Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love

by Christi Caldwell

  He stood, his impossibly tall, powerful frame unfurled, swallowing up her shadow making her too-tall self, who never felt small around gentlemen or ladies, feel slight of frame. He glanced over in her maid’s direction and then returned his attention to Hermione. He appeared poised to say something further but then gave a short bow. “Miss Rogers.” With that, he left.

  Hermione stood there long after he’d gone, staring at the empty door he’d disappeared behind. She sank into the sofa and gripped the edge of her seat as dread sank like a pit in her belly.

  She’d gone and fallen in love with Sebastian.

  C

  hapter 17

  Sebastian stood beside the empty hearth in his office with the tick-tocking long-case clock as his only company. He clasped his hands behind his back. He periodically glanced over at the book given him by Hermione. Another of her beloved Mr. Michaelmas’ works, The Bitterest Baron’s Bittersweet Love. It really was quite an atrocious title, nearly as bad as the author’s name of said book—Mr. Michael Michaelmas.

  He should have departed for Lady Brookfield’s ball—he glanced at the hands of the clock—well, at least an hour ago. Perhaps longer. Instead, he’d pondered the very atrocious title of a tartly delivered gift from earlier that morning. And staring into the cold metal grate of the hearth, Sebastian acknowledged that the very moment Hermione Rogers had slapped her copy of The Bitterest Baron’s Bittersweet Love into his hands and all but tossed him from her parlor, he would offer for her.

  Most gentlemen preferred their wives biddable and docile and he, having dealt with the infuriating nonsense of a younger sister, had imagined he would be one of those ‘most gentlemen’ craving calm and quiet. With Hermione’s tendency to prattle on when flustered, there would never be quiet. And with her passion-filled eyes, well, there would be no calm either. And he found he wanted it. Nay, her. He wanted all of her.

  By your own admission, Your Grace, do you believe if we were to wed tomorrow, you’d not be capable of loving me for…what was it three years? Four? Five?

  Perhaps it would not be very many years after all. Mayhap Hermione had the right of it. He imagined a life with her in it. A union between them would not be the staid, dull match that unified two powerful families. Hermione’s inability to purchase that single leather book for her sister spoke volumes to her family’s financial circumstances, yet, he cared not at all for the wealth she would, or in this case would not, bring to a marriage between them.

  He passed his gaze over his own extravagant office with immaculate mahogany Chippendale furniture, the rose-inlaid tables and crisp leather. This was the life she deserved. Walls adorned with every last book by Mr. Michael Michaelmas if she so desired.

  A knock sounded at the door and he spun. His mother stood, framed in the entrance. “Sebastian,” she greeted.

  “Mother,” he turned back to the hearth and consulted the time once more.

  “I gather you remember you’d accepted the invitation to Lady Brookfield’s?”

  “Indeed,” he muttered.

  The flutter of her satin skirts echoed through the space, indicating she’d advanced deeper into the room. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with a certain young lady?” Wry amusement laced her words.

  Sebastian faced her. He winged an eyebrow upwards.

  “The wool-gathering,” she clarified.

  First, Waxham, then Em, Hermione, now his mother. Sebastian tugged at his lapels. “I don’t—”

  “Wool-gather,” she supplied, her tone dry. “Yes, I know. Neither did your father.” It was no secret to polite Society that though theirs had been an arranged match, the Duchess of Mallen and the late duke had found love which likely accounted for his father’s insistence on one of those nobly arranged unions. “Neither did your brother-in-law, the marquess,” she continued. “Or—”

  “You’ve quite made your point, Mother,” he said tersely.

  “Have I?” she asked, arching a blonde eyebrow.

  Actually, she hadn’t, and if he were truthful, which he did not intend to be—not with his mother, anyway—he really wished she’d explain the whole blasted thing to him. “Yes,” he lied.

  “Well, I’ll say it regardless.” Which was good, as it would not require him to ask. “I’ve never been, nor will I ever be, one of those mamas making demands on you to wed. My happiness in life has never been dependent upon my children marrying but rather on whom my children marry.” In that, she was far different than Father. She paused and passed a meaningful gaze over his face. “He was a good father, but he was a duke first, wasn’t he?” she asked quietly. To agree would be to disparage the man’s memory, so Sebastian said nothing. “I’ll not have you marry when your heart is not engaged, Sebastian.” She held her gloved palms up. “But if your heart is engaged and you do not act on that, well, then that is something that would greatly disappoint.”

  He tightened his hands at his side. He’d already decided he would offer for Hermione, but was his heart engaged? He enjoyed being with her, she made him smile, bothered, and engaged all as one. He froze, unblinking.

  I love her. I love her smile and her spirit. I love the mischievous twinkle in her eyes and the challenge on her lips. Sebastian waited for panic.

  That didn’t come.

  His mother glanced at the clock, unaware of the turbulent thoughts roiling through him. “If it is the same to you, Sebastian, I’d leave for Lady Brookfield’s ball.” She started for the door and took her leave.

  He stared, his gaze fixed on the copy of The Bitterest Baron’s Bittersweet Love and suddenly wished he’d left more than an hour ago. He spun on his heel and marched from the room then down the foyer. He needed to see Hermione and tell her she was correct. It wasn’t years. In his case, he’d found love in just days.

  Hermione did not care that the rumors had proven incorrect about the Duke of Mallen attending Lady Brookfield’s ball. Just as she did not care that she’d sat in the same spot at the back wall for the better part of two hours. Just as she also did not care that… She shifted in her seat. Well, she did care about the same-spot-business because her back ached quite dreadfully for being in nearly the same position for those nearly two hours.

  She craned her neck and strained to the edge of the seat in a move that had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with searching for a certain duke. The set of whirling dancers came between her and the front of the room and she sank back in her chair with a sigh. Perhaps, her efforts did have to do with a certain duke. With the precariousness of her family’s situation, her preoccupation with the affable, ever-charming Sebastian was the height of folly; her feelings for him were nothing but a distraction from any real kind of solution to the troubles plaguing her small, scandalized family.

  “Hermione Rogers, given the state of your family’s circumstances you would be better served dancing than sitting as you are.”

  She blinked. She’d not thought she’d spoken aloud.

  “Hermione!”

  She hopped to her feet and finally focused upon the stern matron. “Aunt Agatha,” she said quickly.

  “Did you hear me, Hermione?” Her aunt glowered. “You should be dancing.”

  “Do you suggest I ask a gentleman to partner me?” The impudent question tumbled from her lips before she could recall it.

  Aunt Agatha went slack-jaw.

  She didn’t mean to be ungrateful, yet what did her aunt expect? No lady preferred to be the pathetic, pitiful wallflower at the edge of the dance floor. Hermione could no sooner drum up a partner than she could force Cavendish to do the right thing by her family.

  Her aunt angled herself in a way that she shielded their exchange from the crowd. “I gather you are aware of your father’s meeting with a certain lord?”

  “I am,” she said on a hushed whisper. At least Aunt Agatha had the discretion to not mention the actual gentleman’s name. Even as Hermione’s actions would never warrant notice, one could never be too careful when there was a sea swa
rming with gossipy ton members.

  Her aunt gave a curt nod. “If you sought salvation from that one, there will be none coming.” Oh, God. She’d desperately prayed Papa had been wrong in this regard. “He is to wed a wealthy heiress and will never dare acknowledge a connection to your family. There is to be a formal announcement…” Her aunt’s words came as if down a hall and she stared unblinking at the ridges upon the enormous Doric column. Hermione reached a hand out and grasped it, seeking support. Elizabeth. Her babe. Addie. They would all be ruined. “…He is here…the…”

  She shook her head. “He is here,” she blurted. Sick dread filled her at the prospect of seeing the man who’d robbed her innocent sister of her virtue. Her significant height allowed her to look with ease over her aunt’s shoulder. Hermione scanned the crowded room in search of a familiar gentleman with hair so fair it was nearly white.

  “Are you listening to me, Hermione?”

  She jerked her attention back to Aunt Agatha. “Yes,” she lied. She’d heard just bits and fragments of her aunt’s flurry of words.

  “If you are not prepared to make this great sacrifice for yourself, my dear, at least think of your sister and brother.”

  This great sacrifice. That evil, vile, horrid plan mentioned three days ago by her aunt. An act which would never, could never, be redeemed. Trap Sebastian. Her mouth went dry at the great appeal of being not his duchess, but his wife. Such a man would never so fail his family as her father had done. You’ll never have to worry for Addie, Hugh, or Elizabeth’s future again. The venomous thought snaked around her mind, spewing its poison.

  “I see you’re considering it,” her aunt snapped. “Which means you are not as foolish as I’d imagined.”

  “Thank you,” she said between tight lips.

  Alas, her aunt failed to hear or care about her niece’s sarcasm. “The gentleman has expressed interest enough in you that yours will not be an unhappy union. All you need do, my girl, is coordinate a meeting, and I shall see to the rest.”

  Hermione’s stomach dipped at the effortless manner in which her aunt spoke of compromising her niece’s reputation and robbing a man of choice. And, Hermione, who’d never been without words, found herself incapable of mustering a single reply for her avaricious aunt, never more grateful than when she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd. How could this cold, title-grasping woman share the blood of Hermione’s departed mother? Her mother, who’d been so hopelessly in love with Papa that she’d foregone far loftier, more advantageous matches to wed a bookish baronet with a whimsical heart.

  She made for her seat, and then froze. The crowd fell away. Her aunt’s scheming slipped her thoughts, and she took a step forward as Sebastian made his entrance. He strode down the stairs, elegantly attired in his midnight black breeches and black jacket, looking for all the world as though he were the owner of the ballroom. Eager matchmaking mamas clamored for his notice. Gentlemen threw their hands up in greeting. Hermione smiled sadly. Her aunt expected her to make a match with him. Yet, by the circumstances of his noble birth and her modest, country lifestyle, they could not be more different. Dukes just a breath shy of royalty wed young ladies of equal blue blood. Hermione and Sebastian barely moved within the same social sphere and then, only by his seeming interest.

  Someone stepped into his path, staying his forward movement—a well-matched couple. A handsome gentleman with chestnut brown hair, arm looped through that of a blonde, voluptuous young lady who smiled with such familiarity at Sebastian, Hermione’s insides twisted with jealousy. His smile, a charming gift he now bestowed upon the woman.

  Hermione forced herself to look away. Aunt Agatha deluded herself if she imagined more to Sebastian’s smiles than there truly was. Why, he likely smiled that same, dangerous, slightly crooked grin at any number of young ladies and had surely left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. She fisted the fabric of her yellow skirts and looked at the crowd…

  …and froze.

  Her heart pounded hard as she stared at the familiar, loathsome sight of the rogue who’d destroyed her sister’s heart and shattered the possibility of a respectable future for any of them. She’d known it was likely that they would again meet, and now seeing him grinning and casually sipping champagne, a mind-numbing fury threatened to consume her.

  He glanced almost disinterestedly about the room…and then his gaze collided with hers. Momentary confusion filled his eyes and then dawning horror. Lord Cavendish’s lips parted as if in a gasp and he choked on his French champagne, attracting concerned stares.

  Hermione narrowed her eyes. Good, the blighter deserved to choke for what he’d done. She contained a bloodthirsty streak. But then, when you were a sister that is what you did. You loved fiercely. You donned silly yellow skirts and attempted to catch a husband as though men were trout in a well-stocked lake. And you slayed dragons real and imagined, or in this case, Lord Cavendish the man who’d stolen Elizabeth’s virtue.

  Sebastian forgotten, she started across the ballroom, holding Lord Cavendish in her sights. He watched her approach; his gaze darted about as if he sought escape. And Hermione thrilled at the coward’s reaction. She sidled through the crowd, skirting dancers performing the steps of a quadrille. Nearby lords and ladies eyed her, an interloper in their extravagant London Society, with vague disinterest, and then shifted their attention to some other more worthwhile creature to gossip about.

  She drew to a stop before him. Having been acquainted in the country, no formal introductions were required. Not that Hermione would have let formalities come between her and this meeting. Only, having detested him as she had for these four months now, and all the words she’d prepared to spew at him should their paths ever cross, she found herself robbed of speech. Her chest heaved.

  “Yes?” He raised an insolent eyebrow. “May I help you?”

  His disdainful greeting jerked her back from her momentary shock. “Lord Cavendish.” The baron paused; surprise flared in his eyes at her boldness. She stole a sideways glance at those around her, but surrounding ladies and gentlemen tittered on with their own morsels of gossip. “I’d speak with you, my lord.”

  He gave a flick of his chin. “This is certainly not the place to discuss anything, Miss Rogers.” A furious glint reflected in his heartless eyes. “Nor are there any matters I have to discuss with you.”

  She balled her hands into fists. In this moment, with his smug, deprecating stare trained on her, she hated him. God help her, if she had a pistol she’d put a ball through his chest right now, with a glad little smile. “Indeed, there is.” She tilted her chin back. “My sister. I’d discuss my sister with you.” Reason crept back in. She could not do this thing. Not in the public manner.

  He feigned surprise. “Ah, forgive me. Now I remember. Please send my regards to…what was her name? Miss Lydia?”

  She recoiled. Oh, God if he’d plunged a dagger through her heart, he could not have wounded her more.

  “Ahh, no, it is Miss Elizabeth Rogers, forgive me,” he said with a mocking glint in his hard, cruel eyes. “If you’ll share with her the happy news of my recent betrothal.” The room dipped under her feet and foul fiend that he was, Lord Cavendish pounced on his opportunity to make a hasty retreat. “I bid thee good evening, Miss Rogers.”

  His voice became distant. She reached out for purchase and then blinked away the momentary weakness, cursing him for reducing her to this shocked and stunned miss. She dug deep for the fury she’d carried in her heart these many months now, fed that rage, because it strengthened her; it kept her from dissolving into a panicky, empty heap. She blinked to bring the room into focus…and registered Sebastian directly across the dance floor, a hard frown trained on her.

  Hermione closed her eyes a moment. If she left this ballroom, Sebastian would follow. Do not. Do not. Do not. It was a futile litany rolling around her mind.

  God forgive me. She turned on her heel and with wooden-steps continued through the crowded room and slippe
d away from the gaiety of polite Society. He would follow her.

  She hated herself for knowing as much…

  And going anyway.

  C

  hapter 18

  Sebastian listened halfheartedly to the discourse between Waxham and Sophie; all the while his thoughts remained fixed on another.

  Hermione. In a mere eight days, she’d come to mean so much to him that he could detect the subtle nuances of her body’s movements. Now, he studied her as she walked at a brisk clip, with an almost military-like precision through the crowd. All traces of warmth he’d come to expect replaced by a hardened mask he didn’t recognize. Then she stopped beside Lord Cavendish. He narrowed his gaze. Cavendish; a blond, fawned-over scoundrel.

  “Mallen?” Waxham murmured, a question in that one word.

  “Hmm?” However, he turned a deaf ear to the other man’s response. Hermione’s cheeks flared red. With rage? With embarrassment? And more…what was Cavendish’s connection to the lady? Then, after a handful of minutes she turned around and stalked toward the back of the ballroom. Their exchange so brief, he could almost convince himself he’d imagined it.

  Almost.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured to Waxham and Sophie. Before questions could be raised, he started after Hermione.

  Even with a handful of meetings between them, her happiness had come to matter to him, enough that he wanted to bloody Lord Cavendish senseless for whatever slight the man had committed. This moment in the Brookfield ballroom so very similar to their first meeting at Lord Denley’s. She drew him, like a moth to flame and he was content to be burned if it meant he could have her in his life in every way.

  He at last managed to escape the lords and ladies attempting to engage him and slipped from the ballroom, just as a flash of yellow skirts disappeared around the corner. He quickened his stride and set after her. Sebastian turned the corner. Hermione pressed the handle of one of Lord Brookfield’s many doors. “Hermione,” he said quietly. His voice, the lone sound in the empty corridor, echoed like the blare of a pistol.