For with Society as witness, Sebastian danced with a young lady—who saw him as more than a duke.
C
hapter 13
“Why must you force us to come along?” Hugh muttered, breathless from the quick clip Hermione demanded of him and Addie.
“Oh, do hush.” Addie pinched Hugh on the shoulder. “I’d rather accompany Hermione than be forced to visit with Aunt Agatha.”
Hermione slowed her determined stride and paused. Her sister careened into Hugh who pitched forward and righted himself. “Be careful,” he snapped.
A gentleman favored their little trio with a scowl and stepped around them, wisely continuing in the opposite direction.
She frowned at her sister. “Be polite, poppet. Aunt Agatha has been gracious enough to sponsor me for the Season.” Not that she particularly enjoyed the London Season. Quite the opposite, really.
“She’s rude,” Addie said with all the honesty of a child. “And I don’t like her. She called Elizabeth simple and told Papa she should be sent away,” Addie said on a rush when Hermione opened her mouth to scold her for her unkind words of Aunt Agatha.
Fury licked at Hermione’s insides. She was not naïve. She well knew Society’s views on men and women such as Elizabeth—a shameful secret for most families. Elizabeth was not a matter of shame. Hermione loved her with the same devotion she did Hugh and Addie.
“He probably doesn’t care enough about her anyway,” Hugh mumbled. He kicked at a small stone. The pebble caught some gentleman in his knee. “And he’ll probably do exactly as Aunt Agatha says, now.”
The dandy with purple satin breeches glared at Hugh and muttered something about guttersnipes.
She took Addie by the forearm and guided her away from passerby, to the front window of a bookshop. Hermione crooked her finger and Hugh reluctantly dragged himself over. “Listen to me, Hugh. Papa will not send Elizabeth away.”
Addie’s blue eyes formed wide circles. “He won’t?”
She folded her arms. “He would have to give me away first.” For all of Papa’s failings, she did not doubt his love for Elizabeth and knew he’d not ever do something as heartless as to send the young lady away from her family.
Hugh scratched at his dark brown locks. “Isn’t he trying to give you away?”
She tipped her head. “Giving me away?”
“To a husband.” His lips pulled in a grimace.
She tweaked his nose and he swatted at her hand, in clear annoyance of the motherly gesture. “He’s hoping I marry. He’s not giving me away, silly.” She tweaked his nose once more; this time to strictly bother him. “Now come, I’ve to see Mr. Werksman.”
Addie groaned. She yanked at Hermione’s hand. “Can’t we first go into the bookshop?” She stuck her finger out. Hermione followed the point to the lone little shop at the corner just across the street. Ye Olde Bookshoppe. “Surely you must have some sense of obligation to other authors. A commitment to reading and allowing your sisters and brother to—”
“Oh, very well.” Hermione laughed. She was not scheduled to meet with Mr. Werksman for at least thirty more minutes and Hugh and Addie did not have many opportunities to be away from the townhouse.
Addie clapped her hands excitedly and all but sprinted toward the bookshop.
The maid Winifred hurried after the girl, placing a staying hand on Addie’s shoulder to keep her from racing into the street. While Hermione and Hugh moved at a more sedate pace. “Hugh, Papa—”
“Do not defend him.” He glared at her. “I don’t need you to defend him. I know what he is.” He sprinted into the street.
“Hugh!” she cried as he stepped into the path of a fast-moving phaeton.
The world froze. The rumble of carriage wheels and the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves flooded her ears, drowned out all sound. And then a large hand shot around Hugh’s slender arm and jerked him back from certain, calamitous ruin.
The world resumed spinning. Hermione cried out and raced over. She ran her hands up and down Hugh’s arms. “Do not ever do something so foolish again,” she cried. She jabbed a finger into his chest alternating between a desire to throttle him senseless and hold him forever. “Do you hear me?” She threw her arms around him.
He shoved against her. “Stop,” he mumbled against the fabric of her chest.
And then, as he jerked away from her arms, she blinked, registering the appearance of Hugh’s sudden and unexpected savior. “You,” she blurted.
Sebastian stood impossibly elegant in his black cloak and a wry smile on his face. “Generally, a ‘thank you for your intervention’ would be suitable, but I shall settle for a mere ‘Hello, Seba…’” His gaze drifted over to Hugh. “Your Grace,” he amended for the benefit of the boy’s ears.
Except Hugh, with his knowledge of Lord Cavendish’s crimes against Elizabeth, was far too world weary to not detect that infinitesimal pause and slight correction. He narrowed his eyes into thin slits and placed himself between Hermione and Sebastian.
Hermione dropped a curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said on a rush. “I am eternally grateful for your timely appearance.” Even if Hugh appeared anything less than pleased in that moment. She cleared her throat. “This is my brother, Hugh Rogers.” She nudged him with her elbow when he remained silent.
“Er, right, a pleasure, Your Grace.”
The ghost of a smile played upon Sebastian’s lips at the insolent emphasis on that one particular word.
“If you’ll excuse us. We need to be going,” Hugh mumbled and tugged at her hand, all of a sudden seeming to possess a good deal of enthusiasm to visit the bookshop across the street.
Hermione placed a hand upon his shoulder, staying his movements. She gave him a pointed frown. She understood his reservations, but still she’d not have Sebastian think her family bore a total lack of decorum. Except, as they stood amid the bustling street with carriages rumbling by, Hermione found herself without a single thought in her head. She peeked up at the cloudless blue sky. She supposed she could speak on the weather. At least, that is what Aunt Agatha would have urged. Then, even in light of her desperation she couldn’t bring herself to be that hopeless as to forsake meaningful discourse for something as trite and trivial as—
Hugh jabbed her in the side.
“Lovely weather we’re enjoying,” Hermione blurted. Desperate times and all that.
Sebastian inclined his head. “Indeed, it is,” he said, without any hint of emotion in those three words.
“Now can we leave?” Hugh grumbled.
They really should. She sighed. Sebastian extended his arm. She cocked her head, studying the offering, really not quite able to make sense as to why Sebastian, the 5th Duke of Mallen, now stood with his arm held out—toward her.
“May I accompany you to…?”
“The bookshop,” she supplied. She gestured across the street to the modest structure with the tilted wooden sign above the entrance. “That would be lovely.” And it would. For reasons that had everything to do with additional research for Mr. Werksman’s brooding duke novel.
Liar. She placed her fingers along his coat sleeves. Even with the fabric between them, a thrill of awareness coursed through her, warming her fingers, and spreading throughout her belly.
Hugh stepped in front of them. “We do not require assistance.” He folded his arms. “I’ll escort my sister and you can continue on with…” He narrowed his eyes. “And furthermore, what are you doing here? Are you following my sister?”
Her fingers tightened reflexively about Sebastian’s arm. “Hugh,” she ordered sharply. Since he’d learned of Cavendish’s ill-treatment of Elizabeth he’d become an angry, bitter, too-old-for-his-years boy.
Sebastian shook his head. He looked on at Hugh with a solemn expression on his harshly beautiful face. “You are a devoted brother.” He cast a sideways glance at Hermione. “I daresay you shouldn’t reprimand him for being protective of his sister’s reputation.”
Hugh puffed his chest out and a flicker of pride and a fleeting moment of respect replaced his earlier fury with Sebastian’s presence. But then the look faded. “You didn’t answer my question, Duke.”
Hermione groaned. She would kill him. Horribly and quite gladly.
The faintest flicker of amusement flared in Sebastian’s eyes. “I am a board member at London Hospital, which is…” He flicked his finger toward the end of the street. “…on this same street, and I’ve a meeting to attend.”
The boy grunted a rather noncommittal response.
Hermione’s limited experience with the nobility had proven those capricious lords and ladies self-indulgent, indolent creatures. They didn’t serve on boards of hospitals; they didn’t rescue boys from being trampled by a reckless phaeton. And yet, this one did. Her heart fluttered.
Hugh jerked his chin toward the bookshop. “I suppose you may escort us.” This time, he took care to look across the bustling cobbled road before stepping out.
Hermione and Sebastian trailed behind at a more sedate pace. “I am so sorry,” she said breaking the silence. “For Hugh. I’m afraid he’s becoming increasingly difficult.” A vast understatement. “Since my mother died.” And my father ceased being a good parent. She withheld that last personal piece, unwilling to let Sebastian into the world of her father’s failings. They picked their way across the street.
“How long has your mother been gone?” The quietly spoken question was nearly lost to the noisy, London street.
She stole a glance up at him. “Six years. He’s not been the same since.” None of her family had. She stared at Hugh’s small shoulders. As though he knew they now spoke of him, her brother threw a glance over his shoulder and scowled.
Sebastian gently squeezed her arm. The heat of his touch burned her skin. She paused and looked expectantly up at him. “I am so sorry for your loss,” he spoke in the hushed somber tones of one who also had known loss.
“It is all right,” she said softly. “It was a long time ago.” Except the pain of Mama’s loss, a woman who’d acted out stories with Papa for the pleasure of her children, and whose singing voice could rival a nightingale, would forever remain.
She made to start walking onward once more, but Sebastian stepped in front of her, halting her path. They stood on the edge of the cobbled road among the calls of vendors hawking their wares. The rich green of his eyes a deep jade, the glint within the dark irises more somber than she ever remembered of the genial duke. “The loss of a parent is one that always remains, though, doesn’t it, Hermione? Yes, we carry on as we once did, and smile and laugh, and move about our goings on, but the memory of that loss will always remain.”
She swallowed past the swell of emotion in her throat. He spoke as one who also knew loss. “Who—?”
“My father,” he supplied, correctly surmising the question upon her lips. He nodded to where Hugh stood outside the bookshop. He’d stuck his leg out and tapped his foot in an agitated manner. “I imagine the loss of a parent when one is just a child transforms a person,” he murmured. “Hugh loves you.”
She caught the inside flesh of her lower lip. It didn’t always seem that way. “He’s quite miserable most of the time.” All the time.
“I remember myself as a boy Hugh’s age.” Sebastian snorted. “He’s not different than most children. Boastful. Proud. Obstinate.”
Odd, she’d never imagined a duke did something as plebeian as snort. She tipped her head.
A loose blond strand of hair tumbled over his eye, giving him an almost boyish look. Her fingers ached with a need to push back the tendril, to feel the silken texture of hair far too glorious to belong to a man who already possessed everything under God’s golden sun. And she who’d always prided herself on being the clear-headed, logical member of the Rogers family found herself captivated by a man who belonged more in the pages of one of her books. She swallowed.
His brow furrowed. “What is it?”
Her gaze flitted over to her brother. “Hugh is growing impatient.” She stepped around him and hurried ahead. Sebastian’s long legs easily caught up with the slight distance she’d placed between them.
They reached the front of the shop and Hugh growled. “Finally. I imagined you intended to stand outside making calf-eyes at the duke all day.” He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him.
Hermione choked as embarrassment churned inside her belly. “I…wasn’t making calf-eyes at you,” she said on a rush.
The duke’s lips twitched.
“I wouldn’t,” she continued, a defensive note threaded those words. “I’m certainly not the kind of young lady who—”
“Would make calf-eyes at me. I understand.” He motioned behind her. “I am more than willing to allow you to continue and debate the point, if you feel inclined—?”
She shook her head hard. She most certainly did not feel inclined. The only inclination she had in this precise moment was throttling her brother. She stared at the door Hugh had just disappeared behind. “He’s becoming increasingly difficult,” she muttered.
“Is he?” Humor tinged his question.
She started, not realizing she’d spoken aloud. “Forgive me,” she said on a rush.
He ran his gaze over her face. “There is nothing to forgive.” His intense emerald eyes lingered on her lips and for one slight moment borne of madness, she imagined he might kiss her. The familiar warmth whenever he was near blazed to life, threatening to consume her. And shamefully, she wanted his kiss and would gladly take it, here amid the busy London streets in front of God and everyone, just to know the pleasure of—
“Are you all right, Miss Rogers?” Sebastian doffed his elegant black hat then beat it against his thigh.
She jumped and a different fire flared, this one in the form of a mortified blush that climbed up her neck. “Er—uh—yes,” she lied and hated that he should be so unaffected when her body trembled with awareness of him. She yanked the door open and set a tiny bell ajingle.
The comforting smells of leather and dusty old books filled her senses. She inhaled deep and drew the familiar scent in, hoping for a steadying effect, one to overtake the hint of sandalwood and mint that clung to Sebastian. She sighed. Alas, sandalwood and mint lingered more potent than the headiest aphrodisiac. It was now in her soul, forever imprinted into her consciousness.
An older man with a shock of white hair came rushing forward. “Welcome, welcome, miss. May I be of any—?” He winced at a loud thump from the back of his shop, followed by a series of shouts and shrieks.
Hermione gave him a remorseful smile. “No, I don’t require help.” Rather, she could supply it. She glanced up at Sebastian as the responsibility that went with being the last dependable person in her siblings’ life reared its head once again. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace. Thank you for the escort. I imagine you have a good deal more important business to attend.” With a final curtsy she raced toward the familiar quarreling voices, selfishly wishing just once she could be the carefree miss accompanied by the charming duke.
She marched toward the raised voices and peered down one long row of towering books. Then continued walking. She peeked down another row.
Winifred, wedged between brother and sister, sent a desperate glance toward the end of the row in Hermione’s direction.
“It is not silly, Hugh Rogers! Give it back this instant!”
Hugh held a single book above his head, out of Addie’s reach. Hermione raced down the row. “Hugh,” she called out sharply. The book tumbled from his fingers and landed with at thump on the wood floor. Hermione drew to a stop beside the opened book, with a now bruised spine. She planted her hands on her hips.
“I’m so sorry, miss,” the maid, said on a rush. “I—”
“This is certainly not your fault,” she interrupted. “I’ll speak to them.”
Winifred bowed her head and hurried off and in fairness to the young maid, Hermione could certainly identify with that
much needed reprieve from the constant quarreling between the youngest Rogers siblings. Hermione looked back and forth between the two, and then settled her gaze on Hugh. He stared sheepishly back at her.
Addie bent and retrieved the injured book then cradled it close to her chest like a pup she’d just rescued from the street. She jabbed a finger at Hugh. “He said I couldn’t have it.” Her lower lip quivered.
“I told her it was too costly and we certainly couldn’t be wasting funds on her silly—” He ducked his head at the matching frowns trained on him by his sisters. “On her book,” he wisely amended.
“I want it, Hermione, and I don’t believe I ask for much.”
Addie was correct—she didn’t ask for much. Neither did Hugh or Elizabeth, for that matter. Guilt tugged as Hermione wished their circumstances were different, wished she could spend the coin on the prized book.
“So may I have it?”
“Let me see it, poppet.”
Addie held out the book.
Hermione took the black leather volume. The desire to purchase the expensive gift and feed her sister’s love of the written word warred with practicality for their family’s circumstances. The cost of the book alone would be all of Partridge’s wages for an entire month.
“See?” Hugh exclaimed triumphantly. “I told her—”
“Quiet,” Hermione ordered her brother, her gaze on the costly, leather copy of A Legend of Montrose. How very wrong to dedicate your life to writing books and be unable to afford a single volume of another author’s great work. With pained reluctance she handed it back. “Not today, Addie.” Likely, never.
Stricken by Hermione’s frugality, Addie cried, “But…” Her words ended on a gasp. She widened her eyes. “What does he want?”
Hugh growled. “Yes. What does he want?” He trained an angry glare beyond her shoulder.
Hermione stiffened and a thrill of awareness raced along her back. As her body attuned to the nuances of his every movement, she knew Sebastian was there as surely as she knew her name was Hermione Rogers. Breath caught in anticipation, she turned slowly around.
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love Page 14