Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love

by Christi Caldwell

  “The Duke of Mallen.”

  As a writer, Hermione had great appreciation for the manner in which words could be strung together to form a whole variety of different meanings. Ah, and then there was tone. The tone was of equal import.

  “The Duke of Mallen.” The shocked tone. “The. Duke of Mallen.” The proud tone. Her aunt did a quick study of Hermione. From the top of her head. “Visited my niece?” To the tips of her satin-slipper encased feet. Abject confusion. The abject confusion, Hermione decided was the most insulting of all. Her aunt shook her head. “I will never understand it.”

  Ah, the first words to deviate from those now over-used seven, somehow more insulting than any look she’d given her less than pretty niece.

  Hermione shrugged. “There really is nothing to understand. Nor is there more to his visit.” Furthermore, he’d not paid her a call since. She hoped because he was so engrossed reading her work but suspected otherwise. It was as she’d known with all the steady logic and reason that had driven her life—dukes did not wed impoverished young ladies one step away from societal ruin.

  Aunt Agatha snorted. “There is always more to a visit, Hermione. A gentleman does not call upon a respectable lady unless he’s seriously considering an offer.”

  Hermione tugged back the curtain and peered out at the dark London streets determined to ignore her aunt’s hopeful musings. The full moon cast a soft glow upon the cobbled roads.

  “And everyone knows he is the market for a wife. Why, he seriously courted Miss Sophie Winters last Season to no avail.”

  Hermione dropped the curtain and spun to face her aunt with such speed she wrenched the muscles along her neck. Her heart thudded painfully, but her aunt continued, unaware of her niece’s inner turmoil. Sebastian’s heart was spoken for? “Sophie Winters?” she asked, her tone wooden. Simply speaking the woman’s name aloud, caused a dull throb in her chest.

  Her aunt waved a gloved hand once again. “Now she’s the Countess of Waxham, though why any fool girl would choose a mere earl over a duke, I’ll never understand.”

  Hermione didn’t understand the Countess of Waxham’s decision either, but for entirely different reasons, reasons that had nothing to do with Sebastian’s title and everything to do with the aura of strength and bold self-assurance he possessed, his ability to laugh and tease. In a world where she’d grown accustomed to weak men, Sebastian evinced power and inspired confidence. She gripped the edge of her red velvet seat hating that it mattered that there was another woman and the only reason Sebastian was now unwed was because the lady had chosen another. The carriage hit a large bump and Hermione knocked against the side of the carriage walls. She grunted.

  Her aunt caught Hermione’s gaze, identifying she had a full audience. “There was some great scandal. The countess was discovered in a compromising position with the earl. Really no choice but to wed the gentleman. Now the duke is free.” She gave a terse nod.

  A pang of envy struck Hermione. To be free, as a duke. To not worry after one’s family, or the loss of servants, and the disrepair of your home. Particularly the portion of the ceiling in your chambers that dripped water whenever it rained—and rain it did in England. To make a match not with the salvation of your siblings at the forefront of your mind, but for no other reason than the will of one’s heart—

  “The duke is free,” her aunt said pulling her back to the moment. “And for whatever reason, he’s taken an interest in you.”

  She’d never make Aunt Agatha realize that one visit hardly constituted an offer of marriage.

  Her aunt held up a finger. “And this family must grasp these great moments in order to transform your situation around.”

  How very neatly the woman removed herself from the situations surrounding Hermione’s family. “You make me sound like Boney and his quest to conquer Europe.”

  Aunt Agatha pursed her lips. “I don’t believe you understand the implications of your family’s current circumstances.”

  “I am well aware, my lady.” Hermione bristled. She knew a good deal more than her father, sisters or brother combined and the knowing is what had driven her desperation to sell her stories. That, however, had merely been when poverty was the greatest tragedy faced. All that had shifted with Lord Cavendish’s vile act against Elizabeth…and the steady decline of Papa’s finances.

  The carriage rocked to a halt. Lord and Lady Smith’s pale pink townhouse bathed in the soft glow of candlelight was a good deal more appealing than the icy coldness of her aunt’s conveyance. Hermione didn’t wait for the servant but instead grasped for the handle, desperate and eager for a reprieve of her aunt’s needling.

  Aunt Agatha placed her hand over Hermione’s, effectively stilling her movements. “You would be so fortunate to have a duke as your husband.”

  Hermione opened her mouth. Then remembered Sebastian’s lips on hers, the hot, heavy strength of his hand upon her person, and she couldn’t manage another word, reliving the magic of that moment.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Hermione?”

  It wouldn’t do to point out that she’d ceased paying attention to her aunt’s prattling. “Er…”

  She gave Hermione a sly look. “The Duke of Mallen can be your salvation.” She dangled those eight words.

  “My salvation?” she repeated dumbly.

  Her aunt leaned across the carriage and rapped her on the knee. “Do pay attention. You’d make him a fine duchess.”

  No, she would make him a dreadful duchess. A duke, particularly one who sneered at Gothic novels would never tolerate a bluestocking wife who penned stories for coin under the rather unclever pseudonym Mr. Michael Michaelmas.

  The servant rapped on the door.

  “Just a moment,” her aunt snapped. She returned her attention to Hermione and spoke in hushed tones. “Let me be clear, Hermione, as you seem quite content with your own, individual circumstances.”

  Hermione bristled with the sharp insult. She’d placed each of her siblings’ own welfare before her own. She rather resented her aunt’s implication that she had acted with anything but complete and total selflessness.

  “Your brother will inherit a bankrupt baronetcy from your father. You’ve one sister who is a simpleton who by all rights should be removed from society.”

  She curled her hands into tight balls in her lap as rage coursed through her being at her aunt’s total disregard of Elizabeth. But then wasn’t that how Society viewed those like her sister? Best shut away from the rest of the world. Nausea churned in her belly.

  “Do attend me,” her aunt snapped. “Adeline will be ruined. What future will either of your siblings have?”

  Hermione tipped her chin up a notch. “All.” Perplexed lines creased her aunt’s brow. “You said either of my siblings,” Hermione clarified. “What you surely meant is all of my siblings. I’ve three.”

  Aunt Agatha slashed the air with a hand. “Marriage to the Duke of Mallen would erase all of this.”

  Hermione flattened her mouth in a single line. Nothing could erase this. At best, marriage to a powerful nobleman could muffle any whispers that should come of Elizabeth’s situation, but not erase them entirely. It could see Hugh at Eton… She tamped down the niggling thought and gave her head a little shake. “Aunt, I cannot force the duke to court me. I cannot somehow manage to have him pay further visits. I…”

  “Can force him to wed you.” With that pronouncement, her aunt shoved open the carriage door and climbed down past a gape-mouthed Hermione. Her aunt expected her to trap Sebastian into marriage. She would have Hermione ruin her reputation and steal her sense of self-worth…

  To protect your family. The dark thought sank its venomous teeth into hers and clung with a dogged tenacity. And in that moment, as she accepted the servant’s hand and allowed him to help her down from the carriage, Hermione hated herself for not thrusting Aunt Agatha’s vile proposition aside.

  Her aunt waited at the top of the steps and gave her an
impatient look.

  Hermione quickened her stride and at last pushed aside the dark seed planted by her grasping aunt. The butler threw the door open wide and they entered the luxuriant townhouse; another home with its Italian marble floors and crystal chandelier far grander than all the rooms in her home combined. She shrugged out of her cloak and a servant took the garment. Wordlessly, she trailed after her aunt to the noisy din of the crowded ballroom. The lively country reel, the stomping of slippered feet and merry laughter spilled out from the open ballroom doors. Hermione took in the flurry of activity about the room. She clenched and unclenched her hands at her side, resisting the urge to fold her arms protectively about her chest.

  “Will you stop fidgeting, Hermione,” her aunt snapped from the corner of her mouth as Lord and Lady Smith came to greet them.

  Hermione started. “Er, right.” She detested introductions, that excruciating moment when a servant bellowed your name out into a sea of curious glances and indolent expressions. However, being a wallflower certainly had its perks, as one didn’t tend to attract—

  “Miss Hermione Rogers.” The servant’s resounding voice echoed through the ballroom.

  Every pair of eyes in the room swung to Hermione. She swallowed hard. Not that she could speak in such absolutes; however, it certainly appeared as though every lord and lady present had their gazes trained upon her. She glanced around. Perhaps there was another Hermione Rogers.

  Her aunt dug her elbow into her side. “Pretty face, my dear,” she ordered between a tight-lipped smile.

  She sighed, taking a step forward. Alas, it would seem Society quite concurred with Aunt Agatha and a single visit from Sebastian constituted more—or at least, merited a further study from bored, indolent nobles. Hermione followed beside her aunt and her gaze did an involuntary search of the room, looking for the sole smiling person she’d encountered in her time moving about Polite Society.

  “I imagine this will increase your matchability among the other gentleman.”

  Hermione bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that matchability was not a word. After all, she supposed in a world where terms such as marriage match and Marriage Market existed, matchability was a completely plausible term for one to bandy about. She cast a longing glance to the neat line of black-painted Trafalgar chairs at the far corner of the room.

  Aunt Agatha tapped her with her fan. Hermione winced. “You’ve your first suitor,” she murmured. “Lord Bull missed you at Lady Denley’s.”

  Her heart sank at the corpulent gentleman with his familiar sweating brow. He ambled through the crowd. His wide belly knocked against the unfortunate lords and ladies who came too close to Lord Bull’s determined path. Hermione loosened the strings of her dance card. It fluttered to the floor in a whispery heap. “Oh, dear,” she muttered. She bent to retrieve the frequently empty card and discreetly tugged at the white lace trim of her gown.

  Riiiiiip.

  The satisfying sound of shredded fabric filled her with a giddy relief. She stood, just as Lord Bull made his way over. “Your niece, I take it,” he grunted without awaiting an introduction.

  Aunt Agatha smiled widely. “Indeed, Lord Bull. Allow me to present my niece, Miss Hermione Rogers.” She fixed a hard stare on Hermione. “Hermione, allow me to introduce you to Lord Bull.”

  Hermione dropped a curtsy. “How do you do, my lord?”

  He ignored her question, his gaze trained on her non-existent bosom. A frown marred his fat, fleshy lips no doubt he’d found her lacking. He moved his attention onward to her hips.

  She narrowed her gaze. It was not every day a gentleman bearing the name Lord Bull eyed her like she was some form of livestock whose worth he was assessing.

  “I’ll dance with her,” he muttered and reached for her card.

  Hermione drew her hand back and schooled her expression in one of great regret.

  “Hermione, give him your card,” her aunt snapped.

  She gestured to her torn skirts. “I would dearly love to dance, my lord,” she lied through her slightly crooked, white teeth. “However, I’m afraid one of Lady Smith’s guests quite shredded my hem.” She only felt a tad bit guilty for placing blame on some nameless guest.

  Her aunt snapped her eyebrows into a suspicious line. Hermione dipped another curtsy and hurried off.

  She imagined a lecherous old nobleman in the market for a young bride would make just the perfect villain for her affable duke story. She kept her gaze trained forward, resisting the urge to seek out a certain affable duke…if he was even in attendance.

  From his vantage point at the corner of the ballroom, alongside a massive Doric column, Sebastian had studied Miss Hermione Rogers’ every move since she’d entered Lady Smith’s ballroom and it was therefore how he knew she had torn her hem. He’d wager all his landholdings her efforts were a ploy to be free of Lord Bull.

  Sebastian gripped his glass hard. The blinding fury at the fiend’s attentions receded. He grinned over the rim of his champagne glass at Hermione’s resourcefulness in sidestepping loathsome Lord Bull’s ogling. Sebastian studied her with such intensity, he also knew she’d torn her hemline quite viciously and with clear deliberation to avoid the bastard’s lecherous grasp.

  Now, the young woman wound her way through the crowded ballroom. Her pretty blue-eyed stare darted periodically about the room as though she searched for someone. And the fool part of him wished he were the specific someone she sought. She stole through a doorway at the opposite corner of the room and disappeared down the hall. It appeared, however, she simply sought privacy to attend to her gown. Sebastian finished his champagne and set it on a servant’s tray.

  It really would be quite foolish to follow the young lady. Particularly with a sea of curious lords and ladies wondering as to his connection with Hermione. Not that there was a connection. There were a handful of chance meetings and one afternoon visit. And a kiss. And a Gothic novel by Mr. Michael Michaelmas.

  And a kiss.

  With a silent curse, Sebastian skirted the edge of the ballroom floor and moved past the waltzing couples. He walked toward the hall she’d disappeared down a short while ago and pressed ahead in foolish pursuit of Hermione…

  …and promptly collided with a tall, lithe figure exiting the hall. He steadied the familiar, endearing form.

  Hermione shrieked and pressed a hand to her chest. “Your Grace.” She scowled. “You startled me.”

  He rather preferred her treating him not as a duke but as she would any other man. Ultimately, despite Society’s view, he was more than a title. “Forgive me. That was not my intention.” His intention had been to follow after her and see where she’d gotten herself off to this time.

  Her black eyebrows met in a single line. “Were you sneaking on me, Your Grace?”

  A longing filled him to hear his name upon her lush, red lips once more and he damned the guests and the gossip and wished but they two remained.

  Concern flared in Hermione’s eyes. “Are you all right, Sebastian?”

  He jerked. “Er, fine.” He tugged at his lapels. “Quite fine.”

  She wrinkled her mouth in an endearing little manner. “You appear to be woolgathering.”

  Sebastian recoiled as her charge was so very similar to Waxham and his sister’s. “I do not woolgather, madam.” Except, since she’d entered his life he’d existed in a perpetual haze.

  She snorted. “Because you’re a duke?”

  “Because gentlemen do not woolgather.” He folded his arms at his chest. “Except for perhaps your mad marquess.”

  Surprise flared to life in her eyes. “You read it,” she blurted. The glimmer of excitement in her eyes and the slight parting of her lips held him entranced, so he was forced to amend his early protestation.

  It would seem he did woolgather. He gave his head a shake. “I’ve not finished it.” There were still a handful of pages he still must attend to.

  She sank back on her heels, the life seeming to go out of h
er. “Oh.”

  And, because she appeared so blasted dejected, he admitted the truth to this young lady, more a stranger than anything else. “Your Mr. Michael Michaelmas will never rival Aristotle or Chaucer.” He held a hand up when she opened her mouth, surely to deliver a stinging diatribe. “However, his work is quite…”

  Hermione leaned close. “Yes?” she prodded.

  “Enjoyable.”

  A pleased little smile turned her lips slowly up at the corners and he may as well have plucked the moon and stars from the sky for as radiant as she was at his admission. “Well, then,” she said. “You must keep it, Sebastian. A person always remembers their first.”

  He choked.

  “Oh, my!” Concern filled her face. “Are you all right?” She made to pat him on his back.

  He waved her off. “Quite, quite,” he said, his voice hoarse. But damn, if Hermione Rogers with that single statement hadn’t roused all manner of wicked thoughts, each one involving the young lady herself; his lips upon her breasts, his hand between her legs as he proved her correct—a person always remembered their first.

  Hermione moved her gaze to a point beyond his shoulder. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and troubled the flesh. He’d never envied a tooth—until this moment. It was a damned travesty for a damned tooth to know the pleasure of that lip when he himself should—

  He followed her gaze and frowned. Lord Bull shoved his cumbersome frame between guests, his lascivious stare trained on Hermione.

  She sighed. A single breath of air that somehow told so very much.

  His gut tightened. He far preferred Hermione smiling than this resigned creature before him. Sebastian reached for her dance card and scratched his name down.

  Hermione looked blankly at her card. “What are you—?”

  He extended his elbow. “Dance with me.”

  She looked once more to Lord Bull, nearly upon them and then placed her fingers upon his sleeve and allowed him to guide her to the dance floor as the orchestra struck up a waltz. He thought she might refuse if the cumbersome Bull wasn’t barreling down on them, and that honesty of her reaction caused a damned odd lightening in his chest.