Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love

by Christi Caldwell

  “She’s spirited,” he interrupted, because really there ought to be another person aside from the lady’s unappreciative brother and young sister who knew the lady’s worth. A rueful smile pulled at his lips as he remembered her shredding her hem to avoid Lord Bull’s attentions. “And quick-witted.” It was certainly hard to not admire such resourcefulness in a woman who knew unwaveringly what she wanted, and in last evening’s case—what she did not want. “And she seems singularly unimpressed with my dukedom,” he murmured, more to himself. The lure of that held a great appeal to a man oft-desired for his title alone.

  “Ah,” Drake said slowly. “There is certainly something to be said for a young woman interested in more than a title and wealth.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Though such things are hardly the grounds on which to base marriage.” Good God. Marriage. To a stranger? Yes, his father would be sitting behind his desk head in hands likely with a list of flawless, English ladies with impeccable lines. Only, she was no longer a stranger. She was Hermione, so very different than any other lady to come before her. Not mercenary or title-grasping, she was the first woman to see him and see…a man. Not the title. Or duke. Or gads of wealth. Simply Sebastian. A lightness filled his chest. By God, he loved her.

  His brother-in-law eyed him contemplatively. “If she’s a woman uninterested in the title of duchess,” he said in quiet tones. “Then there is certainly more to the young lady’s character than quick-witted.”

  “And spirited,” Sebastian replied automatically.

  She is bold. Humorous. Passionate. And more, he enjoyed being with her.

  Sebastian fixed his gaze on the other man’s desk. “Yes,” he said quietly. “You are correct.” However, he was not one of those foolish romantics. Not the sonnet-sprouting fellows, who’d do something as mortifying as to say, barge into an intimate dinner party and proceed to recount lines of a horribly crafted poem as Drake had done with Emmaline. Even as he’d held out for the hope of a marriage built on more than power and wealth, he’d silently resigned himself to the inevitability of wedding a lady who revered the title more than the man.

  Until a young lady had uttered, “You’re a duke,” in that disappointed little manner.

  Out the corner of his eye, a small black leather book caught his attention, the sweeping font of the gold lettering upon the cover familiar. He crossed over and picked up the book by Mr. Michael Michaelmas—The Earl’s Entrapment. An unwitting grin tugged at his lips in reminder of the lady’s outrage over his response to her reading selection. He turned it over in his hands.

  His brother-in-law gave him a sympathetic look. “I imagine your circumstances are a good deal more…er, serious if you’ve begun reading Gothic novels.” Then he grinned. “Gothic novels generally precede the offer of marriage.”

  The book tumbled from Sebastian’s fingers and fell damningly open at his feet. He bent and scooped it up. “I’m not…” He let the lie remain untold. With a sigh, he tossed Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work atop Drake’s desk.

  A grin tugged at the other man’s lips. “Well, if you are reading Gothic novels upon a young lady’s recommendation, I should give you fair warning it is indeed a sign there may be more than…” He gestured to Sebastian. “…than the nothing of which you insist.”

  And as much as he detested admitting his brother-in-law was correct in any matter, in that moment he was forced to concede it appeared as though Drake was, at least in that very important matter—correct. Sebastian scrubbed a hand over his face. “I imagine you find this of the utmost hilarity,” he muttered.

  Drake snorted. “Indeed, not. I’d not wish the tumult of sorting through one’s feelings for a young lady on anyone.” He grinned. “Even you.” Somberness replaced his earlier mirth. He held his palms up. “I expect the only way in which you’ll determine if this lady could be your duchess would be to court her.” He paused. “I believe I’d heard mention of a visit with a young lady?”

  Of course, the other man would be aware. Sebastian’s minx of a sister would certainly regale her husband with the words bandied about the scandal sheets as well as her recent visit and subsequent discovery of his latest reading pursuits.

  “It was but one visit,” he said at last. And a waltz. And a kiss. And a meeting in Lord Denley’s office. And his Christian name upon her lips. And an escort to a bookshop. He spun on his heel and started for the door.

  “I gather you have a visit planned this morning?” Drake called out, forcing him to stop.

  Sebastian turned back.

  The other man spread his arms wide. “It is my suggestion you at least manage to wait for a more, uh, fashionable hour to call.”

  Sebastian glanced at the clock and frowned. Yes, a visit at seven-thirty in the morning would earn considerable frowns…and further gossip. Furthermore, every woman but for the exception of his sister detested rising early and he suspected Hermione was not much different in that regard. “Thank you for receiving me at this early hour.”

  His brother-in-law inclined his head. “Mallen?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good luck.” Drake’s grin deepened. “I suspect you’re going to need it.”

  He turned for the door handle and froze once more. He shot a glance over his shoulder. “I was wrong, Drake,” he said.

  The other man folded his arms at his chest. “Oh?”

  “You have always been deserving of Em. It just took me a bit of time to realize that.” With a slight bow, Sebastian took his leave. After all, he had a visit to make. He pulled out his watch fob once more. Just as soon as time permitted. He frowned. Which meant he had several hours or so before he could pay Hermione a visit. At this ungodly hour there was not much a gentleman could do. With a purposeful step, he turned back on his heel and re-entered Drake’s office.

  The other man stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back. Sebastian opened his mouth. “It is on my desk,” Drake murmured, without taking his gaze from the London streets below.

  “Right, right,” Sebastian muttered and strode across the room. He swiped the copy of The Entrapped Earl from the other man’s desk. “It’s merely that I have…” No plausible explanation that would ever be a good one to account for his return for the scandalous work of Mr. Michael Michaelmas.

  Drake turned around and arched a sardonic eyebrow.

  Sebastian held the copy up. “Well, then, thank you for this. If you’ll excuse me?” With book in hand, he took his leave—again. His footsteps echoed through the long corridors of Emmaline and Drake’s townhouse. He moved with a military-like precision for the Italian marble foyer. The butler, a gentleman missing an arm, who’d served under Lord Drake in battle, held out his cloak. Sebastian shrugged into it with a murmured thank you.

  The laconic, stone-faced servant gave a terse nod and pulled the door open.

  The early morning sun glared through the entryway. Sebastian shielded his eyes a moment and squinted, attempting to adjust to the sudden brightness. A servant stood in wait with the reins of Sebastian’s mount. He paused on the stoop to tuck the small book in the front of his jacket then, bounded down the steps to accept the reins. He swung his leg over the black stallion then with his knees, nudged him forward.

  As he turned down North Row and rode through the empty streets, quiet resonated. With the ton’s members still abed, he contemplated his meeting with Drake. The other man was correct; there was little harm in courting Hermione and determining if she would be a suitable companion to him.

  His body heated in remembrance of her breathy moans as she’d arched and strained against him in a seeming attempt to meld her body to his. Yes, she’d be suitable; in the ways he’d have his duchess—courageous, bold, passionate, eager and unafraid of the marital bed. Sebastian kicked his horse onward, guiding him along Kensington Road to the entrance of Hyde Park, onward to a familiar riding trail. He guided Bolt to a halt. The enormous creature kicked up gravel and dirt as he drew to a stop. Sebastian dismounted and r
apped the reins loosely about an enormous Sweet Chestnut tree.

  Awareness radiated down his back and he stiffened. He squinted into the distance at the lone figure, seated atop a crisp white blanket, vivid on the splash of vibrant green grass at the edge of the riding trail. Even with the space between them, he recognized the thick, nearly black hair. His lips pulled. It would seem the young lady hadn’t the sense from their last exchange on this very path to avoid the riding trails.

  Sebastian patted his horse’s withers and studied her with the distance between them. For his awareness of her nearness, he may as well have been an inanimate part of the landscape. With the slight bend to her shoulders and her focus on something on her lap, she remained engrossed in whatever task occupied her attention.

  Which really begged to be discovered.

  With a final stroke of his horse’s sweat-dampened coat, he started in the lady’s direction. Except…with each step he took, all earlier amusement with her concentration faded to be replaced with annoyance at the unchaperoned young woman. Upon their first meeting at Hyde Park, she’d insisted she’d left her maid back at her carriage.

  Now, studying her as he did, it occurred to him—she went out sans chaperone. Didn’t she have sense enough to know a lady without a chaperone could encounter all manner of danger? He continued striding toward her. By her admission, there was no mother. He clenched his teeth. However, there was certainly a father. What manner of gentleman allowed his daughter to embark through London, even the fashionable parts, on her own?

  Sebastian paused just before the edge of her blanket. Hermione’s pencil flew wildly over the page, back and forth. Periodically she’d pause in her efforts and chew at the tip of the pencil in an endearing manner that hinted at her singular focus on her important task. His earlier annoyance faded and for the first time he celebrated her lack of chaperone, a luxury that allowed him another stolen moment with her, beyond the watchful eyes or judging eyes, or any eyes…but their own.

  He fished into the front of his jacket and withdrew Drake’s gift. He tossed it down onto the blanket before her.

  Her pencil froze mid-sentence and she stared at the copy of The Earl’s Entrapment while blinking in rapid succession. She picked it up and studied it.

  “Hello, Hermione.”

  Her lean frame went taut and she tipped her head back slowly until their eyes met. “Sebastian,” she said, her voice the same husky whisper he remembered from their kiss that roused forbidden images involving her luscious dark hair draped about them as a silken curtain. Then she snapped the journal in her hands closed, jerking him back from his desirous musings. She scrambled to her feet and folded her arms behind her back, shielding the book in her hands. “What are you doing here?”

  Going mad one blink of your thick, dark lashes at a time. He arched an eyebrow. “I suspect the better question, Miss Rogers, is what are you doing here?”

  Hermione’s fingers twitched reflexively about the journal in her hands. What was she doing here, he’d asked. She couldn’t very well say, “Oh, you see, I write Gothic novels and came here to draw up inspiration from our meeting for a story about an affable duke, who is, in fact, you.” She didn’t imagine that would ever be well received with the affable Duke of Mallen.

  “Hermione?”

  She jumped. “Er…”

  He took a step toward her, wrinkling the fabric of the modest white sheet she worked upon. A faint spring breeze carried the edge of the blanket and it danced in the early morning air. “Are you following me, Hermione?” His seductive whisper wrapped about her, more heady than her first taste of bubbling, French champagne.

  Heat splashed across her cheeks, which had nothing to do with his charge and everything to do with the thrill coursing through her at his body’s nearness. Except, on the heel of her body’s awareness was the dangerous idea dangled by Aunt Agatha two nights ago. “C-certainly not. I was here f-first,” she stammered. “I wouldn’t…” His slow grin deepened, wreaking havoc on her senses and driving away the unpleasant thoughts of her duplicitous aunt. “You’re making light of me.” She’d forgotten what it was like to smile and laugh. At their every meeting, Sebastian reminded her how.

  “Indeed I am.” He captured one of her tresses between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed the lock. “Are you always so serious?” This was not the first, or even the second time he’d leveled that charge.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Her lids fluttered closed. She hadn’t always been. There’d been a time when she’d been carefree and lively and recognized gentle teasing. Life tended to replace such sentiments with a harsh solemnity, though.

  “That is a shame. A young lady should wear an easy smile and not have the solemn look you so often wear.” His words drew her back to the reality of her situation, a cruel reminder of the duke’s part of just what drove a woman to become so solemn and more guarded with her smiles. He rubbed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. “I’d like to know the reason your lips turn down at the corners. Here,” he touched first one corner. “And here.” Then the next.

  The horrid truth that was her life hovered upon her lips so all she wanted to do was take the burden thrust upon her and pour it into his surely more capable hands. She trailed her tip of her tongue over her lips and his green eyes fixed upon the movement.

  “You’ve bewitched me,” he whispered. And there, in the early dawn hours in the lush, manicured grounds of Hyde Park, with the threat of discovery breathing about them, Sebastian claimed her lips.

  Hermione’s journal tumbled to the ground. Her note from Elizabeth tucked between its comforting pages went with it, as she twined her hands about his neck, and layered herself against him. He slanted his lips over hers, gentle and searching at first and then frenzied as he worked his hands down her hips. She moaned in protest as he pulled his lips from hers, but he only shifted attention to the wildly fluttering pulse at her neck.

  “Who are you Hermione Rogers?” he whispered against the frantic beating there. “And what have you done to me that I should forget myself here for anyone to see.”

  Her head fell back as he nipped at the sensitive skin of her neck. She groaned, and knew she should be shamed by the wanton sound, knew that she surely possessed the same wicked streak that had been the demise of too many young ladies’ reputations, but as Sebastian dipped his attention lower to the modest swell of her décolletage, she at last knew the question that had lingered as she wrote her stories of love.

  This was why women would sacrifice all; for this hot burning that threatened to set her entire body afire.

  “Hermione,” he groaned.

  And just that utterance, her name, managed to do what nothing else had, until that moment.

  Hermione jerked back. Her chest heaved with the force of her desire. She stumbled backward, a hand at her breast. She scanned the area with panicked eyes, as a sick terror filled her that she’d be discovered and ruined as surely as Elizabeth was. A duke might dally with a poor baronet’s daughter, but those lofty lords wedded impeccable young ladies, free of scandal, who’d bring a significant dower to already plentiful coffers.

  He eyed her through thick, hooded lashes more tempting than Apollo, god of light and sun. The wind tossed a thick golden strand over his brow. Her fingers twitched with the desire to brush it back. “You ask me who I am, yet the truth is I’m nothing more than a mere baronet’s daughter.” She waved a hand about, gesturing to the calm surface of the Serpentine and lush, manicured grounds. “But for now, I’ve never left my family’s country cottage in Surrey. I enjoy Gothic novels. I have siblings.” A knot twisted her insides over the deliberate truth she withheld. Dukes did not dance attendance upon ladies whose bloodlines included family members of simple nature. “That is all I am,” she finished, clasping her hands together.

  Sebastian remained frozen, studying her with an indecipherable expression. But for the morning call of the goldfinch and the soft breeze, silence met her pronouncement. She shifted under the
weight of his bold scrutiny. “I’ve known you but seven days, Hermione, and I know you enough to know there is so much more to you than that.” His gaze searched her face.

  Her throat worked under the force of her swallow. No one had seen much of her beyond the role of protector for her small, damaged and broken family. No one looked close enough to see anything more than the hopeful salvation of Hugh and Addie and Elizabeth—even Papa. She gathered up her book and blanket and held them close to her chest. “What you see in me, Your Grace, is nothing more, nothing less. I’m a young woman who,” she said with a jerk of her chin at the forgotten copy of The Earl’s Entrapment still at their feet, “enjoys reading Gothic novels. And if you’ll excuse me, I really must return home.”

  Before he could utter a protest, she spun on her heel and marched through the morning dew-dampened grounds back to her carriage, and the waiting servant she’d forced along at this early hour.

  She curled her toes into the soles of her slippers, resisting the insatiable urge to turn back around and return to Sebastian and his gentle teasing and his forbidden kiss. Nothing could ever come of anything between her and Sebastian…nothing that was honorable, anyway.

  C

  hapter 15

  A short carriage ride later, Hermione entered through the chipped and scraped door of the townhouse with her journal and blanket tucked under her arm.

  Addie stood in the foyer; hands planted on her hips. The black glare emanating from her sister’s eyes gave Hermione pause. “Where were you?” the young girl demanded.

  A little smile pulled at her lips. “Out, poppet.” She tweaked one of Addie’s curls. “What is the—?”

  “Without me?” her sister cried, the charge echoed off the walls, her tone as aggrieved as if Hermione had slain her favorite puppy. “You always take me with you when you write.”

  “Not always,” she said automatically. Most of the time. But not always.