Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love

by Christi Caldwell

  Hermione shoved to her feet and as she made her way over to the door, out of Papa’s office, down the hall then to Sebastian, it occurred to her she was writing her own story.

  God help her.

  C

  hapter 16

  As duke, Sebastian’s title afforded him certain luxuries. People tended to respect his time and wouldn’t do anything as outrageous as expecting the Duke of Mallen to be kept waiting. He grinned wryly. Standing in Hermione’s parlor, it occurred to him that this was the second time in a mere four-hour time span that he’d been kept waiting. First by his deliberately difficult brother-in-law, the Marquess of Drake. His gaze went to the door. And now Miss Hermione Rogers.

  Sebastian took the opportunity to study the small parlor. He did a circle about the room and examined the once extravagant, now extravagantly aged sofa. Slight tears marred the stained ivory fabric. Drawn to a small rip in the back of the seat, he wandered close and touched the worn and battered material. His frown deepened.

  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…

  At the time he’d found humor in her tart, terse response to his charges about her being a mystery to the ton. He’d sought out his brother-in-law’s guidance in terms of his feelings for this unknown miss, yet he’d not truly allowed himself to consider who she was.

  She was more than simply Hermione Edith Rogers, with an unfortunate middle name, and a connection to Lady Pemberly. A young lady who happened to read Gothic novels—

  “What do you want?”

  He started and turned toward the door. Ah. The angry young fellow, Hugh, stood at the entrance of the room. “Hullo,” Sebastian murmured quietly.

  The boy flayed him with the fury in his eyes. “I asked what do you want?” Hugh demanded, ignoring Sebastian’s greeting. He entered the room with all the swagger and bravado of a young boy imagining himself older than he actually was.

  Sebastian had little experience with children, but ventured the lad to be close to Sebastian’s age when Emmaline had been born.

  “Is something wrong with you? I asked what you are doing here?”

  Sebastian opened his mouth and closed it. As an elder brother he’d had a good deal of experience with troublesome girls. Angry, boys however were beasts of a different sort.

  The boy sneered. “You expect I care that you are a duke?” If possible, the lad was even less impressed with the Mallen title than his elder sister. Hugh spat at the floor. “You’re all the same,” he said, a vitriolic fury teeming his words. “Not to be trusted.”

  Sebastian started at such cynicism from one so young. He glanced to the door, filled with an even greater eagerness for Hermione’s arrival. It was a sad day indeed when the Duke of Mallen awaited rescue from an insolent lad, from the insolent lad’s sister, no less.

  “What, nothing to say?” Hugh taunted.

  The boy, for all his gruff, earned Sebastian’s respect. He responded with honesty. “I’ve come to see your sister.” Polite Society had the wrong of it. If they wanted to deter roguish suitors for their daughters, they should merely turn this lad loose, chaperones be damned.

  Hugh folded his arms across his chest and continued to train that too-old-for-his-years black scowl on him. “Humph” the boy said noncommittally. Sebastian gave thanks Hermione’s brother wasn’t an older, protective version of himself or Sebastian would have been called out somewhere between one stolen kiss and an inappropriate glance. Hugh took a step closer and jabbed his finger at him. “What are you intentions for my sister?”

  Sebastian choked.

  “Hugh!”

  The duke looked to the doorway where Hermione stood framed at the entrance, a narrow-eyed gaze trained on her brother, her arms akimbo.

  The boy scuffed the tips of his worn boots along the mahogany floor, a youthful lad once more. He shuffled over to the door, head hung down. “Where’s your chaperone?” Hugh demanded, seeming to find one last boost of courage.

  At last, a sensible member of her family who recognized the very important fact, Miss Hermione Rogers appeared to have forgotten at some point.

  A young woman shuffled in behind Hermione, her serviceable brown wool gown and the white cap atop her head bespoke her station. Ahh, the oft-absent maid. She disappeared to the far corner of the room and claimed a rosewood open armchair.

  Hugh stepped past his sister, but Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder, staying his movements. She leaned down and whispered something close to his ear. He gave a small, tight nod and then with a final black glare for Sebastian, took his leave.

  Sebastian broke the silence. “Hermione,” he greeted, a warmth filling his chest at the simple sight of her.

  Yet, she hovered at the doorway and he feared one wrong word uttered on his part would send her into flight. Had the same events that transformed Hugh into an angry, spitting-mad young boy resulted in Hermione’s somberness?

  “I must confess to being surprised by your visit, Your Grace.” She spoke with the usual directness he’d come to appreciate her for.

  Sebastian fished around the front of his jacket. “You dropped this when you left earlier this morning,” he murmured. He withdrew the letter that had fallen from her book at Hyde Park. Not reading the contents of the note had been perhaps one of the hardest chores he’d undertaken in life.

  Her dark brown eyebrows shot to her hairline. She sprinted across the room and then she yanked the note from his fingers. Her chest heaved with the force of her upset. She held it close to her breast. More than ever he wished he’d read the blasted sheet.

  “Generally a thank you would suffice,” he said sardonically.

  “Did you read it?” she asked tightly.

  He really should have scanned the damned contents of the note. “You insult my honor with such a question.” The icy cold fury in his rebuttal would have had most people cowering in terror.

  Miss Hermione Rogers, however, tipped her chin back as bold as you please and challenged him with fire in her eyes. “Did you?”

  “No.” He balled his hands into fists at his side and the niggling of suspicion sank into his mind of the person who’d penned that letter—a gentleman, perhaps the young lady carried a deep love for. Such clandestine missives would certainly indicate why he’d come upon her in Lord Denley’s office and numerous times, unchaperoned at ungodly hours.

  The tension in her narrow shoulders seeped from her narrow frame. “So that is why you’ve come?” Did he imagine the trace of disappointment to her question or was that his own desiring?

  “Yes.” No. He’d come to see her. He would have come whether or not the folded ivory sheet marked in her initials hadn’t tumbled from the book she’d been writing in that morning.

  “Oh.” The whispery soft exclamation definitely contained a trace of disappointment.

  “If you’d not fled so quickly, I would have given you the note earlier.” But then he’d have no logical reason to justify a visit, outside the very obvious reason assumed by his friends, family, and the whole of Polite Society—he was courting the young miss.

  She continued to fiddle with the folded page.

  “It occurs to me, Hermione, you have a devilish tendency of running off.” And he didn’t like it. Not in the least. Particularly when she was running away from him.

  Hermione lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Perhaps it is because there is everything improper in our being alone together unchaperoned.” She dropped her voice and glanced past his shoulder. He followed her stare toward the maid with her bent head. “As we’ve been three times thus far,” she whispered, returning her attention to him.

  And how very dearly he wished it could be a fourth. He took a step toward her. His fingers burned with the desire to stroke the soft curve of her cheek. “I read your book.”

  “My b-book.” Her squawking voice could have rivaled the grey geese at
his country estate at Leeds.

  “I read the copy of Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ Mad Marquess,” he clarified.

  She blinked and then her eyes formed round moons. “Oh, the book.” A breathless laugh escaped her.

  He furrowed his brow, not altogether certain of the distinction between the two.

  Hermione danced away from him and continued moving backward. She paused beside the torn sofa. “Will you please sit, Your Grace?” She gestured to the seat across from her.

  Sebastian strode over. He slid into the seat closest Hermione. Their knees brushed. She sucked in a breath. A thrill of masculine satisfaction filled him at her reaction to his nearness. The minx wasn’t as unaware of him as he’d earlier believed. Hermione grabbed a closed journal atop the table and a nearby pencil. She fanned to the middle of the book and then stopped abruptly.

  “And what did you think of The Mad Marquess, Your Grace?”

  “Sebastian,” he murmured. “I believe you were correct. It is a story of passion and love and certainly not anything I’d…” He cocked his head and repeated, “Certainly not anything I’d…” He paused. “Miss Rogers are you taking notes on what I’m saying?”

  Her head shot up and a guilty blush stained her cheeks. “Uh…no. Should I be?”

  “You should not be,” he said curtly. He flicked his gaze from Hermione to the maid with a smile on her lips. He frowned. The last bit of gossip he cared to have bandied about was his recent interest in Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ Gothic novels. He imagined the ton would have a great deal of amusement at his expense.

  “Sebastian?” Hermione prodded.

  He draped his ankle over his knee. “Do you know what I believe?”

  She inched to the edge of her chair, bringing their legs in contact once again. “What?” She tapped the edge of her pencil against her lip while closely scrutinizing him.

  Except when she asked with that whispery soft entreaty underscoring her words, her smoky lashes lowered, he couldn’t think of much beyond one shocking truth—the idea of marriage to Miss Rogers was not at all unpalatable. Quite the opposite. And he, who’d avoided the parson’s trap and fortune-hunting ladies desiring the title of Duchess of Mallen, found he quite enjoyed the idea of taking this particular woman, this unconventional woman, to wife.

  “Sebastian?” she prodded, her eyebrows dipping.

  He gave his head a clearing shake. “I believe your Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work isn’t altogether drivel.”

  Through the years the sliver of herself that penned romantic tales of forbidden love and scandalous matches had held onto the dream of more for herself. Despite Cavendish and Papa, the whimsical portion of Hermione’s soul had secretly longed for and imagined a gentleman who’d pay call, snip a black strand of hair, then tuck it close to his chest. All truths she’d not admitted, even to herself—until this very moment. She’d imagined a man who’d dash sonnets upon a page, then hold the poem in one hand and a bouquet in the other.

  Yet, all of those frivolous dreams were naught when compared with Sebastian’s almost compliment, an unwitting compliment from a gentleman when no gentleman would dare admit to reading a Gothic novel.

  “Thank you,” she said, a smile pulling at her lips.

  “I imagined a boastful, gloating response more than anything else.”

  “I’m not the boastful type,” she said.

  “That isn’t to say the work was flawless,” he continued.

  Her smile slipped. “I beg your pardon?” She could not call back the indignant exclamation.

  He rested his forearms upon the arms of his chair. “Would you prefer I lied to you and said your Mr. Michaelmas’ work can rival the greats?”

  “Humph.” She folded her arms across her chest. There really was nothing more humbling than having one’s work picked apart by a lofty duke. A strand of hair fell across her eye. She blew it back. “Well, on with it then.”

  “The marquess lacks depth.”

  She straightened. “He most certainly does—”

  He arched an eyebrow.

  Hermione cleared her throat and gave a wave of her hand. “Very well, carry on.”

  “His love for the heroine is immediate. He, who pledged to never love falls in love quite quickly and without reservation.”

  She scrunched up her mouth. “Well, why would he want to fall in love slowly?”

  He dragged his chair closer to the edge of her seat and leaned in. “Otherwise how can he truly know her?” he pressed. The faintest hint of mint and warmed chocolate clung to his breath and she drew in the intoxicating scent of him.

  She desperately wanted to attend his questioning. Only…He does believe in love. This powerful, confident, and bold gentleman, a duke no less, spoke so candidly, with such assurance of that emotion. “He knows,” she said, at last her voice hoarse. “He knows upon first meeting her. Love is instantaneous—”

  “It is not.” He shook his head. “It is born of a deep understanding of one another and comes after many years—”

  A snorting laugh bubbled up past her lips. He believed in love but didn’t truly understand it. “Many y-years?” she sputtered. So was the way with gentlemen on matters of the heart. She tipped her head. “Do you imagine there is a prescribed number that dictates matters of the heart?”

  His jaw hardened as though he took offense at her laughter. Perhaps a duke was unaccustomed to others finding amusement at his words. “By your admission, Miss Rogers, you’d believe a person can know another person, their interests, their hopes,” he dropped his voice, and his words whispered in that husky baritone wrapped about her, “their desires in just a single meeting.”

  She swallowed hard. He was indeed, correct. So why with Sebastian did she allow herself the whimsy of a fairytale?

  He pressed on, relentless, lowering his voice even further. “By your admission, you’d believe yourself capable of loving me since that meeting in Lord Denley’s office?”

  Her throat worked involuntarily. God help her… He quirked an eyebrow, so coolly unaffected that reality came crashing down around her, and dashed all the fanciful yearnings that had occupied her ponderings. “I—I d-don’t,” she said, wishing her voice was steady. And more…wishing she believed her own words.

  His lips turned in a half-mocking, half-knowing grin.

  She pursed her lips. Oh, the lout. He believed he knew all; matters of the heart and matters of literature. Hermione folded her arms across her chest. “By your own admission, Your Grace, do you believe if we wed tomorrow, you’d be incapable of loving me for, what was it, three years? Four?” She raised an eyebrow. “Five? Or did you fail to mention the requisite number of years one must know a person to love a person?”

  Some dark, powerful look blazed to life in his eyes.

  And then she pressed her lips together, as a horrifying heat blazed across her body at the implications of the words she’d tossed at him. “Not that I presume you’re in love with me,” she said quickly.

  He remained stone-faced.

  Unable to quell the nervous tendency that required her to fill voids of silence, she continued on a rush. “Nor do I presume you’d wed me. Tomorrow, that is. Or I suppose any day for that matter. I’m merely saying…”

  “Yes?”

  She bristled at the wry amusement underscoring that one word utterance. “I believe we were discussing your displeasure with The Mad Marquess.”

  “Did you hear it as displeasure?” He rolled his shoulders. “I merely thought I provided an honest critique.”

  Which is probably what she most disliked—the sincerity of his opinion about love. She gave her head a firm shake. Nay…not love. She disliked his opinion on her book, that was all. “And do you intend to read any more of my…” She coughed and buried the sound in her hand. “Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work?” She held her breath, not knowing why she should await his answer with this breathless anticipation.

  “Will I be required to meet and discuss my thoughts with you on
his other works?”

  “I suppose that might be…er, useful.” Though she couldn’t be certain her response wasn’t born of pure selfishness, a selfishness that had nothing to do with improving her craft and everything to do with being in Sebastian’s company. The same recalcitrant dark brown lock fell across her brow.

  They reached for it as one. Their fingers touched as he brushed it back and her breath caught. “Well, then I imagine I will be completing the reading on the remainder of his works.”

  “Why?” She should be shamed by the boldness of that whispered question.

  “Why, Hermione?” He leaned down so close their lips nearly brushed and everything fell aside; her maid in the corner, the horrifying revelations shared by Papa a short while ago, Hugh’s bitter charges, the story for Mr. Werksman and she braced, desperate for his kiss. “Is it not obvious?”

  She managed to shake her head.

  “Why, it is because I find myself quite captivated…”

  A wild, fluttering spiraled throughout her belly and crept higher to her heart as she tipped her head back, craving his kiss.

  “…by your Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work,” he finished.

  Mr. Michaelmas? Her eyes flew open. He studied her with a knowing smile.

  Humph. “Oh, er right, very well, then.” She leaned around him and grappled for a familiar book on the rose-inlaid side table. She slapped it into his hands. “If that is all you require, Your Grace, I’ll hand off one of his more recent works to you.” She hopped to her feet.

  He remained seated, eying her quizzically. “Have you just dismissed me, Miss Rogers?”

  This time, Hermione leaned close to him, so their lips nearly touched once more. “I imagine if you’re so very captivated, you are very eager to begin,” she lowered her voice to a sultry whisper, “reading.” She smiled widely and then clapped her hands once. “Off you go then, Your Grace.”