbed again at his brow.

  Hermione jumped. “Er, right. It is about…”

  He resumed walking a path toward the long table at the back wall. She quickened her pace to keep up with his hurried movements. “I wished to speak with you about The Nefarious Duke.” A horrid title. Why didn’t publishers allow such important details to the creative writers who crafted those very stories?

  “What of it?” He stopped so suddenly she knocked into him.

  “Well.” She’d spent the better part of her night contemplating this meeting, confident she could bring Mr. Werksman around to her way of thinking. No, that isn’t altogether true, Hermione Rogers. You spent the majority of the evening thinking of a certain duke and not the one on your pages. She shoved aside the silently jeering voice at the back of her head. He set his papers down and turned back to face her. “What if he’s not a nefarious duke?” she blurted. She continued on a rush. “What if he’s…that is, I imagined him to be quite charming.” Sebastian, the Duke of Mallen flitted through her thoughts.

  He shoved his spectacles up on his nose. “Charming?”

  And possessed of the most glorious golden hair. “And affable.” With a smile that weakened young ladies’ hearts.

  “Affable.” He peered down his bulbous nose. “Affable.”

  She toyed with her reticule. With this meeting, in total she’d met with Mr. Werksman on three occasions. In the time she’d come to know him, she’d found whenever he repeated himself in that blank, faintly condescending manner it suggested just how much he cared for an idea. Which was usually not all. Hermione cleared her throat. “I imagine young ladies are quite tired of the brooding dukes and—”

  “Mr. Michaelmas?”

  “Yes, Mr. Werksman?”

  “I’ve paid you to write The Nefarious Duke. Are you unable to write that story?”

  She shook her head. She’d merely had an altogether different inspiration. The Duke of Mallen flitted through her thoughts as he’d done since he’d come upon her at Lord Denley’s office. “No. I simply—”

  “You were instructed to write a story about a nefarious, brooding duke.”

  She opened her reticule and fished out the folded page. “Yes, but I imagined if instead there was an affable duke with a villainous young woman with nefarious intentions of her—”

  “And if you cannot write the story about a nefarious, brooding duke then I shall commission someone else.” He dabbed his brow. “Someone who is able. Are we clear, Mr. Michaelmas?”

  S
he bristled at the man’s indolent tone and so very dearly would love to tell the portly bugger just what she thought of his high-handed attitude and unoriginal ideas. She sighed. “Yes, Mr. Werksman. Quite clear.” Yet, when her first work had been celebrated by a sea of no’s, Mr. Werksman had said yes and Hermione well knew the dangers of being too proud.

  He returned his attention to the worktable and as though she were a small child summoned before a stern governess, he promptly dismissed her.

  Hermione dropped her gaze to the page in her hand. She unfolded it and scanned the notes she’d made last evening. Any other day, at any other time, she would have wholeheartedly agreed with Mr. Werksman’s assessment for the characteristics of a duke. No longer. Now she found the brooding kind to be singularly uninteresting. She slapped the page down on his tabletop. His wide brow wrinkled. He eyed the sheet as though she’d laid a dead fowl upon his workspace. “I really believe you should read my notes, Mr. Werksman.”

  His mouth tightened, a clear indication of his displeasure. “You are being difficult, Mr. Michaelmas.”

  She was being direct…and she suspected the old publisher didn’t have much experience with mouthy, determined young ladies.

  The older man scanned the contents, not deigning to touch the page. “I’ll consider your proposal.” Her heart quickened with the flicker of hope. “However,” he continued, his tone the stern kind she reserved for her younger siblings. “I am merely considering it. I want my brooding duke.” What was society’s fascination with a brooding duke?

  She nodded. “I understand that, Mr. Werksman.”

  He picked up a book and shifted his attention to the page. “I expect the first three chapters in no more than three days.” He waved a hand, dismissing her. “Good day, Mr. Michaelmas.”

  With a spring in her step, Hermione retrieved her paper form his desk and marched toward the front of the office. She opened the door and stepped outside. The glaringly bright, sunny day momentarily blinded her. Hermione paused and raised a hand to her eyes looking out at the lively street. A smile pulled at her lips. Predictable, uninspired Mr. Werksman had not rejected her story in its current form, so hope remained.

  “The door, Mr. Michaelmas,” Mr. Werksman called from inside the establishment, his tone heavy with annoyance.

  “Er, right, my apologies.” She hastily tugged the door closed behind her. He really was quite an unpleasant fellow. Yet, he knew good stories. She trusted once he read the completed book, he would realize, just as she’d belatedly realized, how very appealing an affable, charming duke happened to be. The Duke of Mallen flitted through her musings.

  From across the street, her footman held a hand up in greeting. Hermione rushed down the steps, and then a prickle of awareness raced down her spine. She paused at the edge of the street and glanced in both directions, blaming her overactive imagination on her writer’s soul…and then stilled.

  She fisted the page in her hand. As though she’d conjured him out of her thoughts, walking at a brisk pace down the street, his long, black cloak swirling about his ankles, strode the duke. Her heart thudded wildly and she knew she looked a lack-wit, frozen as she was at the edge of the street, staring after him.

  Fate.

  She gave her head a shake. Not fate. She’d ceased in believing in fate a long time ago. Earlier than most young ladies. Convenience. That is what this was—a matter of convenience. And tugging her cloak close and, pulling her bonnet forward, she did what any bluestocking researching the actions of a charming duke might do…she made to follow him.

  “Miss?” Herbert called out, concern in his tone.

  Hermione looked back and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be but a…” She collided into a wall. Stars danced behind her eyes and she tossed her arms out to keep from falling over and her page of notes danced through the dirtied streets. Dazed from the force of her collision, she gave her head a shake and then registered the steadying hands upon her shoulders.

  She inched her eyes up. Higher. Higher. Ever higher. Blast, he was tall.

  “Miss Rogers. We meet again,” the duke drawled in that lazy baritone.

  She swallowed hard. Oh, dear.

  So many lessons had been drilled into Sebastian by his father on practicality and logic that he’d long ago ceased to believe in matters of fate.

  On the other hand, trained to be wary of a suspicious young lady’s actions, particularly as they pertained to his title and fortune, he recognized not all was as it seemed with Miss Hermione Rogers.

  “Miss Rogers,” he greeted again.

  She dropped a belated, and by his way of thinking insolent, curtsy. “Your Grace.” A becoming rosy blush stained her cheeks and her tantalizing pink tongue shot out to trail along her lower lip. “What are you doing here?” she asked, the question upon his own lips. Her color deepened. “That is…” He quirked an eyebrow. It was not every day a young lady called into question his actions. “What I meant to say is…” And he preferred the honesty of Hermione’s response.

  He angled his head, sparing her the pained search for proper words. “I serve on the board of London Hospital and I’ve a meeting.”

  “London Hospital?” she repeated as though he’d announced his intentions to overthrow the king and name himself head royal. “But you are a duke,” she blurted.

  Sebastian winked. “Do you take me for one of those indolent dukes?” he asked, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  Miss Rogers blinked and pulled herself from the momentary shock that had befuddled her. “You serve on the board of a hospital,” she repeated, more to herself. She raised her hand at a peculiar angle, as though poised to write.

  “I do.”

  She widened her eyes.

  Did the lady really find it so peculiar for him to have responsibilities beyond—

  Miss Rogers spun around, her gaze moving frantically about the bustling road. She placed a careless step out into the street.

  “Bloody hell.” He yanked her back just as a fast-moving carriage rattled past. The alacrity of the movement knocked her bonnet askew. It hung awkwardly off to the side of her head. His heart thundered filled with a surge of terror by how close she’d come to being trampled.

  Hermione’s eyes formed wide circles in her face, her skin turning a pale white. She touched her fingers to her lips. “You saved me,” she breathed. Then her hand fell to her side. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said softly, her eyes boldly held his.

  When every other man, woman, and child looked away, she met his gaze proudly, unwavering. For the first time in the course of his life, a woman saw behind the title, the rank, the wealth—seeing only him. He cleared his throat, not knowing why her reaction should matter. “Sebastian.”

  She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t—?”

  And yet it mattered.

  Sebastian captured her gloved hand. “Considering these unconventional circumstances, I imagine you might refer to me by my Christian name.” He raised her knuckles to his lips, damning the fabric between them, aching to know the silken softness of her skin.

  Her lips formed a moue of surprise and then mindful of passersby, he released her. Did disappointment flare in those fathomless blue irises?

  She gave a jaunty toss of her windswept locks. “That wouldn’t be proper…” Silver flecks of mischief twinkled in her eyes. And then she whispered, “Sebastian.” She gave a little wink, wreaking havoc on his senses with each bold movement. “And I suppose you should call me, Hermione,” She colored again. “Only because of the unconventional circumstances, of course,” she said, a slow, mischievous grin turned her full lips up.

  And that smile, the slightest movement of muscles transformed her into a spirited, unconventional siren.

  He retreated. Panic pounded in his chest, blurring with the loud shouts of street vendors hawking their wares.

  She tipped her head at an endearing angle, that enticing, slightly too-full mouth slipped into a frown. “Your Grace?
” Concern threaded those two words. “Are you all right?”

  She’d been nearly trampled by a carriage. “Fine,” he said, his voice gruff. Most other ladies would have been in histrionics and then have feigned a swoon to capture the duke’s attention.

  She cupped her hand around her ear. “What?” The wind carried her soft laughter to his ears.

  They certainly wouldn’t boldly wink and tease and ask after his well-being. He drew to an abrupt halt, placing a sizeable, safe distance between them. After all, he really should have a care. Even though they were nowhere near the fashionable parts visited by the polished members of the peerage, it wouldn’t do to be seen speaking with an engaging, unchaperoned lady.

  A liveried footman appeared just beyond Hermione’s shoulders, his eyes briefly met Sebastian’s and then the young man dropped them to the ground. She was not alone. The loyal servant’s message to Sebastian, as clear as if the words had been bellowed by the stout fellow. She continued walking toward him, stopping just a foot away.

  Yes, he should leave. “Are you all right?” Instead, he remained. A gentle wind whipped about them and a piece of muddied velum caught against his legs. Sebastian made to dust aside the scrap, when a curl slipped free of her chignon.

  “I’m quite fine,” she said with more cheer than he’d expect of a woman who’d nearly met her death. The silken strand, an intriguing shade, not quite brown and not quite black robbed him of breath. Had he truly considered her plain? “Quite careless of me. Do you know…?” No, but he would like to know whatever question had been on her lips. Then her eyes went wide.

  He followed her look of horrified fascination down his legs to the piece of street trash stuck to him.

  Sebastian bent to retrieve it. Mud smeared the page, obscuring the words. He made to ball the trash when his eyes snagged upon a handful of words.

  Charming…He skimmed the sheet. Affable. Green eyes…Du…