Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love

by Christi Caldwell

  Sebastian tugged her close, drawing her against him, wanting to lose himself in the feel of her. He folded a hand around her neck and angled her head, availing himself to those damned, tempting lips, and what had begun as a desire to kiss the blasted insolence from her blossomed into something more—a conflagration of desire. He slanted his mouth over hers again and again until he felt the tension drain from her body. She went soft in his arms and he gentled his embrace.

  Hermione moaned and he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, exploring her further. She tasted of chocolate and honey, and he groaned wanting to lose himself in the sweet taste of her. Her tongue met his tentatively at first and then she emboldened, her hands climbed around his neck. She fisted his hair and anchored herself against his chest. Sebastian worked his hands over her body; down the span of her back, to the gentle swell of her hips.

  “Sebastian.”

  He swallowed the whispered entreaty that was his name, devouring it, relishing the breathy, three-syllable utterance that bespoke Hermione’s desire. He thrilled in the power of his touch over this woman and cupped her breast. Small but perfect for the palm of his hand.

  Her head fell back on a whimper. He moved his lips down the satiny softness of her cheek. Ever lower, caressing the faint cleft just beneath her lower lip. Then he continued his search, desperate to know more of her. Aching to know all of her. He placed his lips to her neck, where her pulse beat wildly in tune to the pounding of his own heart.

  Hermione spun out of his arms. Her chest heaved, her breath coming in rapid, little panting spurts. She touched trembling fingers to her lips. She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted whatever tart words were on her well-kissed lips.

  He’d not been drawn to her today because of her suspicious behavior in Denley’s office or their chance encounter on Whitechapel Street or their fateful meeting in the rain. “Your kiss is what brought me here, Hermione,” he said huskily, himself confronting the truth. It was her.

  Her blue eyes formed wide moons in her face. And he grinned at having once again having silenced the garrulous young woman. She fiddled with the fabric of her modest décolletage, drawing his gaze downward. Her distracted movement all the more erotic for the seductive innocence of it. “W-well.” She moistened her lips. “And did you find it satisfactory, Your Grace?” For the faintly mocking edge to that question, her words bore a trace of a lady’s innocence wondering.

  But surely she didn’t mean…? He blinked. Ladies didn’t go about asking gentleman whether they’d found…

  “My kiss.” Apparently this lady did. Her hands fell back to her side. “Was it worth coming ’round to pay a visit?”

  For all her cheek, the hesitancy in her eyes indicated that her show was all bravado. His response mattered to her. He took another step closer, expecting Hermione to retreat as she’d done earlier. Instead, she remained rooted to the spot. He brushed his thumb along the seam of her lips wanting to taste her once more. “Indeed, it was, Hermione.” His words emerged gruff with desire.

  She placed a staying hand over his and he ceased his gentle ministrations. “You are a rogue, then,” she spoke those words with a dawning shock. She scrutinized him in that quizzical manner of hers; as though he were an oddity at the Egyptian Hall.

  She’d misunderstood. Did she believe he bandied about his attentions on countless ladies? “I am most certainly not a rogue,” he said dryly. As a duke he’d taken great caution to avoid roguish behaviors that would make him easy prey for fortune-hunting schemers. The women he’d taken to his bed were skilled mistresses who didn’t hold onto hope of permanence between them.

  “Hmm,” she said noncommittally. Her gaze drifted to a point beyond his shoulder.

  And as she spoke with honesty, he said, “You’ve intrigued me, Hermione. That is why I’ve come.” Her attention snapped back in his direction. In being honest with himself he knew, his visit this day wasn’t about a kiss, or his suspicions, or their chance meetings in Denley’s office or Hyde Park. He’d come for her. She trailed the tip of her tongue over her lips; the innocent gesture sweetly erotic. “I found myself curious about the woman who’d sneak about her host’s home—”

  “I told you I sought privacy,” she bristled, mistaking his words as an accusation.

  He flicked her nose. “And tell me, did you find it? In Lord Denley’s desk?” She snapped her mouth closed. “No one knows a thing about you, Hermione.” And all the English fops were too dim-witted to see the beauty before them. Just as he had, initially. “Why is that?” Only initially.

  She spoke quickly. “I’m new to London, Your Grace.” It didn’t escape his notice that when displeased or put out with him, the lady “Your Graced” him. She drew in an audible breath, the slight sound somehow adding a level of intrigue to the unconventional beauty. “What would you know of me? My name is Hermione Edith Rogers. I quite detest my middle name. I’ve come to London at the bequest of my aunt, Lady Pemberly, my now deceased mother’s sister, to have a Season.” Her tone hinted at her irritation in having this London Season. So vastly different than nearly every other lady of the ton.

  He remembered Lord Whitmore’s swift retreat at Lady Denley’s ball. “To make a match?” Sebastian fisted his hands, detesting the unknown stranger.

  “Isn’t that the goal of all young ladies?”

  Yes, he supposed it was, but there was something in her tone, a nearly imperceptible pause which hinted at altogether different goals for this particular young woman. From the corner of his eye, a scrap of white caught his notice and he shifted his attention to the page on the side table.

  She darted a hand around him and picked up the sheet. “Do you also make it your business to read other people’s private notes?”

  “Yes.”

  A bark of laughter escaped her. “Well, what am I to say to that?”

  He found himself grinning, and for the first time since his failed courtship of Miss Sophie Winters who’d thrown him over for his friend, Christopher, the Earl of Waxham, he felt the first stirrings of interest in a proper miss. Not marriage per se. He hardly knew the lady enough to determine her suitability as a bride. Yet it was enough to know she’d captivated him.

  Her smile slipped and she touched a hand to her hair. “Is something amiss?”

  Whenever she was near, everything was amiss. And that thought didn’t terrify him as much as he expected it should.

  Hermione hadn’t known what she’d expected of the Duke of Mallen’s unexpected visit. Certainly not his kiss…or talks of love. Her heart stirred. He believed in love. Oh, he’d not specifically said the precise words. He’d spoken of the emptiness of an emotionless match. The horrified glint in his eyes hinted at the truth he denied…at least, aloud.

  For three years, she’d been content to craft romantic stories of love for fictional ladies. In Hermione’s twenty-two, nearly twenty-three years she’d had one of the village boys steal a kiss and she’d repaid the favor as any young girl of thirteen would—with a swift punch to the nose. That had been her last embrace. Until now.

  Sebastian’s entrance into her life was, and would forever be the singular most romantic moment to have ever happened to her.

  He walked toward the window. She studied his lazy, languid movements, aching to hold onto Sebastian and the dream of him. Forever. And when he remembered he was a duke and she was simply a mere Miss Hermione Rogers, the memory of him would live on in a story. Her fingers itched with an urge to commit the details of his long-legged stride to her notes—for reasons that had nothing to do with her book and everything to do with a wish to commit his effortless grace to memory so when she was an old woman, likely a spinster, still penning romances she’d only dreamed of, she could remember there had been a time that a charming, dashing duke had roused her senses to awareness.

  He paused beside the old oak table littered with three very familiar volumes. In his commanding ducal fashion, he picked up one of the books by Mr. Michael Michaelmas. Her stomach f
luttered at his handling of her work.

  Sebastian fanned the pages, his head bent over her earliest story published by Mr. Werksman.

  Hermione spoke quickly, moving around the table. “D-do you read, Sebastian?” She curled her fingers into tight fists to keep from pulling the copy of The Mad Marquess out of his hands.

  The hint of a smile played about his lips. “Indeed, I do.” He didn’t take his attention off the book. “Are you shocked to discover I’m a literate duke?”

  Her toes curled with the awkward embarrassment of being privy to one reading her work. Oh, she knew her stories were purchased; else the thrifty Mr. Werksman would certainly not have extended her a publication offer these past two years now. The knowing that someone read her work however, was vastly different from witnessing it.

  “You read Gothic novels, do you, Hermione?” At last he glanced up.

  She narrowed her gaze at the faintly condescending glint in his eyes. “I do.” She grabbed for the book.

  He snapped the volume closed and held it beyond her reach. “You do not strike me as a Gothic novel-reading young lady.”

  Well, technically she wasn’t a Gothic novel-reading young lady. She was a Gothic novel-writing young lady. “By your tone, I gather you find something wrong with Gothic novels, Your Grace?” She folded her arms across her chest, hating that his answer mattered. Hating that she wanted him to see the value in what she did.

  He inclined his head. “I imagine a person would be better served in reading the classics.”

  “The classics?” She’d tired long ago of Society’s unfavorable opinion on the Gothic novel.

  He nodded. “Or the romantic poets, even.”

  She furrowed her brow at that last dangling; “even”, which greatly implied…“anything”. As in a person would be better served reading anything than the drivel she wrote. “I’d venture you’ve never read a Gothic novel.” He was probably one of those stodgy readers, who’d not dare deviate from Polite Society’s norms and expectations for any and all matters—including the literature selected.

  “You would be correct, Hermione.” Sebastian opened to a random page and skimmed the passage. He proceeded to read aloud. “‘Everyone knew marquesses by nature were mad. Mad they weren’t dukes. Mad their landholdings were not as vast as those enviable dukes.’” He glanced up a moment.

  Heat burned her cheeks and she had to remind herself he did not know she was the author of those words he so disdained.

  “‘But this marquess.’” He dropped his voice to a menacing whisper. “‘But this marquess was madder than all others…’” He snapped the book closed once again. “Hardly the quality of writing to rival Chaucer or Aristotle.”

  Hermione plucked the copy from his fingers, torn between slapping his smug face and sinking under the hopelessly frayed carpet with embarrassment. “I wasn’t…” She cleared her throat. “That is, I don’t believe the author intended to rival Chaucer or Aristotle. I imagine sh—he intended to invoke passion and mystery and great love.” And as The Mad Marquess had been received so favorably, she’d imagined the book had done all she’d hoped for the story.

  His gaze grew hooded. “Love and passion and mystery. Is this why you read these silly stories?”

  She’d accepted long ago that, as an author she would never, could never please every reader. His view on The Mad Marquess was really but one opinion, and therefore shouldn’t matter. And yet, strangely, it did. “Do you imagine there is something wrong in reading about love and passion, Your Grace?”

  He had the good grace to look discomfited.

  “Is your life so empty, so vastly cold that you should mock any and all who read a Gothic novel?” she pressed relentlessly. She held out The Mad Marquess. “Go on, take it, Your Grace. Do not merely pull lines from a handful of pages and determine the quality of a book on those lines alone. Read it in its entirety, and then you can speak to me of the worth of such literature.”

  Sebastian hesitated, and then accepted the book, a patronizing grin on his lips that made her grit her teeth. He held it up in unspoken thanks. “How can I refute such a challenge?” He bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some very serious reading to see to this day.”

  Oh, the dunderhead. “Sebastian.”

  With gift in hand, he started for the door, fanning the pages as he walked.

  She really wished he’d not do that. Not in front of her. Not until he was well away, alone, where all lovers of Gothic novels could be honest with at least themselves. Then, if he still felt the same way about her work, she’d know it was founded on something more than a preconceived opinion he carried about the books she wrote.

  He paused at the doorway, his head still bowed over the opened book.

  “‘He took his leave with confidence. Bold steps. And such elegance Lady Arable Aldemoor should have had the sense to know he would return. Noblemen in possession of those bold steps…they always returned…’” Sebastian shot a last, lingering glance over his shoulder and spoke in a silken soft whisper that washed over her. “I shall return, Hermione… with bold steps.” He winked and took his leave.

  Hermione sank into the edge of the nearest seat, her heart thumping a funny rhythm.

  Addie poked her head in the room. “What did he want?”

  She leapt to her feet. “Addie.” Her skirts whooshed noisily with the swiftness of her movement.

  Her sister skipped into the room. “Did he steal one of your books?”

  Hugh shuffled in behind her. “What fancy gentleman would want one of Hermione’s books?” The two sisters shot matching frowns his way. He sat in the King Louis XIV chair and propped his feet on the table in front of him. “What? I’m sure he doesn’t waste his time with—”

  “If you finish that sentence, Hugh Rogers, I swear I will find every last spider in this house and place them in your bed,” Addie muttered.

  The boy’s skin turned waxen. He gulped once but otherwise fell silent.

  Addie returned her attention to Hermione. “Why did he have a book?”

  Hermione bent down and retrieved her copy of The Earl’s Entrapment. “I thought he might benefit from reading a Gothic novel.”

  “Marvelous idea,” Addie praised. “That way he’ll fall madly in love with your work and rush to buy every other book you’ve written.”

  A person would be better served in reading the classics. She smiled wryly. “I don’t imagine the duke intends to make a habit of reading Gothic novels, mine or those belonging to others.” She highly doubted he’d even read the copy she’d given him.

  “He will once he reads your book. I’m certain…” She blinked several times. “A duke? He is a duke,” she blurted. Excitement flared in her eyes and then swiftly died. “He isn’t at all dark and brooding.” She wrinkled her pert nose. “However will he help with…” Her eyes went wide. “He’s the affable one. The charming duke.” Indeed, he was. Except he was also scandalous and wicked and—Addie gave her a smile meant to be encouraging. “I suspect your nefarious…er…affable duke story will be your most wonderful yet.”

  Which served as much needed reminder about her responsibilities; to her family, to Mr. Werksman, to her readers.

  Nervousness stirred in Hermione’s belly with how much she needed to do in order to have her story off to her publisher, nor was there any certainty Mr. Werksman would agree to the affable duke, not when everyone craved the brooding type. Well, not everyone. She found the affable types perfectly charming, if sometimes infuriating with their high-handedness.

  “…Hugh says it will not be enough…”

  Her sister’s prattling pulled her back to the moment. “What was that, dear?”

  Addie thrust a finger in her brother’s direction. He shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “Well, it won’t.”

  “It will,” Addie cried. “Tell him it will. It has to be.” She lounged in her seat and, in a grand flourish slapped the back of her hand across her brow. “All sisters require a break from thei
r brothers and—”

  Hermione rested a hand on her sister’s. “Addie, what are you on about?”

  “There’s no money,” she blurted.

  Oh, dear. Hermione closed her eyes. They knew all that. She suspected they were no longer young enough to fully protect them from the truth of their circumstances.

  “And Aunt Agatha said there was certainly not the funds for Hugh to be off to Eton in the Summer Half which means…” She glowered at her brother. “He will be here. All. Spring. And. All. Summer.”

  “No.” Hermione scrambled forward in her seat. She shook her head. “You mustn’t listen to Aunt Agatha.” With her penchant for saying more than she should. “You’ll be off to Eton, Hugh,” she assured him.

  “No, I won’t.” He snorted. “Papa said as much.”

  “He did?” Her heart hammered.

  The siblings nodded. “He did,” they spoke in unison.

  She leapt to her feet and began to pace. “You’re going to Eton,” she muttered. She would not countenance the idea of Hugh not going off to be educated. It was too important. A given right expected by most noble families, words and learning were so much more to their once proud scholar of a father as well as Hermione. She shook her head again and increased her frantic back and forth movement before the sofa.

  “That is why your affable duke story must be a success,” Addie said with such a child’s honesty, Hermione’s heart tugged. Her sister’s faith, though while touching, was misplaced. What could she do? Amass a small fortune in coins as though she were some modern Chaucer? No, the world was not a favorable one to a woman. The truth Addie, still with her child’s innocence, hadn’t realized, was that ladies were forced to bury their intellect behind horrid male names like Mr. Michaelmas and instead wed powerful gentlemen. Sometimes hasty unions, of great necessity. Hermione glanced around the sparse room with its old furniture and frayed fabrics a reminder of their dire finances. There was Elizabeth and their not-all-quite-there father. A familiar panic settled like a stone in her belly.