Hermione yanked the page from his fingers. He stared unblinking at his now empty hands. Had she just ripped the sheet from his hands? Sebastian stared at her bemused.
She backed away from him, horror in her eyes. “You shouldn’t be touching refuse from the street.”
Sebastian matched her steps. “Because I am a duke,” he said, taking great delight in her sudden unease. Good, he didn’t care to believe he was the only one with this inexplicable awareness to their body’s closeness.
She stopped and jutted her chin out. “There is that.” Why did the lady sound so very disappointed over the fact that he was a duke?
He couldn’t resist teasing her. “Ah, you were protecting me from… sullied hands?” He swept a bow. “I am in your debt, madam.”
She ran her gaze over his face, and silence stretched between them. Then, at last, she said, “Hermione.”
He looked at her questioningly.
People bustled past, casting curious glances at them. “You’d agreed to call me Hermione,” she said on a faint whisper, gone were all traces of teasing. With that she spun on her heel and made her way back to the frowning servant and her waiting carriage.
Sebastian stared after her. Perhaps he’d had the right of it at Denley’s. The lady had captivated him.
C
hapter 7
Hermione rushed across the street to the waiting carriage, careful this time to avoid speeding conveyances. Herbert stood at the opened door, waiting to hand her up. All the while, her skin prickled with the heat of Sebastian’s gaze upon her retreating form.
“Thank you, Herbert,” she said with a smile as she climbed inside. The door closed behind her and she lightened her grip upon the muddied page with notes for her next story.
The carriage lurched forward. The steady clip clop of the horses’ hooves marked the path home. She really should be focused on the story due to Mr. Werksman. With a groan, she laid her head back on the seat squabs. Instead, Sebastian—not the duke, not His Grace, not the Duke of Mallen—Sebastian had infiltrated her thoughts.
He’d rescued her from certain harm, and for the slightest moment interest, a man’s interest of her as a woman, had blazed to life in his penetrating eyes. She groaned. “Don’t be a ninny.” Of course one such as him would never be interested in one such as her.
He was a duke. Do you take me for one of those indolent dukes? His amused words danced around the chambers of her mind. Only, for his teasing there had been merit to his charge. She’d never considered the possibility that dukes were…well, people. Sebastian had initially represented a much needed figure for her research. He would say ducal things and act in ducal ways, and she would transform those details into a fully fleshed character for her book.
But he was real. Her heart fluttered. So very real.
The dread of telling this story lifted, replaced with such eagerness her fingers twitched with an urge to pick up a pen and begin his story.
Her heart paused. His, as in the charming duke. Not Sebastian. She stuffed her thoroughly muddied page back into her reticule. Silly bee. He was merely the source of inspiration behind her story. All authors required inspiration. Hers had merely come in the unlikeliest place—Lord Denley’s office—in the unlikeliest form—the Duke of Mallen.
“Sebastian,” she murmured into the quiet of the carriage. She tasted the feel of his name upon her lips. It was a strong name. A commanding one born to the role of all-powerful duke. There had been the hint of arrogance and an aura of power to the striking gentleman and Hermione had always detested the arrogant, imperious types. Those fellows were reserved for the pages where they might be redeemed.
She drew the curtain back and stared out at the passing scene. Yet, for all the ways in which the Duke of Mallen typified a duke, there had been a charming smile, and intelligence in his eyes.
I did not realize Lord Denley had a daughter…
A smile played on her lips. And quick-witted. The duke had a sense of humor. As the carriage rattled on, she released the curtain. The fabric fluttered back into place. Which was why her duke would make an ideal hero, deserving of a story.
She blinked. Her duke. She shook her head. She’d not meant her duke. Rather, her duke…for literary purposes, of course. Hermione had no need for a duke. None at all.
Well, with the exception of salvation for her youngest siblings, rescue from their dire financial circumstances, and protection for Elizabeth. In those regards, she could very well benefit from a duke of her own. The not-literary-fiction duke.
The carriage rocked to a slow halt before her family’s modest townhouse. A moment later, the driver opened the door. “Miss Hermione.”
She accepted his hand. “Thank you.”
He tipped the brim of his hat. She paused on the pavement to consider Papa’s townhouse. The red brick façade cracked and aged, the black paint of the front door chipped and faded. With a sigh, she started toward the also cracked and chipped steps. She’d come to London but once as a child. Otherwise, her family had not left the confines of their once happy, country cottage in Surrey. She’d found herself desperately missing the star-filled night skies, the clean, country air. Until today. Until him.
Elliot, who served as the butler, footman, and in whatever other capacity he was required, stood at the entrance. “Hello, miss,” he said as she swept inside. He closed the door behind her.
“Hullo, Elliot.” She loosened the strings of her bonnet and started above stairs. “Is my father indisposed?” The question needn’t even be asked. Invariably he was. The baronet, not even fifty years of age, had been indisposed for the past six years, ever since Mama’s death.
The young servant inclined his head. “He is in his office.”
Hermione faltered, and caught her balance. She readjusted her path and forged ahead to Papa’s office. She’d seen her father a handful of times since their arrival in London. He remained otherwise shut away in his office or chambers. The wood floors creaked in protest as she walked down the small, narrow corridor toward her father’s office.
She paused outside the room and ducked her head inside the small opening in the doorway. The pale, gaunt stranger with ashen skin was someone she no longer recognized. His gaze fixed, unblinking at the window. She shoved the door open and slipped inside. “Hullo, Papa.” She removed her bonnet.
The baronet blinked. His eyes registered recognition. “Hermie, dear,” he greeted, his tone more lucid than she remembered.
Hermione closed the door behind her. How she detested the abhorrent name. No heroine would ever be given such a dreadful moniker as Hermie. She made her way over and set her bonnet down on the only open space upon the surface of the old, oaken desk. As she claimed a seat, she studied the stacks of ledgers strewn haphazardly about the desktop.
He followed her stare. A mottled flush stained his cheeks. “Er, don’t be worrying yourself about any of this. Not any longer,” he insisted, his tone far less than convincing.
“Papa,” she cajoled.
He pressed his fingers along the sides of his temple. “It will get better,” he mumbled.
It wouldn’t. And if Elizabeth’s circumstances were discovered, it would indeed become a good deal worse before it “got better”.
He gave her a weak smile. “And you’re lovely, Hermie. I imagine you’ll make quite an advantageous match.”
“Oh, Papa,” she said softly. Addie’s loyalty came from this very man. Her sister, though likely remembered little of the man who’d hoisted his children atop his shoulders and carried them through the modest walls of their cottage, running from make believe fire-breathing dragons. “I don’t imagine there is a respectable gentleman willing to overlook our circumstances.”
Papa leaned back in his seat. “Pish-posh,” he said with far more spirit than he’d exuded in so very long. He waved a hand. “There are any number of handsome, young gentleman who will be quite taken with your beauty.” He leaned forward once more. “And more importantly, Her
mie dear, your intelligence. He will make you an offer.”
She wondered about this fictional ‘he’. With the romantic sliver of her soul that crafted happily ever after moments for equally fictional young ladies she wished the fantastical gentleman her father spoke of possessed a golden crop of loose curls.
He, the hopeless romantic to their serenely beautiful, calm mother. Hermione had penned her first story at his knee. He’d looked over her shoulder and asked encouraging questions and his support had overshadowed Mother’s displeasure who’d realized even at fourteen, Hermione’s likely fate was that of a bluestocking.
“Perhaps,” she said, noncommittally.
“You shall see, Hermie. There is some handsome chap who’ll capture your heart.”
Again, the harsh angular plains of the Duke of Mallen’s face danced through her thoughts.
Father wagged a bushy black brow, sprinkled with white. “Well, who is he, my dear?”
A shock of heat slapped her cheeks. She gave her head a shake. “No one,” she said quickly. She’d become so accustomed to her father being a shell of a human being she hardly remembered how to react to his moments of teasing before he retreated back into himself. She reached inside her reticule and fished out a handful of coins, then placed them in front of him. “I received these earlier this week.”
“No, no, no,” he said, his earlier teasing gone. He made an ineffectual attempt of pushing the six pence over to Hermione.
“I insist, Papa.”
He hesitated and then scraped the meager offering close. “You’re a good daughter,” he said, his voice gruff.
“Sometimes.” She glanced at the closed door and then returned her attention to her father. “Have you…” She paused. “…heard from Nurse Partridge or Lord Cavendish?”
“Your sister is well.” He cleared his throat. “But still no word from Cavendish. I’m certain the young lad is merely busy.”
She nearly choked. Busy? Too busy to see to the young lady whose virtue he’d stolen, and then run-off to the city, leaving Elizabeth with a babe in her belly. “Papa,” she said, a faintly pleading note to her words. “You know you must find him and force him to do right by Elizabeth.” Finding Lord Cavendish and Hermione making a match. Those had been the two driving forces behind their arrival in London.
Hermione, however, had hoped Lord Cavendish could be found and brought up to scratch, forced to do the right thing. She’d also had grand hopes for her own success with Mr. Werksman. The marital-business to some wealthy nobleman had once posed the grimmest, most unlikely of their goals here during a London Season.
Papa stood. He came out from behind his desk and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Do not worry, my dear. We shall find Lord Cavendish and they two shall wed and then you shall wed and both my daughters will be happily married to good men.”
She flattened her lips to keep from reminding him that he had another daughter. And a son, for that matter.
He clapped his hands once. “Off you go, then. I’ve business to attend.”
She eyed the clutter atop his desk. He’d not attended business in some years now. She pushed herself to her feet and kissed him on the cheek. Hope stirred in her breast. Perhaps Papa was well aware of the direness of their circumstances, and devoted his days to the finances and Elizabeth’s situation. “Very well, Papa.”
As Hermione took her leave, she paused with her hand on the doorknob and threw one parting glance over her shoulder at her father. He’d reclaimed his seat. Gone were all earlier hints of teasing warmth and gentle smiles. The broken baronet stared absently at the window.
With a sigh, she opened the door, stepped through, and closed it quietly behind her. She’d willingly accepted the mantle of responsibility after Mama’s passing. Yet, making her way down the dimly lit halls, up to her rooms, Hermione could admit in that moment, at least to herself, how very lovely it would be to pass the worries that cloaked her every step over to someone else’s more capable hands.
Why did the Duke of Mallen’s visage choose this moment to enter her thoughts? Such a man didn’t worry about having to let the servants go or leaking ceilings or frayed garments. He didn’t know the humiliation of relying on relatives who saw you as less worthy, as embarrassments from the country.
She climbed the stairs and collided with Addie. Hermione shrieked and would have pitched backward, but her sister shot a hand out and tugged her forward.
“Oh, dear. Mustn’t have you falling down the stairs. That would be quite a disaster.”
“Addie, what are you doing?” she asked, her heart still racing from her near mishap.
Addie folded her arms over her chest. “I wanted to know about your meeting with Mr. Werksman. Did he agree to your affable duke?” The slight emphasis on the girl’s words indicated just what her younger sister believed about any deviation from a dark, brooding duke.
Hermione continued down the hall. “He agreed to consider it.”
“He did?” Addie trotted at her heels. “But what of the nefarious duke?”
She paused beside her chamber doors and tweaked Addie on the nose. “Oh, I’ll tell the nefarious duke’s story one day, as well. You cannot force words that aren’t there.”
A beleaguered sigh escaped her younger sister. “Yes. Yes, this is true.” She pressed the door handle and slipped past Hermione then raced over to the bed and pulled herself up. “Very well, so you must simply find an affable duke.” She swung her legs back and forth along the stitched and re-stitched coverlet.
“I did.”
Her sister’s blue eyes formed wide saucers. “You did?” She froze mid-kick.
Grinning, Hermione tossed her reticule down upon her secretaire. “I did.” She crossed over and sat beside her sister.
“This is promising. At least he is a duke. Of course, the brooding type would be far better.”
“Undoubtedly,” Hermione said with mock solemnity.
Sarcasm lost to her innocent ears, Addie patted Hermione’s hand reassuringly. “An affable duke is a good deal better than no duke.” She flipped onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow. “Now, you must meet your duke.”
Hermione lay down beside her. She stared up at the watermarked plaster at the far right corner of the room. “I told you, I met him.” Warmth fanned in her belly and spiraled out at the memory of Sebastian.
“I mean meet him, silly.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll require several meetings to conduct your research. Will he come call?”
Hermione blinked once. Twice. And then in rapid succession. “Will he call?” Certainly not. The Duke of Mallen would have little reason to call on her. No reason, if she wanted to be truly precise.
“Precisely,” her sister went on, voicing the thought and somehow making it even more real. “He won’t. And we can’t simply rely on your meeting him at various social functions. Every other lady present will be clamoring for the gentleman’s notice for no other reason than because of his title.”
Oh, how very wrong her sister was. The duke could have his title stripped and his lands removed and he’d inspire fluttering hearts and shivers of awareness in dowagers and debutantes alike.
Addie elbowed her in the side. “Hermie.”
She grunted. “What was that for?”
“You’ve gone all moon-eyed, Hermie.”
“Don’t call me…” A mischievous sparkle glimmered in her sister’s eyes. These were sad days indeed if she’d allow an eleven-year-old girl’s teasing to rankle. “I have not gone all moon-eyed.” She was far too practical and logical to ever do anything as foolish as go moon-eyed, as her sister had suggested.
“Yes, you have,” she spoke as fact. “Your eyes get silly.” Addie directed her eyes to the heavens. “And your mouth goes all funny.” She went slack-jaw, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.
“I certainly do not look like that.” She bristled with indignation.
“Humph,” her sister mumb
led, her tone threaded with skepticism. “Either way, you need to meet him.” She hopped off the bed. “I suggest a discreet inquiry from our servants to his.” She raced over to the door.
Where had her sister learned such tactics? “I’ll not do something as indelicate as spy on His Grace, Addie,” she called after her.
Addie pulled the door open. “You will if you want to tell the affable duke’s story,” she said, without even glancing back. She slammed the wood paneled door in her wake.
Hermione drew her knees close to her chest and stared at the closed door. It either spoke volumes of her sister’s wisdom or Hermione’s desperation, but once again Addie’s idea was not an altogether ill-thought-out one. She rubbed her chin across the fabric of her modest brown skirts. She really didn’t want to spy on the duke. There was something quite underhanded and devious in such actions. However, it would all be in the name of research…and by the disrepair of her father’s office, it was much needed research.
Hermione collapsed backward once again. She tossed her arm wide, gaze fixed on that same watermark. Putting inquiries to the duke’s servants it would have to be.
C
hapter 8
The following afternoon Sebastian drummed the tip of his pen along the opened ledger atop his desk. He considered the marble hearth at the opposite end of the room, remembering a different office, a different hearth…and a certain young lady.
Hermione, to be exact.
Close up, even in the dimly lit quarters of Denley’s room, he’d not found her any type of grand beauty like the ladies who drove men to dash sonnets, not that he’d ever be one of those silly dandies who favored poetry.
However, after their chance meeting in the London streets, he’d been unable to rid himself of the breathless quality of her laugh or the silver flecks that dotted her eyes or…He groaned. It would seem he was one of those sonnet-sprouting fellows, after all.
But blast and hell, there was something very intriguing about a woman who’d uttered, “You’re a duke,” in that deflated way. The same way she might have responded if he’d announced his intentions to remove her pencil and bar her from penning any more sentences.
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love Page 7