She tightened her grip on the mantle. However, as the eldest marriageable sister, she had an obligation to Hugh and Adeline…and Elizabeth. With the charge given her by Aunt Agatha and Papa, to make a match, she would ultimately be looking after her brother and sisters in the most essential ways.
Filled with a restive energy, she shoved away from the hearth. She detested the idea of being reduced to a…a—fortune hunter, making a match with her family’s circumstances in mind and not much more. It fed her resolve to one day write that great piece Mr. Werksman stood in awe of and offered over a small fortune in coin. Then she could politely decline Aunt Agatha’s matchmaking attempts, return to the country, mayhap wed a pleasant, smiling country gentleman who’d let her continue writing and…
She sighed. Such fanciful musings were best reserved for the page.
Except… Her heart hammered wildly. Now she’d gone and reminded herself that this great work of literature she was hoping to hand over to Mr. Werksman was far from becoming anything at all great with her inability to commit words to the page.
“Nefarious duke,” she muttered under her breath and then remembered the elegant setting, ideal for any nefarious gentleman. She grabbed the pencil dangling from her wrist and froze. Hermione ran her gaze about the darkened room, a smile turned her lips. With more excitement than she’d known all evening, she raced over to Lord Denley’s desk and grabbed the handle of the top, center drawer. And froze. She really had no right invading the man’s private office and rummaging through his belongings. She chewed her lower lip and forcefully shoved aside her remorse. With his ostentatious townhouse, speaking to his vast wealth, Lord Denley really could afford to be free of a handful of parchment pages. Ignoring the niggling of guilt in her belly, she yanked the drawer open and tugged free several loose pages.
One could not abandon inspiration when it at last presented itself. Even if inspiration came at the most awkward time and place, inside her host’s office in the midst of his formal ball.
Hermione slid into the leather seat. The aged fabric crackled loudly in the silent space. She picked up the tiny pencil and paused shaking her head in annoyance. Nefarious Duke. Mr. Werksman could not have had him be a mere earl or lesser lord. He may as well have ordered her to name the Prince Regent hero of her latest work and sent her out after the rotund monarch, in the name of research.
She disentangled the ribbon at her wrist and spread the card upon the immaculate surface of Lord Denley’s desk. Pencil in hand, she began to write. Engrossed in copying the handful of words and ideas she’d scratched earlier upon her card, she only dimly registered the slow creak. Of the door.
She blinked down at the parchment.
“Good evening.” The perfectly clipped tones bespoke the stranger’s lofty status.
She raised her head with a jerk. A shriek escaped her lips at the familiar, golden-haired gentleman framed in the entrance of the room. As if he’d noted her interest, the nobleman who’d captured her attention a short while ago, smiled.
Hermione shoved her seat back. It scraped along the floor and tipped over with a resounding boom that echoed off the walls. She glared at the intruder who’d stolen her solitude, even as her heart thumped madly at the sheer beauty of him. “You, sir. What do you want?” she asked, pleased her voice didn’t shake as she uttered that imperious question.
He entered the room and closed the door with a soft, decisive click.
She swallowed hard. Oh, dear.
C
hapter 5
When Waxham noted Sebastian’s interest in the odd young lady, he’d scoffed at the idea he’d be attracted to a rail-thin lady with nearly black hair and pale cheeks. Yet, as the tendons of her throat worked with the force of her swallow, he paused to appreciate the elegant length of her graceful neck.
The lady’s fingers tightened about the little pencil in her hand. She waved her ineffectual, makeshift weapon. “Did you hear me, sir? I asked what you wanted.”
Amusement pulled at his lips. The spirited beauty appeared ready to bury the tip of her assuredly dull pencil in his belly if he so much as uttered the wrong word.
She narrowed her eyes, the sapphire blue irises freezing him. He’d been wrong in his earlier assessment of the young lady. A woman who possessed a piercing blue stare such as hers could never be considered plain.
“Is something wrong with you, sir?” she barked. “Turn around and—”
“I’m quite certain Lord Denley doesn’t have a daughter.”
Her words died on her lips. She tipped her head.
He motioned to her. “Or perhaps you are Lord Denley’s lover?”
Twin splashes of crimson suffused her cheeks, putting him in mind of a summer berry. “I beg your pardon?” The indignant, maidenly modesty confirmed his earliest supposition—hers was no clandestine tryst between two lovers.
Sebastian folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door, not knowing how to account for the lightening in his chest. “Well, if you aren’t a daughter, which I realize you assuredly aren’t as Lord Denley has but two sons, and you’re not a lover, there must be something to your visiting his private office.”
Her eyes formed round moons. She dropped her gaze hastily to the piles of parchment she’d removed from their host’s desk and then her gaze flew back to his. “Are you one of those sons?”
He cocked his head.
“Or perhaps you are Lady Denley’s lover?”
A sharp bark of laughter burst from his lips. Nearly seventy, the woman would be forty years his senior. His earlier intrigue redoubled at this innocent miss who’d speak so plainly and toss his words back at him of forbidden lovers without so much as a blush. Sebastian pushed away from the door and strolled over to the desk. He lowered his voice. “I assure you, Lady Denley is not my lover.” He infused a husky, seductive whisper to his words that sent the fey lady scurrying from behind the desk.
She rushed to the opposite side of the desk, placing the large piece of furniture between them, a form of protection. He lowered his hands upon the opposite side. “Then h-her s-son.” The faint tremble to her words belied the courageous rejoinder and the insolent toss of her black tresses. The abrupt movement freed another strand.
“Neither,” he replied smoothly.
He dropped his gaze to the papers littering Denley’s desk and damned the dim lighting that made it nearly impossible to make out the words she’d marked down. She followed his scrutiny and hurriedly leaned across the wide desk, gathering together the pages, arranging them into a neat stack. “Then what do you want?” She pulled the sheets protectively to her chest.
In a world where no one questioned what he did, why he did it, or whether or not he should do it, this woman boldly challenged him. The honesty of her reaction was oddly…refreshing. Of course, that would all change the moment she realized she conversed with a duke, but for now he appreciated the uncomplicatedness of being any other gentleman.
She furrowed her brow. “Is something wrong with your hearing, then?” The tentative question at odds with the spitfire’s previously scathing tone.
He snorted. “My hearing is quite fine, madam.” He had some years before he was one of those monocle-wearing dukes with squinty eyes and an inability to detect mocking words. Or rather he hoped, anyway.
The hard glint was back in her sapphire blue eyes, turning them nearly black. “Then what do you—?”
“I merely sought to determine what an unfamiliar young lady was doing stealing through her host’s home, invading his office, and rummaging through his desk.”
He expected her to be properly contrite. Instead, she tipped her chin up a notch. “You’ve also stolen through Lord Denley’s home, invaded his office—”
“Ah, yes, but I merely did so in pursuit of you.”
“Oh.” She clamped her lips tight. A stretch of silence marched on. Then she widened her eyes. “Oh, my. You imagine… That is… You believe I have nefarious intentions.”
> His mouth twisted ruefully at the slight emphasis on that one word. Studying her, so slim he could span her waist with his hands, there was nothing the least bit threatening about her. “I did wonder what would send a lady fleeing the amusements of the ballroom for—”
“Privacy,” she blurted. “I wanted privacy.”
Well, he could both understand and appreciate that. The chatter and tittering of lords and ladies through crowded ballrooms grew tedious. Yet, she clutched that little card close to the pages in her hands, indicating more than a desire for solitude found her in Denley’s office. He stepped around the desk. She matched his step. In the opposite direction. He continued advancing.
“Y-you know, y-you really shouldn’t be here.” She waved a hand. A page slipped free and fluttered to the floor. “The whole r-risk of d-discovery business.”
His lips twitched. “Are you a fortune hunter?”
Outrage flared to life in her lively eyes. “Certainly not.”
He stepped on the page she’d dropped. Not taking his gaze from her, he bent and picked up the sheet.
She flew over and yanked it from his hands. “I’ll take that.”
He expected her to seek refuge behind Denley’s desk, except she remained rooted to the spot, so close a mere handbreadth separated them. The lavender scent of her wafted about, the sweet summer scent bright in the gloom of the somber office, a seductive reminder of how much he missed the country. How much he detested London. “Do you have a name?” Until now.
“A name?” She eyed him as though he’d sprouted a second head. “Of course. I…” Color stained her cheeks. “Oh, are you asking my name?” She spoke on a rush. “If so, you’d really need just ask as opposed to wondering whether I do have one. As all people have them. Names,” she clarified. Then she took a step backward. Suspicion glared from her eyes. “Why do you want to know my identity? Do you intend to tell my au—?” She pressed her lips together.
Her aunt. So, the young lady was Lady Pemberly’s niece. Odd, he’d never heard mention of the childless countess having a niece. “I assure you, I don’t intend to tattle,” he drawled. Then, he didn’t pay a jot of attention to any gossip. “I ceased the business of tattling sometime in the schoolrooms.” He was a duke, and all.
“Adults don’t tattle.” She held a finger up. “They gossip. Tattling, gossiping, all really the same.”
He blinked. Had the impertinent miss just accused him, Sebastian Fitzhugh, the 5th Duke of Mallen, of being a gossip? He didn’t know if he should be amused by her outlandish charge or annoyed. He settled for a healthy dose of both sentiments. “Your name,” he pressed in the ducal command he’d perfected as a small boy.
Despite the papers in her hands, she folded her arms at her chest, noisily wrinkling the sheets. “Are you asking me? It’s really quite rude making demands, of ladies no less.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are forgiven.”
He opened his mouth to point out that in no uncertain terms had he been apologizing when she dropped a hasty curtsy. “Miss Hermione Rogers.”
Hermione Rogers. He rolled the name around in his mind, searching for familiarity of a slip of woman with the name but came up empty. However, it suited her. A hint mischievous and a touch interesting—she seemed very much a Miss Hermione Rogers.
“And I suppose I should have the courtesy of knowing your name, sir?”
He sketched a bow. “Sebastian Fitzhugh.” He braced for the moment when her insolence fled to be replaced with the subservient simpering of other young ladies her age. “The 5th Duke of Mallen.”
Her mouth fell open. The paper and pencil in her hand fluttered to the floor in a noisy rustling of white sheets, landing in a disorganized heap at her feet. “You’re a duke,” she blurted.
Cynicism pulled at his lips. He’d grown accustomed to the clamoring for his title.
Her probing gaze took in every inch of him, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. “You are a duke.”
Sebastian bristled at being evaluated as though she were some great artist and he were the specimen she’d selected for the subject of her work, wishing for once a young woman could see him as more than a title and herself as potential future duchess and—
“You are a duke.” She sighed, and gave her head a forlorn shake.
And it occurred to him with that disappointed little breath of air escaping her lips and the crestfallen expression falling over her heart-shaped face, Miss Hermione Rogers had evaluated him and found him lacking. The earlier annoyance with her scrutiny, now replaced by indignation. “Is there a problem with that, Miss Rogers?”
“Er, no problem,” she lied. Rather there were any number of problems with Sebastian Fitzhugh, the 5th Duke of Mallen as her duke.
Hermione mentally ticked off a list. Golden blond hair. She shook her head. Well, that would never do. An affable grin, when everyone who read a single Gothic novel knew quite well readers far preferred those brooding dukes not inclined to smile? That wouldn’t help any author’s story. Nor would his thick golden lashes fit with the nefarious duke she required. The menacing manner in which he studied her through heavy lashes however, would prove useful. With the exception of golden lashes, of course. Those would need to be black. His aquiline nose and rugged features too handsome to be intriguing. The cleft in his chin… Hmm, that slight indentation lent an air of interest to a man better suited as the subject of a sculptor chiseling a Greek god.
“Are you certain?” His tone as dry as autumn leaves jerked her back from her musings. “You’ve gone rather quiet.”
An astute gentleman, the Duke of Mallen had noted her awkward tendency to fill voids of silence. A stubborn strand of hair fell over her eye and she brushed it behind her ear. Hermione opened her mouth to explain some of her disappointment but then promptly closed it. She really didn’t want to go and offend the poor man. It was hardly his fault that he wasn’t the brooding, interesting sort.
Hermione dropped to a knee and hastened to gather her stolen pages. She should have considered what she would do with the sheets. Or perhaps she could simply fold them and stuff them into her reticule and—
“Have you dismissed me?”
A gasp escaped her lips and the pages went fluttering back to the floor. She looked up and frowned. “You should have a care. Sneaking up on a lady, startling her. It’s not at all the gentlemanly thing to do.” She shook her head and returned her attention to the stolen sheets. She’d written on just the one page and it would therefore be far easier to return to the ballroom with a scrap of…
A shadow moved over her paper and she shrieked.
“I’m not accustomed to being so disregarded, madam.”
Well, the arrogance of him…She stilled. The arrogance? Hmm. Hermione ran her gaze up the midnight black breeches that encased impossibly long, well-muscled legs, up, up, to the equally black waistcoat and jacket, ever upward to the muscle that twitched at the right corner of his eye. She angled her head. Staring at him, in this precise moment, all earlier affability gone, this stranger might be… He very well could be…one of those interesting dukes.
She struggled to her feet. It did not escape her notice that he failed to offer his assistance. Oh, prideful gentlemen and their offended sensibilities. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said in the gentling tone reserved for Addie and Hugh after heated arguments. Except, he studied her through thick, golden lashes. The glint in his eyes suggested he was anything but pleased by her cajoling tone. She hurried on. “I’m certain you are a…er…very effective duke.” He just wasn’t a duke who’d do for her research purposes.
“Thank you.” His droll response however, hardly conveyed appreciation. Not that she expected his appreciation per se. His shoulders shook. She squinted into the dimly lit room at his frame. She did not however, expect him to have fun at her expense.
She bristled. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Yes.”
“Humph.” She sank
back on her heels, not at all liking that, and understanding a bit more his earlier annoyance at her dismissal. “Well, then.” She cleared her throat. She jerked her chin toward the door. “I said, ahem.”
His lip turned up in one corner in a crooked grin that momentarily robbed her of speech. Goodness, she could pen a thousand Gothic novels and never create a more stunning hero…“Do you have something in your throat, Miss Rogers?” The amusement in his question ended any and all fanciful musings.
Something in her throat? More likely cobwebs in her brain…
She stomped a foot in annoyance and then caught herself mid-stomp. Of the Rogers siblings she was the practical, logical one who’d not done something as immature as to stomp her foot since she’d been Addie’s age. “I’m suggesting you leave,” she said firmly.
The duke walked over to her, and she retreated until her back thumped against the wall. But he merely propped his hip on the edge of Lord Denley’s desk and continued to study her. “Do you know, Miss Rogers, I think I shall stay.”
Which was a bold, blatant challenge from a man surely accustomed to having his wishes obeyed for no other reason than his exalted title alone. That and his commanding figure.
Hermione caught her chin between her thumb and forefinger. Hmm.
“I imagine a young lady such as you is not often without words and yet, you’ve gone silent.”
Her hand fell back to her side. “You can’t know that about me,” she said, resenting the accuracy of his supposition. She’d always had a nervous tendency to fill uncomfortable stretches of silence. This moment was no exception.
“Oh, I am a rather astute gauge of character, Miss Rogers.” Somehow, when uttered in that very ducal tone, his earlier opinion didn’t seem at all like a compliment, not that she’d considered it one, but just now it was quite clear.
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love Page 5