He threw his pen down, abandoning hope of work as an all too familiar restiveness thrummed through him. There had been a time, when he was a younger man and merely the heir to a dukedom, when the title of duke hadn’t paved his way or garnered favors. In the six years since his father’s passing, however, he’d ceased to exist as anything beyond that very revered title.
Until Hermione. The mysterious stranger, by Waxham’s admission, no one knew anything of.
And God help him, he wanted to know—
A knock sounded at the door. He looked up, grateful for the interruption, and then tamped down a groan.
His sister, Emmaline, stood framed in the doorway, a smile on her lips. “Sebastian.” A smile he’d learned long, long ago to be very leery of.
For one horrified moment it was as though she’d read the dangerous thoughts churning through his head. But then, he narrowed his eyes remembering Emmaline and the Countess of Waxham’s scheming from across Lady Denley’s ballroom floor. “Em.” Whatever would his sister say to his sudden preoccupation with a Miss Rogers?
And I suppose you should call me Hermione…
A wounded expression, patently insincere, lined Emmaline’s face. “Never tell me you aren’t elated to see me.” She wagged her brown eyebrows.
“Indeed,” he drawled, allowing her to make of that “indeed” what she would.
“Humph,” she mumbled at his noncommittal response, apparently taking exception. She tugged free her gloves and wandered over to his desk. “May I?” She’d already claimed the edge of the leather wing-back chair.
“Please do.” She either failed to note or care about the heavy sarcasm underlining those two words. He’d wager by the constant megrim she’d given him through the years with her antics that it was, in fact, the latter.
Emmaline beat her white gloves together, her amusement replaced with an uncharacteristic solemnity.
The only time he’d remembered her somber had been when she’d severed that blasted betrothal contract crafted by their austere father. He leaned back in his seat and rested his arms along the edge of his chair. Concern drove back his earlier annoyance. For as much as she’d driven him mad these years, he’d lob off someone’s arm before he saw his sister hurt. “What is it?”
“Sophie.”
He would not be lobbing off Sophie, Countess of Waxham’s arm.
The two women had been friends since they’d made their Come Out. Sebastian shifted in his seat. “Has something happened between you and the countess?” he managed to force the question out. He shot a desperate look over her shoulder. This really was a conversation best reserved for their mother. Or Em’s husband. Or her dog, Sir Faithful. Not her elder brother.
She stared down at her gloves a moment, fixed on the white kidskin fabric. “Sophie would have made you a splendid wife,” she said at last.
That snapped his attention forward. And as the young lady whom she believed would have made him a splendid wife was married to his best friend, he really thought no response was the safe response.
Emmaline lifted her gaze and spoke in gentle tones. “However, she’s married now.” An idea that had once grated. “And though I cannot think of a single young lady who’d interest you, I know there is some very special, very unique lady who will see you and not your title.” At one time, he would have agreed with Emmaline. Until Lord Denley’s ball. There was, however, one young lady…
“Sebastian? Are you paying attention?”
“Indeed,” he said, tugging at his suddenly too-tight cravat.
“As I was saying, it will take a bit of searching to find your wife but it is not an impossible task.”
Ah, yes, her scheming with Sophie. “And is that what you intend?” He eyed her warily. “To find me a wife?” Unbidden, Hermione crept in his thoughts once more. This time as she’d been at their first meeting, wielding that silly pencil like a dagger. He grinned.
She set her shoulders back. “This isn’t a matter of amusement, Sebastian,” she said, with a touch of impatience shattering the fleeting memory of the lively Hermione. “This is about your happiness.”
“I believe amusement and happiness are suitable partners, no?”
At his droll tone, Emmaline tossed her hands up. “Can you not be serious?”
He was serious. All the time. It was a product of his station, and those damned expectations. “I want you to be happy,” she said softly, all earlier annoyance gone. His sister set her gloves down and rested her palms upon his desk. “Your life has been filled with rigid responsibility, I know that. Father demanded much of you.”
He’d demanded much of the both of them.
She gave him a soft smile. “I love my husband. That childhood betrothal was one of the greatest legacies left by Father.”
Yes, it had been but not for the reasons dreamed out by their father. His sister knew love, and possessed a beautiful child. Again, a pang of envy struck. He shoved it aside not wanting or needing to expose these very humbling desires before anyone, and most certainly not his sister.
He looked around her. “Where is your husband? Don’t you have to do…whatever it is marchionesses do throughout the day? Regan—”
A smile wreathed her face. “I left her sleeping quite contentedly,” she assured him, speaking of her now two-year-old daughter.
“Splendid.” For how long did babes sleep?
“Oh, worry not.” Her eyes glittered with the same mischievousness she’d shown as a girl. “She’ll sleep for two hours. On most days.”
Splendid.
“Do not try and change the subject.” She sat back in her chair, indicating he’d have had an easier time taking on Wellington’s determined forces at Waterloo than displacing his sister from his office. “I’m here to speak to you about—your heart.”
“My heart,” he repeated dumbly. He prayed he’d heard her incorrectly.
Emmaline gave a perfunctory nod. “Your heart.” His prayers, of course, proving futile. She folded her hands primly on her lap which was all a ruse. There wasn’t a thing prim about his hoyden of a sister. “Now,” she began sounding like a governess about to set down an unwanted lesson. “I know with your commitment to the dukedom, you don’t believe it important.”
“Do not believe what is important?” he asked, struggling to follow this unwanted conversation. A gentleman didn’t care to discuss matters of the heart—with one’s sister. With anyone, really. But especially not his sister.
“Why, marrying for love,” Emmaline supplied. “You likely have already in all your stodgy dukedomness—”
“That is not a word.”
She carried on over his dry interruption. “Resolved yourself to wed some prim, proper, and not at all passionate young lady.”
His sister was wrong. Very wrong. Oh, he’d never admit as much. He was content to carry on with her and everyone else believing he didn’t believe or aspire to that dangerous sentiment. It was far safer that way; for his pride, and with his sister’s temerity, his sanity.
Sebastian spread his arms wide. “I appreciate your concern. I do,” he added at the pointed look she gave him. He may be uncomfortable with displays of emotion from her, but the fact that she was as concerned for him now as she’d been when he’d been a boy who’d gotten his nose broken at Eton meant a lot to him. “However…” Regardless, he didn’t intend to remain and discuss matters of the heart with her. “I was planning on riding at Hyde Park.” He always rode at Hyde Park. Usually first thing in the morning before the grounds were crowded with title-grasping ladies attempting to capture his attention.
“Adults don’t tattle. They gossip. Tattling, gossiping…all really the same.”
Emmaline stitched her eyebrows into a single line. “Are you trying to be rid of me?”
“No.” Yes.
“Emmaline!”
Their gazes flew to the door just as the Duchess of Mallen swept through the entrance. He sighed at the too well-timed entrance.
This m
eeting had gone from bothersome to I-need-a-bottle-of-brandy.
The duchess sailed across the room in a flurry of burgundy satin skirts. She claimed the seat beside Emmaline, a smile in her eyes. “Oh, how wonderful having my two lovely children together.” She looked between them, a wide smile on her unwrinkled cheeks. “Why, whatever has you both so engrossed?” He’d wager his every last estate that she knew exactly what had brought her lovely children together.
Sebastian shoved back his chair and stood. “I was mentioning to Emmaline that I…”
Mother and sister frowned him back into sitting.
“Was trying to leave,” Emmaline interjected. “He was trying to leave.”
He was the only duke in the whole bloody kingdom unable to elicit a cowed, subservient response. Hermione slipped into his mind. Oh, I’m sure you’re an effective duke. He suspected the young lady would be wholly unimpressed if she observed this rather weak showing.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Suspicion laced Emmaline’s words. She turned to Mother. “Why is he smiling like that?”
His grin died at the suspicion lacing his sister’s question. “Like what?”
She leaned across her seat and planted her hands on the edge of his desk. “You’re woolgathering.”
Waxham’s charge from two evenings ago echoed back in his sister’s accusation. He tugged at his suddenly too tight cravat. “Men don’t woolgather. I don’t woolgather.” Dukes certainly did not woolgather. They were contemplative, quite rational gentlemen who didn’t think overly long about unimpressed lithe young ladies with… Oh, for Christ’s sake. “I’ve business to see to,” he lied.
Emmaline jabbed a finger at him. “You’d said you were intending to ride.”
“Ah, yes before you interrupted. I was going to say, I had intended to ride but had matters of business to see to.” The lie slipped easily from his lips. Woolgathering, lying…bloody hell. This was bad. He leapt to his feet, his chair scraped noisily along the mahogany floor.
Both ladies widened their eyes.
“If you will excuse me, I intend to appreciate the fair weather we’re enjoying.” He strode over to the door.
“But Sebastian, it is raining,” his mother protested.
“Not yet.” Rain pinged the windowpane, taunting his futile attempts at flight. It would take a good deal more than a bit of English rain to thwart his much needed escape. He strode to the door.
“I thought you had business to attend,” his sister called after him.
He closed the door in his wake. Freedom.
Some things were worth braving a rainy English day for.
As Hermione trudged through the lush, green—and now very wet—grass of Hyde Park, she appreciated the lengths to which a dedicated writer would go for her craft. Rain spattered her brow. She pulled her bonnet down and stared out into the grey-white horizon, with thick, black thunderclouds riddling the sky and readily acknowledged there were some things worth braving a rainy, English day for.
“What can be so important that we should come out in this horrid weather?” Hugh grumbled from a point beyond her shoulder. Having tired of his question going unanswered, he yelled into the howling wind. “Nothing, I tell you. Nothing is this important.”
Hermione slowed her step, allowing Addie, Hugh, and the poor out-of-breath maid to catch up. In fairness to her brother, he had little idea that her efforts stemmed from her determination to help him and Addie, and being here in London, attempting to make a respectable match, to help Elizabeth.
“Yes there is,” Addie chided. Her sister, as devoted and dedicated to an inspired story and invaluable research glowered at her older brother. “Why, imagine how dreary and drab an always sunny spring story setting would be.”
“All stories are boring,” he mumbled.
“Did you hear that?” Addie slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling her gasp, and looked to Hermione. “Did you hear what he—”?
“I did,” she replied absently and scanned the empty grounds. Of course a duke wouldn’t dare venture out in this godforsaken weather for his daily visit to Hyde Park. Or rather a rumored daily visit, an invaluable piece of information passed on by the Duke of Mallen’s footman to Aunt Agatha’s maid, and then on to Hermione. In the distance, thunder rumbled its agreement. She settled her hands on her hips and peered across the Serpentine. Rain fell upon the river, tiny pinpricks breaking the smooth surface. And this is why one should not rely upon the gossip of maids or anyone else. The information invariably proved a good deal less than reliable. She sighed.
“I’m cold.”
The unrelenting wind whipped at Hermione’s skirts; the rain battered her face. She stole a sideways glance at Hugh.
He scowled and tugged the brim of his black cap over his eyes.
Guilt tugged at her heart. She really shouldn’t have dragged her siblings along on her search of Hyde Park.
“Papa wouldn’t be pleased to discover you’d dragged us off into the rain,” her brother called out. They both knew the lie to his words.
At one time, their father would have cared. Before Mama died of her wasting illness, Papa had been attentive and diligent. Not this empty shell of a man, who didn’t know if one, two, three, or all of his children had wandered off, or worse, allowed one of his children to be raped by a charming nobleman.
She shoved aside the momentary twinge of self-pity for her family’s changed circumstances and devoted her attention instead to the sudden truth—Sebastian Fitzhugh, the Duke of Mallen was not here, nor would he likely be coming. Rain stung her cheeks.
“Miss, the children really should not be out in this weather,” pleaded the maid, Winifred. Teeth chattering, she pulled her cloak close.
No, indeed they should not. Again guilt flared. A young woman, touting along two younger siblings, earned a good deal less scrutiny than a single young lady in the market for a husband. “Very well,” she said on another sigh. “Come along then.” She turned and motioned her brother and sister forward.
Addie groaned. “But I don’t want to return home. Papa is ever so dreary, and Aunt Agatha will be coming over. She’s forever scolding me about not being a proper young lady.”
“That is because you aren’t a proper young lady,” Hugh shot back.
As they began the long trek back to the carriage, Hermione’s siblings continued their bickering.
Another rumble of thunder filled the sky. Only… She furrowed her brow, steady and constant like horses hooves pounding—Her heart quickened and she slowed her stride, all the while scanning the horizon.
It is him.
It had to be.
Battling back the excitement swirling in her breast, Hermione shot a look back over her shoulder at Addie and Hugh as they marched back toward the carriage. “I dropped my reticule at the side of the river,” she lied. “Take the children back. I’ll join you shortly.”
Winifred opened her mouth to protest, but a streak of lightning stole across the greyish-black sky and she jumped, hurrying after her charges.
Hermione waited a moment and then dashed back down the rain-covered grass toward the gravel path alongside the Serpentine. Her vision obscured by the heavy brim of her bonnet, she yanked the strings free and tugged the sopping garment from her head. She did a quick search of the grounds. Where was he? With determined steps she continued on, down toward the riding trail, the thunder of hoofbeats growing closer and closer.
Except with each step she took, the more unlikely it was that the lone rider was her Duke of Mallen. No duke would dare be caught riding in this chilled, rainy spring day, certainly no sensible one. Perhaps the brooding dukes, hiding some dark secret would brave thunder and lightning and welcome the fury of the storm. She rather suspected her nefarious duke required a tremendous storm.
Rain dripped into her eyes and she brushed back the moisture. A midnight black horse burst into view. She squinted as the creature bearing down on her drew closer. Her heart thudded wildly.
Sebastian. Her charming duke.
Then Hermione did what all great heroines attempting to gain attention from their prospective suitor did within the pages of a book. She rooted herself to the riding path. And waited. And waited. And—
Bloody hell!
A scream lodged in her throat as she stared down the eyes of the fierce, black beast. Hermione dove out of the path of the galloping stallion then tumbled, rolled and toppled over herself. She skidded down the slight slope. Her breath caught with the inevitability of disaster. She slid toward the water. A slight breath of relief escaped her as she stopped one slippered foot from the edge of the Serpentine. “Humph.” She stared up at the thick, billowing storm clouds above. Rain pelted her face and blinded her. Well, that is certainly not how I’d intended for this to go. She grunted and shoved herself onto her elbows conceding there was nothing even slightly romantic about a lady being caught in the rain, on her buttocks with her skirts rucked about her knees.
Oh, every last heroine she’d written who’d found herself thus was surely nodding their fictional heads in approval. A despairing laugh bubbled up past her lips.
His curse split the tempestuous storm. “Are you hurt?”
She didn’t think she’d been hurt. Then she registered the deep, mellifluous baritone. She located the owner of that husky question.
The Duke of Mallen cut an impressive path toward her, his black cloak whipped wildly in the wind. The muscles of her throat worked with the force of her swallow as she revised her earlier, impulsive opinion of rainstorms and injured ladies.
He dropped to one knee beside her and doffed his hat then tossed it aside. Concern lined the angular plains of his cheeks. “Have you been injured, miss…” He lifted his gaze to hers and the momentary flash of recognition sparked in the emerald irises of his eyes. “Miss Rogers,” he greeted as formally as if they were meeting in a drawing room and not in the empty Hyde Park with rivulets of rain running into his mouth.
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love Page 8