Sebastian stood at the very end of the row. He leaned against the towering shelf, studying the tableau with Hermione’s siblings with a veiled expression. It would seem he had not left in order to see to his business at London Hospital. Why did he remain? Surely not for her fractious family?
She swallowed hard. “Your Grace.”
Sebastian took in the two wide-eyed children staring at him with varying degrees of mistrust and interest. What accounted for such wariness in such young children? He thought to his own childhood and back to when Emmaline had been a girl. They’d never borne a hint of the mistrust evident in this trio before him.
“Allow me to introduce you to my sister, Adeline Rogers,” Hermione said, clearing her throat. She touched her sister’s shoulder. “Addie, this is His Grace, the Duke of Mallen.”
The girl snorted. “You’re a duke.” She craned her head back and stared overly long at his hair and then her gaze did a slow, disapproving pass over his frame, landing at his toes. “You don’t look like much of a—”
“Addie!”
The girl fell into a curtsy. “Your Grace.” She mumbled a handful of unintelligible words that sounded a good deal like ‘not-much-of-a-duke.’
Sebastian shook his head, dispelling the foolish thought. “Miss Rogers, a pleasure.” He sketched a bow and then shifted his attention to the flushed elder sister. “Miss Rogers, I wondered if I might be of any assistance?”
She gave him a wry smile. “Unless you intend to take a birch rod to this one, then I imagine not.”
An indignant gasp escaped Hugh. A mottled flush stained the boy’s cheeks.
She settled her hand on his shoulder. “I’m merely kidding, Hugh,” Hermione said in a placating tone.
He shrugged it off. “It was not funny.”
“Hugh does not have a mature sense of humor,” the small girl with dark brown hair and sapphire-blue eyes explained.
The scowl thrown Sebastian’s way by that humorless little boy indicated no response was the safe response in this instance.
And when faced with the miserable bugger’s surly attitude, he did the only thing he knew in dealing with a child. “Allow me the pleasure of purchasing each of you a book, then?”
Addie clapped her hands. “Oh, splendid.” Excitement sparkled in her eyes.
Hermione shook her head once. “It wouldn’t be proper… I…we… couldn’t allow you to do that.”
Addie cried out. “Oh, Hermione you never allow us anything fun. You’re always so serious and…” Elder sister glared the girl into silence. Addie wrinkled her mouth. “Humph.”
For all the lessons drilled into him on responsibility, Sebastian had still been afforded great luxuries as the heir to a dukedom. Hermione’s family had not been so very fortunate. If she were his, he would fill a room with every book by her beloved Mr. Michael Michaelmas and not a single one of the classics if it would bring her to smile.
And because of the abject disappointment in the eyes of a girl who looked so very much like a miniature version of Hermione, Sebastian fished around the front of his jacket and pulled out a purse of coins. “I insist.” He tossed the small bag to Hugh who caught it with one hand.
Before Hermione could protest, the little girl let out a squeal, grabbed her brother by the arm and tugged him down the row and around the corner.
Hermione folded her arms across her chest. “You really shouldn’t have done that, Your Grace.” She tipped her chin back, her jaw set at a proud, mutinous angle. “I’ll not accept charity.”
Did she consider her family in need of help? Except, he recalled her family’s threadbare furnishings and the cracked paint. His gut tightened. He quite abhorred the idea of Hermione Rogers needing charity. He continued walking closer to her. “Am I to be ‘Your Grace’ now?”
She backed up a step. “It was always Your Grace.” She paused. “Is always, Your Grace,” she amended.
He took another step. She retreated. Her back thumped against the shelves. Sebastian continued walking. He stopped before her. With a veiled gaze, he took in her rapidly heaving chest, her slightly parted red lips, and a surge of desire coursed through him. Had he ever seen her as anything less than beautiful? “Do you know what I believe, Hermione?” He framed his elbows on either side of the shelf, effectively trapping her in the fold of his arms.
“Wh-what is th-that?” Her breathless stammer roused a primitive sense of male satisfaction as he reveled in her interest.
“You do seem very serious.”
“Do I?” she squeaked.
He touched a finger to the right corner of her lips. “You frown a good deal.” Too much. It was a travesty for the plump red flesh to ever be anything but turned up with a smile.
“Y-You shouldn’t touch… That is… Your actions are quite…o-our actions are rather…”
He lowered his lips close to hers so that a mere hairsbreadth separated them. “Improper?” he whispered. The sweet hint of honey filled his senses. He brushed his lips over hers in the faintest meeting. Her head fell back. “You waste a good deal of your words on proper, Hermione.”
She blinked several times. “I must,” she said softly. “Impropriety would mean my ruin.”
“And you imagine being ruined by a duke to be a singularly terrible fate?” he asked with a sardonic twist to his words. When any other lady would surely welcome the prospect of becoming his duchess, regardless of the circumstances landing her that enviable title, Hermione sought to avoid discovery. The lady rose further in his estimation.
She narrowed her cat-like eyes into little slits and then slipped down and under, escaping his hold. “Your words reek of arrogance, Your Grace. I’d not have a gentleman because he was forced to do right by me.”
“Then how would you have a gentleman?” Except, the unwitting question roused all manner of delicious images of the many ways in which he could have Hermione Rogers. In his bed. Legs spread. Astride him. Standing with her thighs anchored about him. He buried a groan.
“Well,” she trailed her fingers along the length of shelving, running them over the spines of several books. She plucked one from the shelf and fanned the pages. “I’d have a gentleman because he couldn’t live without me.”
Ah, of course, his Hermione Rogers, lover of Gothic novels, was a romantic. He schooled his expression. “And what else would you require of this esteemed gentleman?” He paused. “Other than stability.”
She frowned and ran a probing stare over him. “Would you mock me for my desire for some constancy in life?” Which suggested her life was unstable.
“No,” he said quietly. “I wish to know the gentleman you’d set your sights upon?” And then he’d spend the rest of his life hating the blighter for having the opportunity to have her in his bed. Legs spread. Astride him. Standing… He growled.
She closed the book and tucked it back onto the shelf. The peal of children’s laughter from somewhere within the store filled the quiet. “Well, he must have a love for not just his family, but my family as well.”
That was what she would require? Her second most concern about the man who’d take her to wife, was the gentleman’s devotion to her family? How many other women would desire baubles and trinkets and priceless gems? And every cynical thought he’d once carried of a woman’s grasping motives of an advantageous match, lifted when presented with this unique, selfless lady before him.
Addie and Hugh’s muted bickering from another row pierced his thoughts. He considered Hermione’s sense of responsibility, the almost motherly role she appeared to have assumed for her youngest siblings and felt a kindred connection to one whose responsibility was for the care of their family. He’d accepted that heavy mantle upon the passing of his father. Never so young though, as Hermione had been at the passing of her mother.
She deserved more.
Sebastian walked slowly toward her. “And what else, Hermione?” Part of him wanted her to be selfish and have a dream for more—for herself, because she, with th
e responsibility she’d taken on, deserved more.
“He must possess a keen wit.”
“I have been assured I’m quite clever,” he said automatically.
Her lips pulled at the corner. “No lady, gentleman, or servant would ever dare say otherwise.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have a care, Sebastian or I’ll believe you desire a spot upon my list.”
He stilled. Her words from any other woman would have been construed as calculating. Not from this woman, Hermione, who spoke and teased with a candidness he’d not known existed in the opposite sex.
Her shoulders shook with the force of her silent laughter. “You may be rest assured, Your Grace, there is no list. And if there was, I’d not place you at the top of that very important list.”
He imagined she merely intended to reassure him she didn’t have designs upon his title, and yet… A muscle ticked at the corner of his right eye as he considered the following: one, Hermione Rogers did not consider him worthy of a placement upon that very important list and… two, there were other gentlemen she would place there. If she had one.
He shot a hand out and wrapped it loosely about Hermione’s waist. A startled gasp escaped her as he drew her close. He brushed his knuckles along her jaw. “I imagine a woman who craves the romance to be found in a Gothic novel should require more from the gentlemen she places upon her very important list.”
“Are you making light of me?” She leaned into his caress.
By the very nature of their closeness, they danced with ruin and yet, he could no sooner set her away than he could lob off his own right arm. “I wouldn’t dare,” he whispered against her lips. He pulled her closer.
“You shouldn’t.” But she didn’t move away.
“Make light of you?” He dropped his brow to hers. “I’ve already assured you, I wouldn’t.”
A startled laugh escaped her. “No, I referred to…” He ran the pad of his thumb over her lip. “That.” Her lids fluttered wildly. “You shouldn’t do that.” She sucked in breath as though delving deep within herself for strength. To step away? To ask for his kiss? “It is dangerous for us to be this close. A-and you certainly shouldn’t touch me.” Nor did she draw away from him.
And he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted another. “Hermione, I am—”
She stuck her finger in his chest. “If you say you’re a duke and are permitted even these liberties, then I’ll clout you.”
A chuckle rumbled up from deep within his chest.
She sighed. “It is as I feared. You are one of those arrogant—”
“Though not stodgy.”
She nodded. “No, not stodgy, types.”
Sebastian claimed her lips.
“Hermione!” The girl Addie’s voice echoed from somewhere within the shop.
She jumped away, her skin waxen, and she glanced around frantically. “I shouldn’t…I—”
“Hermione,” he said quietly.
“I must go, Your Grace.” She squared her shoulders. “And you would do well to avoid me.” With that cryptic warning, she slipped out of his arms and all but flew down the row like a fey creature taking flight.
Except her warning only had the opposite effect as he was filled with an insatiable hungering for more of the spirited minx.
C
hapter 14
Sebastian paced back and forth in the empty office. The steady tick-tock of the long case clock grated on his nerves. He frowned. The longer he paced the familiar sapphire blue Aubusson carpet, the more the foolishness in this particular visit settled in.
Bloody hell. Where in hell was he? Sebastian had arrived nearly…He tugged his watch fob from his pocket and consulted the time. And frowned. Had it really only been ten minutes since he’d arrived? Footsteps sounded in the hall and he spun around, just as a once detested, now tolerated figure stepped through the door.
His brother-in-law, the Marquess of Drake narrowed his gaze and strode over to his wide, mahogany desk. He perched a hip on the edge and folded his arms almost expectantly.
Sebastian inclined his head and studied the man who’d been betrothed to Emmaline since she’d been a girl and Drake a mere boy. He’d spent years hating this very person for his ill treatment of Emmaline. The irony of this moment, coming here for help from that same man, was not lost on him.
Drake broke the silence. “I don’t presume you’ve called—” He glanced at the long case clock across the room. “—at this ungodly hour, to simply glower in that menacing fashion?”
“Not this time,” Sebastian mumbled. He quite detested the spell Hermione Rogers had cast upon him. She’d upended logic, reason, and order and made him—his lips pulled in a grimace—God forbid, do foolish things like read Gothic novels. He gestured to the sideboard, suddenly requiring liquid fortitude. “May I?”
“You do realize it’s but seven o’clock in the morning?”
Sebastian opted to take that question as permission and strode over to the sideboard. “Of course I know what time it is.” He frowned at the collection of port, sherry, and whiskey, in search of a good bottle of fine, French brandy. “Where the hell is your brandy, man?”
“I don’t drink the stuff.” Wry amusement underscored Drake’s response.
“Can’t trust a man who doesn’t drink brandy,” he muttered.
“And I say you can’t trust a man who does.” His brother-in-law’s lips tipped up in a crooked grin. “Very well, I see it’s your desire for good company that’s brought you by for a visit.”
Sebastian settled for the nearest bottle. “Hardly.” Rather, he required assistance from someone who could be the sole of discretion. Even with Sebastian’s previous dislike for the man, Lord Drake’s bravery in the Peninsular Wars had proven him to be honorable. He picked up a glass and splashed several fingerfuls of whiskey to the rim. He took a sip and grimaced. “Foul stuff.”
Drake sat back in his seat and studied him with a probing stare. Sebastian returned his attention to the contents of his glass. He swirled the amber depths. “Might I be correct in saying you didn’t care to wed my sister?”
The other man’s body jerked erect. His eyes became near-impenetrable slits. “Why don’t you say what it is you’ve come to say?” he ordered through tight lips.
He waved his glass. “I’m merely stating a matter of fact.”
Drake jerked his chin up. “A bit late to change the terms of the contract,” he said, his tone droll. “You had your opportunity to find her another. And you failed.”
Sebastian set his glass down and liquid droplets splashed over the side. He tugged at his cravat. He really was making quite a bumble of this whole meeting. Thick tension blanketed the room as shame filled him over the role he’d played in trying to thwart Drake’s courtship of Emmaline. He’d quite happily released Emmaline from the age-old betrothal contract and tried to orchestrate a union between Em and his closest friend, Waxham. “I did it because she was my sister,” he said, a touch of defensiveness in his words.
He’d have protected Emmaline from hurt at any cost. And she’d known no small amount of pain over Lord Drake’s indifference through the years. He slashed the air with a hand. “Regardless, I see my sister is happy.” Which was really all that mattered. “And that is not why I’ve come to call.”
“Then why have you—?”
“You were determined to avoid marriage to my sister. Why did you decide to make her an offer?” Silence met his question. A slow understanding glinted in the other man’s eyes. Sebastian tugged at his cravat once more. “There isn’t,” he said on a rush.
Drake’s lips twitched. “There isn’t… what?”
“A young lady I intend to offer for.” Eventually, he would have to make a match. The idea of settling down into the predictable life of a married gentleman hadn’t held much appeal—but then it hardly appealed to most gentlemen—until a certain Gothic novel-reading young lady.
“No gentleman cares to have his hand forced.”
His brother-in-law rolled his shoulders. “It took some time, nearly too much,” he added, “to realize bitterness in my circumstances prevented me from seeing that which I’d denied over the years.”
He rocked forward on the balls of his feet. “And what was that?”
“That I needed Emmaline, that I couldn’t live without her, even though you were indeed correct in that she deserved more.”
Sebastian picked up his half-empty drink. He took a long swallow and stared at the droplets clinging to the edge of the glass. Unlike Emmaline and Drake, whose families had been intimate friends through the years, and through that relationship the couple betrothed as children, Sebastian hardly knew Miss Hermione Rogers. Intrigue and interest was certainly not love. Nor did he believe himself so impractical as to fall in love with a young woman after a mere handful of meetings. And a kiss. And a waltz. And a near ravishment inside a bookshop…
Drake cleared his throat, pulling Sebastian back to the moment. “I take it there is, perhaps, at least a certain young lady to merit at the very least your questioning?”
He let his silence serve as his answer.
“I see,” Drake said in response.
Sebastian finished the contents of his whiskey. He set the empty glass down hard on the edge of Drake’s desk. “I hardly know her,” he said, hoping Drake, with his constant ribbing, would prod some practicality back into him.
His brother-in-law captured his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Does this mysterious lady have a name?”
“It matters not,” he replied automatically. As much as he trusted the other man’s discretion on the matter, his brother-in-law hardly required knowledge of the young lady’s identity. After all, if Drake knew then there was the likelihood Emmaline would know and though loyal, he’d rather not risk her mentioning the woman who’d captivated him, to the Countess of Waxham or his mother…
The other man spread his hands out. “Very well, then. If you’d rather not share any details of the—”
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love Page 15