Addie slipped her palm into Hermione’s and tugged. Hermione glanced down, staring blankly. “Aunt Agatha says you shall wed well and then Hugh will be off to Eton and all will be well.” She scratched at her brow. “Except with Elizabeth. She said that will never be well.”
Hermione knew their aunt had been extremely magnanimous in providing Hermione a Season, but oh, how she detested the woman. She mustered a smile. “Don’t listen to Aunt Agatha. All will be well,” she assured them, wishing she could believe her own lie. She wagged her eyebrows. “Now, would you have me stand here all afternoon imagining a husband for myself or writing my story?”
“Writing your story.”
She tweaked the little girl’s pert nose. “Off you go, then.”
Addie sighed and skipped over to the door. She paused at the entrance of the room, a pointed frown for her brother. “Why is Hugh allowed to remain? I want—”
“I need to speak to Hugh a moment.”
The little girl pouted and shot a final glower at her still silent brother.
Hugh sat, slouched in his seat, his thin frame looking impossibly small in the broad chair. Her heart ached with what the boy had become. Once an always smiling, troublesome lad, he’d become a truculent, often quiet boy.
“I know you are very much aware of our family’s situation, more than probably even I’d realized until this moment.”
He said nothing.
“You’re going to Eton, Hugh. And Papa will eventually emerge from his sadness.” She could not speak to what would happen to Elizabeth. Not even for the benefit of her brother’s jaded innocence.
An angry challenge blazed to life in the boy’s eyes. “You cannot promise all that. I’m not Addie. I know you cannot…” Red flared in his cheeks. “You cannot do everything Addie believes you can do. You couldn’t protect Elizabeth. You failed her just as Papa did.”
She jerked, his words a lash upon her heart. Her throat worked with the force of her emotion. He spoke words she herself already knew. She was to blame. And it was a shame that would haunt her for the remainder of her days. She claimed the edge of the sofa and leaned close so their knees brushed. “Look at me, Hugh.” Hermione waited until he complied. She spoke in solemn tones. “You are correct. I did fail Elizabeth. And so did Papa—”
“I wouldn’t, though.” His little mouth settled into a hard line. He slapped his fist against his palm. “I would find Lord Cavendish and duel him for what he did.”
A chill stole through her as she gave thanks for his young years because he carried enough anger and bitterness that she feared what would become of him in the years to come. She did not doubt if he were older, he would indeed hunt down and call out Lord Cavendish. “You cannot blame Papa,” she said softly.
“It is all Papa’s fault. I hate him.” He spewed the words like venom. “I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.”
Real blame could be scattered around for many. Hermione for being so busy writing her stories she’d not looked after Elizabeth with a more careful eye. Her mouth tightened. “You should not hold Papa solely responsible.”
“You’d defend him?” The question exploded angrily from his lips.
“I’m not defending him,” she said soothingly. Hugh had become more and more explosive these past years so that she no longer knew how to deal with his outbursts.
“You would.” He jumped to his feet and jammed a finger in her direction. “He’s a horrible father and if you imagine I’m going to Eton or that you’ll ever marry than you’re as silly as the women you write about in your silly books.”
She gasped. Hugh wheeled around and raced from the room. Hermione covered her face with her hands and not for the first time, damned her father for having abandoned them all these years. She sucked in a shuddery breath as the reality of her family’s circumstances slipped into the stolen interlude with Sebastian. Had it been only minutes ago? Gone was the innocent happiness she’d not even known herself capable of.
With a sigh, she lowered her hands back to her side and stood. She started for her chambers in search of the escape that could only be found on empty pages in the stories she crafted. Except…this time, a cloying panic sucked the creative thoughts from her head.
What was she going to do?
C
hapter 11
Sebastian dipped the tip of his pen in the crystal inkwell then marked several numbers on the far right column.
From the corner of his eye, the brown leather book stared mockingly back at him. Not that books stared necessarily. They couldn’t. He, of course, knew that. Miss Hermione Rogers’ book, however, did—stare. There was no other accounting for why his gaze continued to wander back to the silly, nonsensical drivel read by hopelessly romantic young ladies such as his sister and likely every other lady in the whole of the realm.
He threw his pen down and glared at the offending piece of literature. “Literature,” he scoffed under his breath.
Do you imagine there is something wrong in reading about love and passion, Your Grace? Is your life so empty, so vastly cold that you should mock any and all who read a Gothic novel?
Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose as he remembered Hermione in all her indignant outrage. With fire snapping in her eyes and the bold challenge on her lips, she was not at all the agreeable, biddable creatures who courted his favor. And he rather found he preferred the honesty of her; a woman not taken with or by his title, a lady not cowed by his presence or his rank.
Abandoning all hope of work, he swiped the book. He passed it back and forth between his hands. His lips pulled in an involuntary smile. “The Mad Marquess,” he muttered. He fanned the pages and stopped at a random point. Sebastian kicked his legs out, propped them at the edge of his desk, and read.
…and continued to read.
Not because the passage was particularly good. It wasn’t. Not in any way that adhered to the proper structure evinced in the works of John Keats and Samuel Coleridge. And yet, there was something compelling that sucked him into the page.
Do you imagine there is something wrong in reading about love and passion…?
Sebastian paused mid-sentence as he recalled the taste of Hermione and her eager, uninhibited response to his embrace. His body ached at the reminder of her silken skin, the too-full lower lip, the gentle flare of her hips.
No, there is nothing wrong with passion, Hermione.
Determined to drive back the memory of her, Sebastian fixed his attention on the page and became lost once more in the words of Mr. Michael Michaelmas.
He’d known he wanted her the moment she’d stumbled across the ballroom floor and tumbled into his life. She held him in rapture. She held him in any way. In every way. But not in the ways that mattered. Nor could she ever truly be his…in his life. Not when there was—
“Sebastian Fitzhugh, what are you reading?”
A startled shout escaped Sebastian. He threw his arms up. The Mad Marquess flew from his hands and sailed wildly through the air, pages fluttering wildly—and landed damningly at the center of the room.
His sister stood in the doorway, eying him suspiciously. Her mangy excuse of a dog, that bore a striking resemblance to a wolf, growled at Sebastian and promptly bounded across the floor. The black dog picked up the book in its vicious-looking teeth. Emmaline’s narrow-eyed gaze moved down to the middle of the Aubusson carpet. “What is this?”
Sebastian slid his legs off the edge of his desk. “Em.” He leapt to his feet. Never less glad to see a person in his life. Not because he’d been fully engrossed in the silly pages of the book Hermione had given him. He wasn’t. He had sense enough to not be interested in such drivel. He strode over to the dog, Sir Faithful, a gift his sister had given her miserable husband, the Marquess of Drake when they’d been betrothed. The dog had been the bane of his existence since he’d pissed all over Sebastian’s office carpet two years ago.
The dog crouched down and waved the book back and forth, not having the sense to
realize Sebastian was certainly not playing a game with the damned creature. He reached for the volume but Sir Faithful danced out of his reach.
“Must you bring your miserable dog to torment me?” he muttered and made another grab.
Emmaline frowned. “He is not miserable. Isn’t that, right?” she said in a sweet voice to the dog. “You aren’t miserable at all.” The dog danced in excited circles about his mistress’ feet.
“Emmaline,” Sebastian said, impatience laced his warning.
“Er, yes, then,” Em said. She clapped once. “Sir.”
The book slid from the dog’s teeth and landed with a soft thump.
Sebastian and Em eyed it as one. They reached it at the same time. Emmaline dragged it over with the tip of her toes and picked it up.
Sebastian tugged at his cravat as silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable. Well, for him. By the slight smile on his sister’s lips, he gathered she was quite entertained by this turn of events.
“Sebastian?”
He gritted his teeth. “Yes, Em?”
“Are you reading Gothic novels?”
“No,” he said curtly. Though he could certainly see how it appeared that way to his bothersome sister. However, he could not very well tell her he was merely reading it at the bequest of a young lady whom he’d called on yesterday afternoon.
Emmaline sighed. He’d learned early on the many implications of that sigh. “Splendid! I shall enjoy Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ story. I’d not read this one, but Sophie recommended it and—”
Wordlessly, he plucked the book from her fingers and tossed it down on his desk.
Sir Faithful barked his displeasure at the loud thump.
She arched an eyebrow. “I thought you were not reading it.”
“I’m not,” he muttered. He started over to his seat, but the blasted dog blocked his path. He stepped right, and the dog matched his step. He moved left and the dog followed suit. Sebastian growled.
“Faithful,” Em called. The dog trotted over and sank onto his haunches. He gave a yawn, seeming tired from his antics. He rested his enormous head on his front paws and promptly fell asleep. His sister continued as relentless as the dog had been mere moments ago with Hermione’s now very damaged copy. “I don’t suppose your recent reading selection has anything to do with a certain young lady you paid a visit to yesterday afternoon?”
Sebastian shifted direction and made for the sideboard. “It does not,” he bit out. He grabbed the nearest decanter, picked up a glass, then poured himself several fingerfuls.
She wagged a finger in his direction. “A Miss Hermione Rogers, I believe?” Triumph dripped from that question, which really wasn’t a question, at all.
Sebastian silently cursed the gossips. Of course he’d not expected his movements would not go unnoticed by a ton eager to know the goings-on of one of their marriageable dukes. He filled his glass to the brim. “It does not have anything to do with Miss Hermione Rogers,” he said over the edge of his tumbler. It has everything to do with Hermione Rogers.
“Humph,” his sister replied, her tone noncommittal.
He started back toward his desk, thought better of it, then grabbed the bottle. He returned to his desk and set the crystal decanter down hard.
Emmaline rocked back on her heels. “Oh, dear.” A mischievous sparkle glinted in her eyes.
“What?” He pulled out his seat.
She lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. “The Gothic novels, the brandy, the growling.” He made to sit in the comfortable, familiar folds of his leather winged-back chair. “All indications are, brother, that you’re enamored of the young lady.”
Sebastian missed the edge of his seat. The glass tumbled to the floor in a spray of liquor. Pain radiated from the base of his spine up to his back.
His sister’s laugh drowned out his black curse. He was so glad she was finding humor in the whole bloody situation. All of it. Hermione Rogers. The Gothic novel. A ruminating brother. His now injured posterior.
“Sebastian?” Emmaline asked, coming to lean over him.
He thrust aside his confounded thoughts about Hermione and shoved himself to his feet. With a glower he retrieved his empty, but thankfully unbroken, glass. “If you’ve finished baiting me, I’ve business to see to.” Particularly trying to sort through his feelings for a spirited young miss. He yanked his handkerchief from the front of his jacket then wiped his hands free of brandy. A perfectly good waste of fine French spirits, which he desperately required in that moment. Sebastian found his seat—this time successfully—and grabbed the bottle. He filled his glass then took a swallow.
“Forgive me, Sebastian. I certainly didn’t mean to interrupt—” She crossed over to his desk and retrieved The Mad Marquess. “—your very serious, ducal business.” She waved the volume around.
“Are you quite done?” He took a much-needed sip of his drink, because he did not care to be an object of her amusement, or the ton’s gossip. He was quite content with the image he’d crafted as Duke of Mallen; in control of his life and not challenged or intrigued or captivated. His thoughts were his own. When everything else he’d done or ever been in his life had been for others.
He choked on his brandy. He was not captivated. Not of Hermione Rogers. Intrigued by her suspicious activities and appreciative of her unflinching honesty but not captivated. Captivated implied a good deal more.
He vaguely registered the noisy leather seat dipping under his sister’s slight weight. Emmaline set the book down in front of him. “Forgive me,” she said, this time her tone somber, devoid of her earlier teasing. “I gather it is…not easy for one such as you.”
Sebastian set his glass down. “One such as me?” He braced for a sisterly barrage of insults.
She shrugged “You’ve prided yourself on being in control.” A sad smile turned her lips up. “A large part of that comes in your having been born heir to a dukedom.” She winked. “Not that I’ve ever been impressed by your title. Quite silly to imagine a—”
“Em,” he said impatiently.
She shook her head. “Oh, er, right. Well, you pride yourself on the control you have of your life and your belief in the power you have over others.” A wistful smile stole across her face. “Only, what you still don’t realize, Sebastian, is you can’t control everything.”
Since his first meeting with Hermione, he didn’t really feel he could control anything.
Emmaline rested her palms on his desk. “When you urged me to end my betrothal to Drake, you’d been so very adamant, insistent there was someone better, someone more worthy of me.”
Even now Sebastian was quite confident the returned war hero of the Peninsula didn’t deserve Emmaline.
“You couldn’t understand then that for all the power that comes in being a duke, for everything you can control, you can’t command matters of the heart.”
He steepled his fingers and drummed the tips of them together. “I assure you, Em, I have a good deal more sense than to do anything as foolhardy as to fall in love with a young woman I’ve met but a handful of days ago.” His stomach tightened at the lie.
“Oh, Sebastian.” She gave her head a little shake. “You speak in that deprecating way about love.” She leaned forward in her seat. “You feign indifference so well, big brother, that most would believe it. However,” she gave him another smile that made her look once more like the small girl who’d made it a habit of dogging his every step. “I suspect you’re only beginning to realize that which you’d been so adamant of in terms of my marriage to Drake.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Oh, and what is that?” Part of him battled annoyance at his sister coming into his office, upsetting his calm, and throwing his well-ordered world into upheaval with her talk of Hermione.
“Love has a will of its own.” She rose in a flurry of skirts. “I’d like to meet your Miss Rogers.” She spun on her heel and marched toward the door.
“Em,” he said cautiously. The last thing he nee
ded or desired was his sister’s interference with Hermione.
“Oh, you’re such a ninnyhammer,” she called over her shoulder. She paused at the doorway. “Very well, I shall steer far and clear of the young lady because you insist upon it.”
He eyed her dubiously. As long as he’d known her, she’d never done anything simply because he’d insisted upon it. Ever.
She tapped a hand against her side and Sir Faithful sprung to all fours. He trotted over to her. “But if I should meet the young woman coincidentally, by pure chance…” she left those words to dangle.
“Em,” he called after her.
She slipped out of the room with a laugh and closed the door in her wake, her amusement muffled by the thick panel.
Sebastian stared after his sister, sipping his brandy. The long-case clock ticked off the passing moments. It was as Emmaline said: he was a gentleman who’d been schooled in the art of practicality. It had guided him through the years and prevented him from fortune-hunting, title-grasping ladies. It had seen the growth of his already plentiful coffers. His sister spoke disparagingly about control. Yet it was a good thing. An essential thing. And minxes, who sneaked about in a furtive manner, were not the sorts to value that very important characteristic.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and damned his sister’s very pointed, very deliberate visit that had forced him to consider…well, matters he’d really rather not consider. He’d far preferred his solitude and reading his copy of The Mad Marquess before she’d gone and shattered it.
Bloody, bloody hell.
C
hapter 12
“The Duke of Mallen. Visited my niece.”
Well, two days ago he had and but one visit. Hermione winced at her aunt Agatha’s excited tittering. Seated within the confines of the woman’s carriage she concentrated on the steady clip clop of the horses’ hooves to drown out her aunt’s endless prattling of the same seven words.
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love Page 12