Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love

by Christi Caldwell

  She stepped out into the hall. A nervous maid shuffled back and forth on her feet. She dropped a curtsy upon catching sight of Hermione. “Your Grace,” she said on a rush. “His Grace asked me… That is…” The girl blushed. “He asked me to show you to the breakfast room.”

  Hermione looked about for the duchess the young woman spoke of and then froze at the sudden realization—she was now that woman. “Of course, thank you,” she said lamely. She quite detested her new lofty title. A simple miss provided so much more obscurity than a ‘Your Grace’.

  As she followed behind the maid in stoic silence mortification ate Hermione’s insides. Her husband, in his unwillingness to wait and escort her himself to the celebratory meal had indicated quite clearly for his servants that this was no happy occasion. And in the servants knowing…well, then all would know.

  At the end of the hall, rumbles of laughter and chatter echoed, eerie in the otherwise quiet townhouse. Hermione turned to the young servant. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  The woman dropped a curtsy and hurried away. Hermione hovered outside the breakfast room. She didn’t want this. Most assuredly she didn’t want Sebastian in this awful manner. Yet, it was, as he’d said, a bit late for regrets. She’d made her choice and in so doing, had sealed their marital fate. Hermione closed her eyes as the tinkling sound of laughter spilled outside the room once more. Odd, how others could smile and laugh, while her heart was breaking.

  Cowardly, she wanted to remain on the fringe of the festivities and yet, she still found the courage to shove away from the wall and step inside the room. A momentary silence filled the room as conversation came to a screeching halt. Then the guests surged to their feet. Hermione glanced about the table. The duchess’ warm eyes, Emmaline’s kind ones, the marquess’ somber ones… she found Sebastian. And Sebastian’s detached ones.

  Then activity resumed in a flurry as a servant pulled out a seat beside her husband. She cleared her throat and hurried to take her chair. Everyone reclaimed their seats. A servant carried over a plate from the sideboard with eggs, ham, cold beef, and buttered bread. Her stomach churned at the mere sight of food. She offered him a smile and then picked up her fork, grateful to at least have a plate to fix her attention upon.

  “Tell me, Hermione, what is your favorite work of Mr. Michael Michaelmas?”

  The question brought her head up. Emmaline smiled expectantly at her. Alas, there was to be no reprieve from anyone’s attention. Not this day. “Er…I’ve always enjoyed,” The Entrapped Earl until her sister made that horrid, if accurate, inadvertent juxtaposition between Hermione and the now loathsome Lady Louisa. “The Mad Marquess,” she substituted. It would forever remind her of Sebastian’s husky baritone as he recited lines when he’d taken leave of her. At her side, he stiffened, as though he followed the direction her thoughts had traveled.

  Emmaline inclined her head. “That is quite a wonderful read,” she concurred. “Though I personally enjoy The Entrapped Earl.”

  Hermione snapped erect. The marchioness had read her work. Read it…and enjoyed it. Since the fateful moment Hermione’s world had shattered into a thousand million shards, the other woman’s words brought the faint stirring of happiness. The old familiar rush for a pencil and journal filled her. She’d been so beset by grief she’d denied herself the one comfort she’d found in life. Words.

  Emmaline continued. “The earl who falls so desperately in love with—”

  “Lady Louisa,” she supplied automatically.

  Emmaline gave an eager nod. “Yes, that is right. Lady Louisa who weds the earl only of extreme necessity, but her need to wed him did not mean she did not desperately love him—”

  “That is enough,” Sebastian spoke through gritted teeth.

  Silence met his furious command.

  Alas, Emmaline appeared far braver and bolder than Hermione, for she grinned at her brother and carried on. “The clever Mr. Michaelmas realizes that not everyone or everything is always as they seem.” She swung her gaze back to Hermione. “Wouldn’t you agree, Hermione?”

  A swell of emotion climbed her throat and she managed a nod, feeling like the greatest deceiver. Everything about her was a lie. Then Lord Drake whispered something into his wife’s ear, calling her attention back to her devoted husband. In that moment, it had seemed as though Emmaline knew what had driven Hermione. Which was quite impossible. No one knew the extent of her family’s circumstances. The other lady’s words had felt like a pardon, only…Hermione stole a sideways peek at her husband. She craved absolution from just one person, and by the hard set to his mouth and icy glint in his green eyes, it was an absolution that would not be granted. She shoved her fork around her plate.

  Her father called out from across the table, stilling her movements. “Tell me, Your Grace, did my Hermie,” her ears burned with the horrid endearment, “ever tell you about the time she rescued her youngest sister, Adeline, from several wild boar?”

  She cringed with embarrassment at her father’s tendency to romanticize everything and he chose that perfectly awful moment to attend to the wedding breakfast. Was it any wonder she’d developed a penchant for writing Gothic novels?

  Sebastian’s shoulders went taut. “Did she?”

  She hardly knew what to make of that belated, noncommittal ‘did she?’ “It was not a wild boar, Papa,” she murmured. “Just a pig.” Several of them. Addie, excited for the droving and determined to see the three or four hundred livestock making the trek to London, stumbled into the path and been unceremoniously trampled by the massive creatures.

  Her father tore into his buttered bread. He spoke around the mouthful he’d bitten off. “Merely being modest, my girl is.”

  “No, I’m not,” she replied instantaneously. She looked to her husband. “It was not a wild boar.”

  Her father waved his remaining piece of uneaten bread about. “Bah, a pig, a boar, all really the same.”

  No, no they really weren’t.

  “Addie injured her leg quite badly. Hermione carried her back home.” His chest swelled with pride. “The entire way.”

  Well, that much was true.

  “My, how very heroic,” the dowager duchess said on a rush, as it became apparent the bridegroom had no opinions to share on Papa’s story.

  The marchioness’ eyebrows shot up. “You have a sister, then?”

  “I have two. Elizabeth is the eldest and my closest friend,” she said quietly. “And I’ve a brother.”

  Then, fortunately, Sebastian’s mother said something at the opposite end of the table, which called everyone’s attention away from Hermione, and more away from mention of her siblings. Not that she was ashamed of Elizabeth. She wasn’t. Elizabeth, in her innocence and sweetness was more good and kind than nearly everyone else she knew, but the ton would see nothing more than a young woman who should be locked away from her family and love.

  “I was unaware you had another sister.”

  Her fork clattered to the plate. Hermione glanced at her husband. “I do,” she said curtly. She reached for her glass and took a long sip of warmed chocolate while praying his outrage over her actions killed any interest in her past.

  “Is your sister wed?” The duke was nothing if not persistent.

  Hermione tightened her hold upon her porcelain cup. “She is not.”

  “And—”

  She directed her attention to the partially drunk contents of her glass. “I also have a younger sister, Addie,” she said quickly, interrupting his question. “But then you know that.” She hoped her sardonic words would elicit perhaps some trace of amusement in her harshly beautiful husband’s face.

  He may as well have been carved from stone.

  “And Hugh…”

  “Ah, yes, Hugh, your younger brother.”

  She nodded once.

  “You did not feel inclined to have your family join the celebratory occasion?”

  She winced at the mocking edge in his words. “I think all things
considered, Sebastian, there was no longer a need to pretend.”

  He snapped his mouth shut, as she at last managed to effectively silence him.

  The lady did not like to speak of her family. That much was clear. Sebastian studied her distracted movements as she pushed her fork about her untouched plate, her gaze fastened to the cold ham. Was she ashamed of her family?

  He recalled her earlier blush at the story shared by her father. Most ladies would have welcomed praise rained upon them. Hermione had shifted in her seat with pained embarrassment. And more, in her father’s telling of the story, Sebastian had been forced to view her as more than just a scheming, fortune-hunting miss, and instead see a lady who’d plucked her sister from a droving and carried her injured younger sibling all the way home.

  “Do you know,” he began, his words freezing her movements. “It occurs to me I know nothing about you. Your middle name is Edith.” He paused. “I presume that wasn’t a lie.”

  A little smile played about her lips. “If I were to lie about my name, I’d choose something a good deal more interesting such as Serena or beautiful like Georgiana.”

  Had she been any other woman, he’d have believed she was in search of compliments, yet not Hermione. In her unwillingness to speak of herself, that much was clear. He ran his gaze over features he’d once considered plain. Hermione suited her. Not because it wasn’t beautiful, but because it possessed an element of uniqueness. He tightened his grip about his fork, hating himself for wanting her despite her betrayal. Wanting her even as she asked him not to visit her bed.

  She colored under his regard. Yes, she could insist she did not want to share his embrace, but the manner in which she’d returned his kiss spoke of her passion—really the only truthful thing about her.

  From down the end of the table, Emmaline called out to Hermione, quashing his desire. “Where does your family hail from, Hermione?”

  “Surrey.” She popped a piece of ham into her mouth, the first bite she’d taken, and a likely ploy to deter any further questions.

  Sebastian’s intrigue redoubled. He reached for his steaming glass of coffee and blew on the contents. His wife, all the while, shifted under the force of his scrutiny.

  The lady’s father seemed quite eager to fill the silence where his daughter did not. “We have a splendid cottage, don’t we, Hermione?” She remained stonily silent. “We’ll be returning tomorrow.”

  “You will?” Her shocked question reverberated awkwardly throughout the room.

  The baronet gave a slight shrug. “Can’t remain here. Must be back.”

  A panicky glint lit his wife’s eyes. “Surely you’ll not bring Addie and Hugh. You c…” She took in the curious stares trained on her and glanced down at her plate.

  “Hermione quite loves the country,” her father explained to the table. “The splendid cottage and all. Oh, nothing near as grand as the duke’s home. Now Hermione’s, too, I suppose,” he said with a chuckle. “But many happy memories we have there.” The man’s merriment seemed to instantly slip and in its place descended a somber, almost empty mask that seemed to belong to an altogether different man than the garrulous gentleman from a moment ago. Then the other man fell as silent as the grave and didn’t utter another word through the remainder of the meal.

  At last the wedding breakfast came to a blessed end. The guests rose, almost as one. Hermione remained rooted to her seat, unblinking.

  Sebastian touched the back of her chair and the slight movement pulled her from her distracted state. She surged to her feet as the guests filed from the breakfast room. She hurried wordlessly past him and matched her father’s pace.

  And as the small gathering reached the foyer, it occurred to Sebastian by the way in which his wife arched on the balls of her feet, she appeared ready to take flight with the guests. His mouth tightened. For one who’d orchestrated their discovery at Lady Brookfield’s, her reaction hardly seemed fitting of one eager to find herself the current Duchess of Mallen.

  She held her father’s hands in her own, the two of them whispering. Occasionally, the baronet would nod. She kissed him on the cheek and Sebastian looked away from the unwanted reminder that she was a woman with a past and not merely a schemer who’d trapped him.

  Someone touched his arm and he started. Emmaline leaned up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “I like her, Sebastian.”

  Well, that was something.

  His sister swatted his arm as if reading his mocking thoughts. “I do. And I suspect you two will be happy…if you allow it.”

  He gave a curt nod. He’d not debate the merit of his sister’s words before the servants rushing about preparing their mother for her travels. Nor did he care to discuss as much in front of Hermione.

  His brother-in-law stuck out a hand. “Mallen.”

  He eyed it a moment and then accepted the gracious offering.

  Then another flurry of good-byes, well wishes, and hurried servants and everyone was gone—but for Sebastian…and his wife.

  Silence echoed off the marble floor. Wordlessly, he turned and started for his office. Awareness of his wife’s stare boring into his back increased with each step. He resisted the urge to look back and gauge whether there was the hint of any emotion from his new bride. Then again, when one was capable of the lies Hermione was, a feigned expression could be adopted as easily as a Covent Garden actress. With deliberate steps, he climbed the stairs, damning the promise he’d made to not visit her bed.

  C

  hapter 23

  Hermione was not the wagering type. She rather considered it a frivolous waste of funds. But in that moment staring around the empty foyer, she’d wager every shilling she’d made as Mr. Michael Michaelmas that the last thing her husband desired was her presence. The burning fury in his impenetrable stare had indicated he’d likely see her in hell than in his home.

  Rooted to the white marble floor, Hermione toyed with the staircase bannister. She suspected this unsettled moment between she and her husband represented a kind of crossroads. If she allowed him to seethe in his fury, it would destroy him, and ultimately any possibility of a happy them. She’d been accused of being many things—bluestocking, inevitable spinster, too-practical, now fortune-hunter. Shame turned in her belly at that. Never had she been considered a coward.

  So, squaring her shoulders, she lifted her yellow skirts and ascended the long, never-ending staircase. Whyever did any home need so many stairs? She reached the top and strode down a long corridor, trailing her fingertips over the satin wallpaper. Gold sconces lined the walls. All her life, material comforts; her attire, furnishings, food, had all been a matter of necessity. There was none of the frivolous extravagance of the upper nobility.

  “Can I help you, Your Grace?”

  Hermione shrieked and spun around so quickly she lost her balance. She flung her arms wide to keep from toppling over.

  The young maid slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear!” Tears filled her wide, brown eyes. “I nearly killed the new duchess.”

  Hermione glanced around in search of this new duchess, belatedly realizing she was said person. At which point she also realized that the young woman had mistaken her momentary silence as a condemnation. “I assure you, it will take more than an awkward tumble to kill me,” she said in a weak attempt at humor.

  The servant continued to sob into her hands.

  She sighed, her husband’s flight momentarily forgotten as she patted the girl upon the shoulder. “I assure you….?”

  “M-moira,” she said between noisy tears. “M-moira.”

  “Well, then, I assure you, Moira,” she said in the same soothing tone she’d adopted with Elizabeth when she fell into one of her displays of temper since girlhood. “I’m quite well.”

  “Y-you’re c-certain?” The girl asked, this time her tone far more steady.

  Hermione smiled. “I’m very certain.”

  “I’m your maid,” the girl blurted. She swiped at her cheeks. “Your
lady’s maid,” she corrected. She squared her shoulders, a proud light reflected in her eyes. “I’ve just been appointed.” She paused. “If you don’t sack me for nearly killing you,” she mumbled.

  “I’ve no intention of sacking you.” Hermione smiled again. She shared a kindred connection to this woman who felt so out of place in this great home. “Would you be able to guide me to…” My husband. “His Grace?” Which should suffice. After all, she couldn’t very well go saying to the servants, ‘oh, my husband is still displeased I trapped him into marriage and stormed off on our wedding day…do you happen to know where he is?’ “I find myself lost in this grand home.”

  The girl nodded eagerly, clearly excited about having a charge she could help her new mistress with. Though, in secret, Hermione would be a good deal more pleased if young Moira could manage to drum up the duke, instead. “It is a splendid home,” the girl was saying, the words eerily echoing Papa’s from the morning breakfast. “Sweeping ceilings, beautiful carpets…” She continued to prattle on, peppering her description of Sebastian’s townhouse with the word ‘splendid.’

  Neither Sebastian’s townhouse or her family’s cottage had thus far proven truly splendid. To Hermione, a splendid home was one in which a family was happy. A home where parents were strong, capable figures who didn’t break and shatter with great tragedy and instead knew love and laughter despite all life’s unfair challenges.

  “I’ve never been there, of course, but I have…” The girl was saying as she paused outside an open door.

  Hermione stepped into an indeed splendid bedchamber—and promptly collided with her husband.

  A husband who was clearly taking great pains to avoid her. She searched for a hint of the charming, affable gentleman who’d kissed her until her toes curled—in a very good way. Looked for some sign of the man who’d inspired her story about a duke who was not at all nefarious. “Er, hullo, Sebastian.”

  Cold, stony silence met her greeting.

  Regret sat like a stone in her belly. This gentleman bore traces of the brooding, dark fellow readers supposedly clamored for. Mr. Werksman and all his silly readers had been very, very wrong. There was nothing preferable in these dark dukes. She missed her smiling, teasing duke.