Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love

by Christi Caldwell

  “Indeed you will.” A familiar voice drawled from the doorway.

  Sebastian. Hermione surged to her feet, as did the others present. Her heart fluttered wildly as the deep, familiar baritone washed over her, even in its anger, somehow warming. Everyone and everything fell away; the hatred he carried for her, her reason for being here, the vile thing she’d done. There was only them, as they’d been before Lady Brookfield’s ball. Then he turned a harsh, unrelenting stare on her, and the fleeting moment was shattered. She shifted on her feet. “Your Grace,” she said, her tongue wooden. She dipped a belated curtsy.

  He motioned to a seat.

  Gratefully, she slid into the comfortable folds of the chair. Papa and the duchess doing likewise.

  Sebastian did a cursory search of her person and then he flicked his stare over to Papa, promptly dismissing her. Is this how it would be for the remainder of her life? Tears smarted behind her eyes and she blinked them back.

  More merriment than she remembered in years wreathed her father’s wrinkled face. At least one of them should be happy. “I was just commending to the duchess on your fine selection in a bride.”

  She repressed a groan, praying for the return of the laconic, morose papa and not the prideful, boastful one.

  Sebastian arched a cynical eyebrow and she longed for the hardwood floor to fall away from her feet and swallow her whole.

  “Quite loyal, my Hermione is. A wonderful daughter and good sister.”

  She fixed her gaze on Sebastian’s immaculate cravat unable to meet his coolly mocking eyes. All the while Papa gushed effusive praise. So removed was he from life that he did not know, nor realize, Hermione had forced the duke’s hand. This was no marriage of love or affection or mutual respect—all such sentiments were strictly on her part.

  “There is no more beautiful girl than my—”

  “That is quite enough, Papa,” she bit out. She flushed as three pairs of eyes swung her way.

  Sebastian held her gaze for a moment. She braced for the icy condescension and disgust at her suddenly garrulous father’s bombastic compliments. She tipped her chin defiantly back and boldly met his gaze. The fight drained out of her at the remoteness of his stare as he turned his attention to Papa. She hugged her arms to herself as Papa proceeded to talk. And talk. And then talk some more.

  The butler appeared at the entrance of the room with a smiling, brown-haired, brown-eyed woman and a tall, commanding gentleman with blond hair and a small child in his arms. “The Marquess and Marchioness of Drake,” the servant announced.

  Sebastian’s sister.

  Except, Hermione remained fixed on the small girl. Mayhap no older than two years of age, she possessed full cheeks, red lips, and the widest cornflower blue eyes. The little girl looked at Hermione and smiled. “Hullo,” Hermione said quietly. She lifted her fingers and waved at the babe. The girl flapped her hand in an awkward wave and then as though excited, bounced up and down in her father’s arms and with a squeal buried her face in his chest. Emotion flared in Hermione’s breast as she imagined a different babe with Elizabeth’s golden-blonde hair and sweetly innocent smile. And the reminder flooded her of why she’d done exactly as she’d done in Lord Brookfield’s office.

  “Hermione?” Sebastian murmured with the gentle concern she’d come to know of him.

  She hopped to her feet once more and dimly registered the marchioness had spoken. To her. She looked wordlessly up at her husband-to-be. Cold ice filled his eyes, and she knew she’d merely imagined any hint of warmth.

  Lady Emmaline cleared her throat. “My brother mentioned you enjoy Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work,” she said softly.

  “He did?” Hermione blurted. Which would mean he’d at least cared enough about her to mention her to his sister. Surely that meant something? She looked at her husband-to-be once again. He looked at a point beyond her shoulder. Or mayhap not. She shook her head, dispelling wishful yearnings. “Uh, yes, I quite enjoy…a Gothic novel.” There was something obsequious in claiming to like one’s work—even if others didn’t know she was, the Mr. Michaelmas.

  Emmaline laughed. “You must be quite special if you’ve managed to convince my stodgy brother he’s been wrong all these years about a Gothic novel.” She wandered closer and claimed Hermione’s hand. “I always said when a young woman captured my brother’s heart—”

  “The vicar has arrived,” Sebastian said harshly. His interruption killed the words on his sister’s lips.

  Hermione looked to the door where a small, slender man of indeterminate years now stood. He took in the collection of individuals and then audibly gulped at the fierce glint in Sebastian’s eyes.

  A muscle ticked at the corner of her husband-to-be’s mouth. “Shall we begin?” he asked coolly.

  Unless she was prepared to add another great scandal to her family and see Addie and Hugh also ruined, it seemed she had little choice.

  “It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined…”

  She’d been crying.

  Sebastian stared over the vicar’s head at the ornate, gold-framed mirror. Considering the circumstances surrounding their hasty union, he would imagine those salty drops were tears of great joy for having secured the title of duchess, and yet the wide, dark circles under her eyes and the pinched set to her mouth indicated the lady’s sadness.

  The vicar’s monotonous tone droned on and on, echoing about the still parlor. But for his sister, mother, brother-in-law, and Hermione’s father, there was no cheerful crowd, no observers, and no guests.

  And for the love of God, why, did he care that she’d been crying? Because damn it, he did. Because he was a weak, blasted fool.

  Hermione remained stoically silent. With the exception of a breathless ‘Sebastian,’ she’d not uttered a single word to him. Not even when her father had placed her hand upon his shoulder.

  “Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak…”

  Her red, swollen eyes suggested the lady had been crying for the better part of three days. Sebastian kept his attention on the clergyman officiating the services, but unbidden he stole another glance at the tall, proud woman with her expressionless face and remote gaze. He could not make sense of the aching pain in her striking blue eyes. She had everything she wanted. Her title of Duchess of Mallen. Yet, she wept. What reason was there for her tears? Had she expected he should celebrate in their circumstances?

  He didn’t want to care how she felt or why she felt as she did. He wanted to feed the seething fury deep inside, for it protected him from the agony in knowing he’d loved a woman who didn’t exist. He’d been schooled by the late Duke of Mallen, trained to be level-headed and practical in all matters. Secretly, in the privacy of his own thoughts he’d scoffed at his late father’s expectations of him, insisted on a meaningful match based on love. Of course, his father, even in death was proven correct. Ina matter of days, a handful of meetings, three stolen kisses, and a Gothic novel, Sebastian had given his heart to a woman he barely knew. Perhaps there was something to be said for logic, after all.

  His parents had been fortunate. Emmaline and Drake, as well. Those unions, however, had been mere chance. There was no matter of chance or romance in what he and Hermione had shared. By her own admission, he’d merely represented an ideal match for his title alone. He rubbed a hand his chest to ease the dull ache there.

  “Your Grace?” the vicar prodded. “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  He felt Hermione’s stare trained on him and internally cursed her. “I will,” he said tersely.

  The
vicar continued.

  Sebastian balled his hands into fists. No, he didn’t care about the scheming miss. Only…

  There had been that frozen moment where she’d stared longingly at Emmaline’s baby, Regan. She’d waved to the girl in an altogether un-title-grasping like move. Those women, whose company his wife now kept, cared for jewels and fabrics. They didn’t smile at babes or look at the husband whose title they’d stolen with sad little eyes. “Goddamn it.”

  The vicar stumbled through his verse as Sebastian’s mother and sister emitted shocked gasps.

  “Will you get on with it?” he managed between clenched teeth.

  The vicar stammered along.

  “Hermione Edith Rogers, Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

  Silence met the vicar’s question. A good deal of silence. The ormolu clock atop the mantle tick-tocked away the moments.

  The aggrieved looking vicar cleared his throat. “Miss Rogers,” he urged, his tone fairly pleading.

  Sebastian shot an impatient glance at Hermione and stilled. For a moment, a very long moment, it appeared she could not bring herself to speak the two words. He stared at the tight, drawn corners of her lips, her wan complexion. If she cried off now, she’d be ruined and he’d be spared the eternal reminder of his folly in trusting Miss Hermione Rogers. Anxiety clenched like a vise about his heart. Why, in spite of her betrayal did he want her to utter those binding vows?

  “I will,” she whispered, her words so soft he struggled to hear.

  The vicar leaned close. “What was that, Miss Rogers?”

  “I will,” she blurted, this time louder. She drew in audible breath. “I will,” she repeated, as though trying to convince herself she wished to do this thing.

  He frowned. Which made little sense. She’d orchestrated everything that came before, in order to bring herself to this moment. Yet, her reaction was not one of an eager, thrilled-to-be-a-duchess young woman he’d expect of a fortune hunter.

  “…I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  “It is done,” she whispered.

  It was done.

  The jovial discourse of Hermione’s father and Sebastian’s family blended and blurred; their words all ran together as he stood beside this woman who was now his wife. He searched for words, something to say to this woman he’d trusted. Now knowing, she was really no more than a stranger. “Breakfast.” And a liar.

  She tipped her head at an endearing little angle. “Beg your pardon?” And why did he still find her endearing? Why, when everything was nothing more than an act where Hermione was concerned?

  He motioned to their small assembly of family members who filed out of the parlor with the vicar, leaving them alone. “I imagine it is expected we join our guests for a celebratory breakfast.”

  She flinched at the mocking emphasis he placed on that one word.

  He held out his arm. “Let us get on with it then.”

  Hermione eyed it a moment and then looked up at him. “I am so, so sorry, Sebastian.”

  He flexed his jaw. “It is a bit late for regrets, Your Grace.” No mere apology could wipe away the bitter pain she’d wrought.

  Her lips turned up in a sad little smile. “Your Grace,” she murmured as though tasting the title.

  A familiar resentment coursed through him.

  She held her hands up. “It was not about your title.” She glanced down at her palms a moment. “Or it was.” She sighed. “It was,” she said once more, seemingly to herself. Her words knifed through him until she raised her shocking blue eyes to his. “But I was truthful when I said it was not solely about your title,” she whispered. “I need you to know that I—”

  He jerked and took a step away from her. “There is no reason for lies, Duchess,” he hissed. “You do not need to maintain false—”

  She closed the distance between them and stood so close the tips of her slippers touched his toes. “It is true,” she said, her tone stronger, bolder, the Hermione he remembered who’d challenged his presence in Lord Denley’s office that first night. “I’ve no reason to lie.” She bit down on her lower lip.

  He narrowed his eyes at that slight, telling movement. “What other lies do you carry, madam?”

  A guilty blush splashed her cheeks. She glanced over his shoulder at the door. “We should join our guests. If you’ll excuse me.” She dipped a curtsy and danced around him.

  He gripped her loosely about the forearm.

  She glanced down, eyes widened on his hand upon her person.

  He pulled her close.

  Her thick dark brown lashes fluttered. “W-what are you d-doing?” That question, a sultry, seductive whisper conjured all manner of wicked deeds involving Miss Hermione Rogers, now Her Grace, Hermione Fitzhugh, the Duchess of Mallen.

  He filled his hands with her buttocks and drew her against the vee of his legs. “I’m kissing you, madam.”

  A little moan escaped her lips. “Why?” she asked, even as she pressed her form against his.

  Why, indeed?

  Then she stilled, her words came out steady and controlled. “You don’t even like me.”

  No, he did not. He loved her, even as he did not know her. He tightened his jaw. He would never give her that power over him. Not again. “I don’t care to talk,” he growled. He wanted to burn the taste of her into his memory and be done with her. He attempted once more to claim her lips. She turned her head and his kiss grazed her cheek.

  “But you’re cross with me. It’s not altogether pleasurable kissing a person when cross.”

  He closed his eyes a moment and calmed the desire churning inside him. “You’re incorrect, Hermione.” This hungering for her was as fierce as it had been at their first meeting.

  “Why would you kiss me?” Did she want him to desire her? Why should the lady care when she already had everything she’d required of him in that damned title of duchess?

  “I want to,” he settled for at least that truth. For as much as he detested what she’d done, he wanted her. But then, that was love; illogical, imprudent, and all things unwise.

  She shook her head. “I’d rather not…not…”

  He shot one eyebrow up. “Yes?”

  She gesticulated wildly with her hands. “Do anything.” Another crimson blush stained her cheeks. “Er, that is anything of the romantic nature.” He tightened his lips to keep from pointing out that with the desire still flaring between them, there was no need for romance in their exchange.

  He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You do realize you’re now my wife.”

  She frowned, a slight expression that conveyed displeasure and annoyance. “I, of course, know that.” The lady was cross with him? “I do realize you’ll require an heir. However, it will be beneficial for us to wait.” Her words conjured seductive ponderings all involving her upon her back, arms outstretched in invitation. He was still the same, imprudent bastard where his wife was concerned. Under his intense scrutiny Hermione’s color deepened. If her cheeks turned any redder, she’d set her face afire. “That is, until we better know one another,” she finished lamely.

  With his outrage, the last thing he should crave was this scheming temptress in his bed, but God help him, despite her betrayal he wanted her. He wanted to claim her lips, taste her mouth, lay her down and part her legs with his knee, laying siege to her body, showing her just how pleasurable it could be when kissing someone while cross. “You do not want me to make love to you, then?”

  Her eyes formed round moons amidst a burning red face.

  He lowered his head closer. “Madam?” he whispered against her lips.

  Hermione trailed her tongue over her lips. She gave
her head a jerky shake. “No.” The whispered rejection appeared dragged from her. And for all the lies she’d told, by the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her flushed cheeks, her slightly parted bow-shaped lips, Sebastian knew she added an additional lie. She wanted him. Whether she’d admit as much to herself…or him.

  “God help me, why do I still want you as I do?” he asked on a groan. He took her mouth under his, swallowing whatever lies were on her lips. She collapsed against him and he mercilessly plundered her mouth, his kiss, hard and demanding. He wanted to punish her and mark her all at once. He swept his tongue inside and boldly stroked hers. She met him with eager thrusts as their tongues danced in a forbidden dance of lovers.

  Hermione moaned into his mouth and he swallowed the whimpering sound of her desire. Sebastian drew her close to his throbbing manhood and her head fell back on a soft cry. He moved his attention down her neck to the modest décolletage. He planted a series of kisses upon her satiny soft skin until she gripped his hair and anchored him in place. He wrenched away from her and set her aside.

  Hermione blinked wildly, looking much like a night owl caught out in the day.

  “You do not want me to make love to you, madam.” He inclined his head. “As you wish. I’ll honor your request.” With that he spun around and stalked out of the room; her labored breathing punctuating his every step. Bloody hell, he hated himself for loving her as he still did.

  C

  hapter 22

  When Hermione was at last able to remember that her name was Hermione Edith Rogers… She wrinkled her nose. Well, that wasn’t quite right. She was Hermione Rogers no longer. When she was at last able to remember her name was Hermione Edith Fitzhugh, Duchess of Mallen, and her heart didn’t pound an annoyingly erratic rhythm, and her body didn’t thrum with desire in remembrance of Sebastian’s kiss—she managed to move her feet forward.