He made to step around her.
And she registered the maids darting about her room, carrying items from her armoire to her trunk. Her lone, tattered trunk. She wrinkled her brow. “Are we going somewhere?” He’d not said anything of the like. Nor had she imagined he’d be eager to go on honeymoon with the woman who’d forced him into marriage.
“Leave.” For a moment she thought he spoke to her. But the harsh, guttural command sent the three young maids scurrying toward the door. They slipped around Sebastian and Hermione stepped out of the way, permitting them their well-deserved exit. They closed the door behind them, filing past her with a pitying look. She detested the pitying looks.
Hermione frowned. “That really wasn’t well done of you. Scaring the maids.” She gave a toss of her nonexistent curls. “And I asked where we were going, Sebastian.” She really wished there was at least a hint interesting with her dull, dark locks.
He stepped around her. “We are not going anywhere, madam.”
She placed herself between him and the door handle. She would have to be deafer than the village vicar’s eighty-something-year-old wife to not hear the slight emphasis on that particular word.
“Very well, are you going somewhere, Your Grace?”
“You are, madam.”
She tipped her head. “I am what?”
“Leaving.” His tone crisp, terse, and all so very ducal. “You are leaving,” he bit out.
She pursed her lips feeding the indignation at his packing her up and sending her off like some wayward child; sentiments that protected her from the pain of his coldness. Hermione shook her head, slowly. The faint movement rattled the door at her back. “No.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “You are.”
“No.” She shook her head again. “I am not.” With determined steps she marched over to the opened trunk at the foot of her bed and proceeded to pull out the items already packed. She expected him to leave.
Instead, he folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned against the closed door, studying her with that aloof, distant expression in his green eyes.
Hermione hated the dreadful ache in her heart at how very desperate he was to be free of her. She carried another blasted yellow dress over to the armoire and stuffed it inside. The cheery fabric was a mockery of this hell of her own making. All the while, Sebastian’s gaze threatened to burn a hole into her back. She returned for another gown. She could not really blame him for his anger, considering she’d gone and trapped him, but surely something, anything to come before that shameful moment in her life had meant something to him.
Yet, her feelings for him aside, she could not allow him to pack her off, forcing her to leave behind her siblings for…for… Well, wherever it was one sent an unwanted wife.
“Hermione,” he said, his tone harsh. “You are going to Leeds.”
So, it would seem it was Leeds where those unwanted wives were sent off to. She jumped and turned to face him. His expression remained an inscrutable mask that bore no traces of the warmth she’d once known in him. She sucked in a steadying breath. “I understand you are displeased with me,” she began. But she’d not be packed away and scuttled off with no control, no say over her own fate.
He snorted. Which was a good deal more encouraging than the black glowers and scathing glances he’d shot her way since their very public discovery at Lady Brookfield’s ball.
“However, I’d rather not leave,” she finished. And more, she had no intention of leaving.
He shoved away from the door jamb and stalked toward her. She gulped. Now she knew how that poor mouse set free inside the lion’s cage had felt at the Bullock’s Museum menagerie. Hermione took a step backward. He continued advancing with a military-like precision to his steps. She retreated. The backs of her knees met the side of the bed and she stumbled into a sitting position.
He stopped and passed a look, teeming with loathing up and down her person. “You’ve what you desired all along, Hermione,” his words, his every action scraping along her heart. “You’ve your grand title of duchess.” Which she didn’t give a jot about. “And enough wealth to pay for whatever French fabrics your heart should desire.” Did he truly believe one dressed in yellow taffeta ruffles, with such an ill-begotten fashion sense would trap a duke for a love of fine fabrics? “The country estate in Leeds will be yours.”
Her heart cracked. She didn’t want his country estate in Leeds. Not unless he intended to share that home with her. She shook her head. “No.” She didn’t crave a single material possession from him. She wanted him. And in one moment of weakness, she’d selfishly tossed aside any hope of them, for the protection of his name. “What an utter waste,” she whispered to herself.
His eyebrows dipped. “What was that, madam?” A hard, silken edge lined his words.
“Er, that is, no thank you.” Though she was astute enough to know his displeasure had nothing to do with her apparent lack of gratefulness at his generous offer. “I’m very much content here.” She glanced around at the rumpled sheets of her coverlet and colored. “Er…well not here, precisely.”
A muscle ticked at the right corner of his lip. His stony silence more disconcerting than his icy words.
“But here,” she clarified, desperate to fill the quiet with even her empty words. “In your townhouse.”
He said nothing for so long she shifted on her feet, the pit in her stomach growing with each passing moment. Then, he closed the remaining distance between them. “The operative word, madam, being my.” A hard smile, devoid of all warmth turned his lips.
She’d wronged him and would forever regret robbing him of choice, but she would not be bullied by him. Hermione ticked her chin up a notch. “Your.”
He cocked his head, a question reflected in his eyes, replacing his earlier fury.
“You said the operative word being ‘my’, when, I’d actually said—”
He kissed her.
He’d kissed her with the sole intention of silencing her. Only now with her back arched at an impossible angle and her head tipped up to receive his kiss, he forgot the whole silencing business and remembered the feel of her. The taste of her. And, he who’d sworn to never give her anything after everything she’d taken and pledged to leave her as virginal as the day she’d come to him found the taunting convenience of the wide four-poster bed and her the greatest temptation of all others.
He gentled his kiss then slid his tongue inside, swallowing her moan. Sebastian scooped an arm about her waist and edged her deeper into the center of the bed, never breaking contact with her mouth. She fisted her hands in his hair, as if she wanted to hold him in place and never let go. And he was content to let her hold him there forever. He worked his hands down her body, cupping the gentle swell of her breasts and through the fabric of her hideous yellow gown, flicked a nipple to life.
A gasping cry escaped Hermione as her head fell back. His breathing came harsh and fast as he continued to explore her body as he’d longed to since Lord Denley’s office. She stiffened when he lifted her skirts, but the haze of desire in her eyes and the slightly panting breaths she emitted spoke of her willingness.
He leaned down and caressed her lean calves; legs made for riding. “What hold do you have on me?” he whispered, his tone harsh with fury, desire, pain.
She stroked his cheek. “Until this moment, I didn’t know I had any.” Regret tinged her words and with them, reality crept in; the moment of her deception that had led to this moment.
He forcibly thrust it aside. There would be time enough for regret and fury the remainder of their lives. For now, there was at least this that was good between them. “I want you, Hermione.” He’d wanted her since she scribbled those mysterious words upon her dance card in Lord Denley’s ballroom.
The muscles of her long, graceful neck moved. “I lo—” He claimed her mouth, drowning out one more lie, even as he ached for her declaration to be real in every way. She twisted her fingers in his
hair, her tongue boldly meeting his in a thrust and parry, and then he drew back.
Ignoring her incoherent protestations, Sebastian angled her leg upward. He tugged off her stockings and then raised her calf close to his mouth. “I thought you didn’t want to share my bed.” He worshiped her silken skin with his lips as he’d longed to since there’d still been propriety and kidskin gloves between them.
“I lied.” The admission tumbled hoarse and desperate from her lips.
He froze at the mocking reminder of every other lie she’d told. She stiffened. Did she realize the implications of those words? Unwilling to let the ugliness surrounding their hasty marriage interfere at least in this moment, he guided her up and worked loose the long row of buttons. “I hate this gown,” he muttered.
She nodded jerkily. “I-I d-do, too.”
They spoke simultaneously. “Too many goddamn buttons.”
“Too yellow.”
Sebastian wrenched the back of her dress. It gave a satisfying tear and sent small pearl buttons spraying the floor. He lifted it over her head and tossed it aside. “I assure you, madam, my loathing for this gown has nothing to do with the color.” Her chemise followed.
“A-are you c-certain?” A breathy gasp escaped her as he drew her chemise off. It landed in a soft whoosh upon the floor. “Because…”
He kissed her into silence. “I’m certain,” he said against her mouth, his voice hoarse with a desire he’d carried for too long. He worked a hand between their bodies and brushed the downy thatch of dark brown curls that concealed her center. Her body’s heat scorched him. It threatened to set him ablaze and he would be content to die by fire just for the pleasure of knowing her warmth.
“O-oh, dear.” Thick brown lashes swept down, concealing the sapphire irises of her eyes. He slipped a finger inside and she bucked against him. “Sebastian,” she rasped.
He continued to work her, to stroke her, until she writhed wildly beneath him, incoherent in her desire. Then he stopped and drew back, needing to feel her body against his without the sinful barrier of clothing between them.
She clenched the fabric of his jacket, pulling him, attempting to drag him close once more. Sebastian shrugged out of his jacket. He tossed it to the floor, and then yanked his shirt over his head. It joined the rapidly growing pile of clothing at the foot of the bed.
Hermione edged herself up onto her elbows. She demonstrated the same bold curiosity she did for life, studying his methodical efforts as he pulled off his boots, and then he divested himself of his breeches. She widened her eyes. “Oh, my.”
Pride swelled and a primitive growl rumbled from deep within his chest at her appreciation of his form. He slowly lowered himself above her. He braced himself upon his elbows, framing her in the shelter of his arms. He found the sensitive point where her neck met her ear, worshiping it with his lips. “Never have I wanted another the way I want you,” he whispered against her lips.
Hermione moaned and folded her arms about him. She scraped her fingers lightly over the span of his back. “And I you.” Her words ended on a moan, as he drew her lobe into his ear and sucked. “Th-that i-is…” Another cry as he lowered his mouth to her breast. “Wh-what I m-meant is that…” He blew air softly onto the puckered tip of her flesh. “I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”
He froze, his gaze locked upon her flushed skin, pink from his attention as she once more sucked him into her web of deception. His jaw tightened as he remembered just what she’d wanted of him.
She stared at him through thick, sooty lashes. “Sebastian?”
“Everything before this might have been a lie, Hermione, but this is real.” He moved his gaze over her face, both loving her and hating her all at the same time. “This is the most honest, real thing between us.” He inserted a knee between her thighs and settled himself between her legs. Sweat dotted his brow as he positioned himself against her center. Ah, he’d longed for this moment and hated he still craved her as he did. His shaft leapt in anticipation as he brushed the soft curls.
She dusted her knuckles along his jaw. “Not everything was a lie.” His heart filled with a desperate desire to believe the lies on her lips. “Part of it,” she whispered, shattering the fledgling hope he still carried. “But never how I felt about you, and—”
He’d not ruin this moment with the lies between them. “Hermione?” He reached between them and his fingers found her nub, eager and wet for him. She gasped.
“Yes, Sebastian?” she asked on a pleading moan.
With each breathless exhalation or word uttered, she drew him deeper and deeper into her snare. “Stop talking.”
She arched her hips in a primitive dance. “Th-that is h-horribly r-rude of you.” She let forth a keening cry.
“Stop talking, please,” he said hoarsely. For he feared if she didn’t, he’d never shake free of her hold. He rocked against the entrance of her womanhood and a groan rumbled up from his chest. His shaft throbbed with an exquisite ache at the scorching heat of her.
“V-very w-well,” she said, the most cooperative she’d been in the entire ten days he’d known her.
He stilled, running his gaze over her heated, arching body. Had it been but ten days? In ten days she’d upended his world, robbed him of his heart… A hiss escaped him under the weight of that revelation. Ah, God, he still loved her. Loved the woman he’d imagined her to be and now he merely made love to an empty shell of a dream he’d once carried in his heart.
“Sebastian?” The question emerged halting and tentative when Hermione was never anything but unabashedly bold.
He shook his head, concentrating on the pleasure he now knew in her arms, more pleasure than he’d ever known with any other woman. Reality could intrude its ugly head when their hearts no longer raced in time to the same frantic rhythm. For now, he knew nothing more than a hungering to claim her—at least in this primitive way of man. Sebastian slid himself inside her with an excruciating slowness. With a moan, her legs fell open, as she widened herself to his exploration. He paused when his shaft reached the thin barrier that marked her innocence. Beads of moisture formed on his brow from the exertion of holding back when all he wanted to do was thrust hard and fast into her hot, wet center.
Her lids fluttered open. “Make love to me.” She caressed his cheek. “I love you, Sebastian,” she whispered.
Her words, even as they were a lie, filled him with a hungering to claim her in every way. There would be time enough for reality later.
“Forgive me,” he groaned and with a flex of his hips, he thrust inside, shattering the thin barrier that had divided them. A spasm of pain contorted her face. Her cry was a silent one and all the more agonizing for it. He stroked his palms along the edge of her jaw. “Forgive me,” he repeated, the effort of not moving freely and laying full and total claim to her body the greatest chore he’d ever been tasked.
She scrunched up her mouth. “Th-this r-really isn’t a-any longer all th-that pleas…” Her words ended on a hiss as he began to slowly move inside her.
He claimed her lips in a quick kiss. “Isn’t all that what, love?” he asked, pumping his shaft in deep, languid strokes.
“Oh, dear, this is q-quite…” She arched her hips and met his increasing rhythm. The most delicious duel of two lovers. She flung her arms wide and grappled with the coverlet, fisting the fabric. Sebastian groaned, increasing his speed. Thrusting deeper. Harder. Faster. Then she stiffened. Her body trembled and her scream echoed off the walls as she slipped over the precipice. “I love you.”
Her words plunged him over the edge and he joined her amidst an explosion of white light. “Hermione,” he shouted, his voice hoarse, and then he collapsed atop her, spent, his heart racing.
She trailed her fingers up and down his back in a slow, soothing movement that forced his eyes closed.
He rolled off her and took in the gentle sheen of sweat that set her skin aglow. The pleased little smile upon her lips. His gut clenched as he acknowle
dged that for her betrayal…he still wanted her. Wanted to believe her words of love, wanted more than just the pleasure of her body. He closed his eyes.
What a bloody fool, I am.
A moment ago, he’d imagined there was no greater chore he’d undertaken than tempering his desire when all he’d wanted to do was thrust hard and fast inside his wife’s tight heat. He spared one more glance for his new bride. He’d been wrong. About so much where she was concerned.
Sebastian swung a leg over the edge of the bed and the mattress dipped with the shift of his weight. With swift, jerky moments, he stood and collected his garments. He pulled on first his shirt and then swiped his breeches off the floor. All the while he dressed, his wife studied him. Hermione caught his gaze and then quickly drew the sheet up, covering her naked body from his attention. She followed his every movement with wide eyes. He frowned and reached for his boots. It was a veritable sin to conceal such beauty. He pulled on the one.
“Sebastian?” His name emerged as a hesitant question. “Are you going somewhere?”
He drew on his second gleaming Hessian. “Yes,” he said tersely.
She looked to the closed door and then back to him. “Oh.”
Sebastian grabbed his rumpled black jacket and shrugged into it. He started for the door.
A slight thump echoed about the room, followed by the pitter-patter of hurried steps on the hard wood floor. Hermione placed herself between him and the door, the white satin sheet draped around her, giving her the spirited look of Athena the warrior facing down Typhon in his great rampage of Olympus. “Where are you going?”
His frown deepened. As a duke he’d never before been expected to answer to anyone for anything…and he most certainly didn’t intend to begin for this pert miss who’d stolen the title duchess for herself.
She jabbed a finger at his chest. Hard. “I asked, where are you going?” His wife’s sudden movement loosened the grip she had upon the sheet. The right corner slipped, exposing the creamy white swell of her right breast and he was besieged by the desire to take her back to bed and make her his once more. “Sebastian?” she prodded.
Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love Page 26