Once a Wallflower, at Last His Love

by Christi Caldwell

  Alas, it appeared he would now be expected to answer to at least this woman. He flexed his jaw. “I am leaving,” he forced out past clenched teeth. He could not stay here. He’d done the honorable thing in wedding her despite her betrayal. If he remained, he risked losing the rest of his heart and if he did, she would only destroy him.

  “Yes,” she said, her earlier bravado replaced by this hesitancy. “I see that. I asked where you are going.”

  Away, before he did something foolish like give her his heart forever. He stomped around her, but she was possessed of an indomitable spirit. With a staggering resolve she blocked his path.

  Sebastian folded his arms. “You’ve already informed me that you don’t intend to leave for Leeds.” He spoke in the bored, lazy tones he’d practiced as a youth training for the role of duke.

  The slight frown on her lips hinted at annoyance. “That is correct.” She narrowed her eyes and took a step toward him. “Are you leaving for Leeds?” Would she care if he did?

  Now that she had her title as Duchess of Mallen there was nothing further she required of him. She therefore shouldn’t care if he went to his clubs or down to greet the devil himself for snifters of brandy. Yet, the slight flicker of hurt in her piercing bluish, nearly black eyes gave him pause. “No, I’m not going to Leeds,” he said when he could formulate words once more. Did he imagine her soft sigh of relief? He strode around her and took the remaining steps to the door. He pressed the handle when she called out…

  “Then where are you going?”

  She was nothing if not persistent. She exhibited the same tenacity for answers as she did for titles. “My clubs, madam.”

  “Oh.” At that relieved ‘oh’, he faced her. “You’ll return later this evening, then?” she asked and he despised the hesitancy in her question. This tentative woman bore no traces to the bold creature who’d stolen into Lord Denley’s private office.

  “I will not be returning,” he said, before he changed his mind, took her in his arms and slept by her side until the end of time.

  The sheet dipped again. She shifted the fabric and held it close to her breast. “You—?”

  “You have your title. You now have my townhouse. I’ll take rooms at my club. We may come to some understanding in terms of our relationship at a later time.” He pressed the handle. “There is, of course, the matter of the heir.” Her quick, shuddery inhalation of air knifed him, and he loathed himself for that deliberate barb. Then with a steely resolve—he left.

  And that, was now the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  C

  hapter 24

  1 month later

  London

  Hermione tapped her feet upon the wood floor, her concentration focused solely on the page before her. After all she’d struggled to put pen to paper and tell the story of the brooding duke, now the words flowed freely. And they tumbled from her, cathartic and healing in ways that saved her from the agonizing pain of Sebastian’s abandonment. Ignoring the ache of her overused wrist, she scratched furiously away at the paper. She paused and flexed her fingers, then dipped her pen into the crystal inkwell.

  “I should imagine you’d be done by now,” a familiar child said from the doorway.

  Hermione dropped her pen. Ink splashed her otherwise flawless page. She shoved back her chair. “Hullo, poppet.”

  Addie skipped into the room. Hugh hovered in the doorway. Papa had sent them to London to reside with Hermione as Elizabeth increased with child. Of course, the request was really made by Hermione and came after Sebastian’s departure. He’d gone to his clubs…and never returned. And if she were being truly honest, her reasons were largely selfish. The quiet that came from living alone in this lavish, too extravagant home had nearly driven her mad. She’d summoned her siblings not even two days later.

  With a sigh, Hugh entered the room. He dragged his heels in an exaggerated manner. For Papa’s negligence these years, he’d still been a male figure in an otherwise wholly female household.

  Addie reached for Hermione’s most recently completed page.

  She intercepted the girl’s efforts. “It is still drying, my dear.”

  Her sister let out a little huff of annoyance. “Very well.”

  She couldn’t afford any more delays. In a surprisingly magnanimous gesture, Mr. Werksman had granted her a fortnight to complete her latest story, which she suspected had to do more with the sample piece he’d read rather than any real kindness on his part. He would not, however, be tolerant of any further delays.

  Addie folded her small arms behind her back and leaned over to read the pages. Hermione held her breath, filled with an almost dreaded anticipation of her reaction.

  Hugh flung himself into a nearby sofa. He swung his legs furiously back and forth. “Duchesses don’t write stories,” he said, with all the world-weary wisdom of a stern-faced papa.

  She frowned. “I do.” Her brother grunted, letting her know just what he thought of a duchess who wrote. She studied the angry little boy, forced to acknowledge the truth of his words. Duchesses didn’t write. But then, she really wasn’t much of a duchess anyway. Rather, an Unexpected Duchess as the papers had originally begun writing of her. And that had been the most kind of their vitriolic posts about Hermione Fitzhugh, the Duchess of Mallen.

  Plain fortune-hunter. A somewhat clever play upon the pairing of words, if she were being wholly objective. Title-grasping wallflower. Though, she would have gladly welcomed title-grasping miss; the other made her sound like a horrid vine-y plant. For all polite Society was wrong about, in terms of truths and gossip—in this regard, they’d proven unerringly accurate. She sighed. Then it wouldn’t require the intelligence of all the collected ancient Greek philosophers to surmise the duke’s moving out—on his wedding night, no less—certainly did not hint at a happy union.

  “Hmm,” Addie murmured, pulling Hermione back from her musings.

  “What is it?” She involuntarily clenched the muscles of her stomach as she awaited her sister’s criticism.

  A slow smile formed on Addie’s lips. “Oh, Hermione, it is just splendid.”

  “Truly?” Her heart kicked a funny little, quite pleased rhythm. “Do you think so?” This was a good deal better than her sister’s earlier disappointment with her initial attempt. Or, rather initial attempts.

  “Oh, it is!” Addie spun away and threw her arms wide. “I feel his love now. He is once again charming.”

  “Silly drivel,” Hugh muttered from his seat. The two ladies frowned at him. He glowered. “What? It is.”

  Addie planted her hands on her hips and glared. “Someday you’re going to fall in love, Hugh Rogers, and I’m going to laugh and laugh and remind you of just how miserable you were this moment.”

  “I won’t.” He recoiled. “I would never do anything as foolish as become Papa.” He shot a glance at Hermione. “Or Hermione.”

  Her heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”

  Hugh slashed the air with a hand. “He came calling on you. Made you believe he cared.”

  “He married her.” Ever romantic Addie, still unjaded by life defended the absent duke.

  Hugh snorted. “And he left. He didn’t want anything more of her than Lord Cavendish wanted of—”

  “Hugh!” Hermione said sternly, interrupting his shameful flow of words.

  The anger went out of his taut frame and a contrite expression settled over his face. Then fire flared in his eyes. “He doesn’t love you.”

  She knew he was merely a boy; a hurting, angry, wounded little boy, yet his words burned like vinegar tossed upon an open wound.

  Addie gasped. “That is a horrid thing to say. Who could not love Hermione?” She suspected Addie’s was more a rhetorical question than anything else, and appreciated the devoted girl’s support.

  “The duke,” Hugh said with an almost gleeful spite. “That is who.”

  Hermione flinched.

  Addie flew across the room. “Don’t you say th
at!” She stuck her angry fingers out like small little daggers and lunged for Hugh. “Don’t you ever say that!”

  Hermione raced to interject herself between her sister’s outraged fury and her hostile brother. She caught Addie about the forearm and forced her to a stop. “Shh, it does not matter,” she lied.

  Addie studied her a moment. “It does,” she said softly.

  Hermione released Addie’s arm and returned to Sebastian’s desk, which she’d claimed as her own. She clasped her hands tightly together and made a show of studying the pages to keep from having to form a reply. In this, the young girl was correct—it did matter. A familiar pain pulled at her heart.

  She didn’t care about the unkind words written of her in the papers. Words that, for her actions at Lady Brookfield’s she was wholly deserving of. But she did care that Sebastian did not love her. Hermione drew in a slow, shuddery breath. The excruciating pain of loving one who never could or ever would love you was hardly the romantic piece she’d imagined within her stories. It was ugly. And cruel. And harsh. The kind of agony that robbed you of sleep, and had you crying until your eyes were puffy and swollen and you were empty of the useless salty drops.

  Hermione touched her fingers to the edge of her most recently completed page. There should be some sense of joy at the completion of this story that had nearly gone untold. So why am I empty?

  “It’s because of Elizabeth, isn’t it,” Hugh’s question emerged haltingly, devoid of his usual anger and resentment.

  His words drew her back from her pained musings. “What do you mean?”

  His mouth tightened. “Well, he’s a duke and he is mad you have a sister who is simple.”

  Her heart tugged. Oh, Hugh. So, this is what he believed. She perched a hip on the edge of the desk while plucking her mind for appropriate words to this very important conversation. “This is not about Elizabeth.” Then, Elizabeth was just another secret she’d kept from Sebastian. Still, she didn’t believe he’d resent the young woman’s existence. How could anyone who knew Elizabeth, her gentle spirit, her absolute joy in the face of great darkness, ever begrudge her for living?

  “Then, what is it about?” Addie asked, sliding into the leather wing-backed chair at the foot of Sebastian’s desk.

  “This is about me,” Hermione said softly.

  “It’s because he didn’t want to marry you, but you forced him to,” Hugh added.

  Before Hermione could reply, Addie turned to Hugh. “That doesn’t make any sense, Hugh. A lady cannot force a gentleman like the duke to wed her unless he wished it.”

  Hermione glared him into silence.

  Alas, he possessed her same spirit of persistence. “If he loved her then why doesn’t he live here?”

  Addie frowned, and Hermione could all but see the wheels churning in her little girl’s mind. She scratched her brow. “Why doesn’t he live here?” She tapped the tip of her finger against her lip. “And why do you still have those hideous yellow gowns aunt insisted you wear if you’re a duchess, and Hugh,” she motioned to her brother as though there were perhaps another Hugh present, “is a duchess’ sister, so why does he still not attend Eton?”

  “I daresay I wouldn’t even know which of those very important questions to answer.” Hermione went and took her sister by the shoulders. “Now, off you go. I need to finish my story for Mr. Werksman.” She steered the girl toward the doorway.

  “You’re trying to be rid of me, aren’t you?” Addie shot a pointed frown over her shoulder as Hermione guided her out of the room. “You always do that when you don’t want to talk about something.”

  “Perhaps.” She winked. “But I do have to finish The Nefarious,” Now Charming. “Duke.”

  Addie dug her heels in and glanced back at her brother. “And how come he is always allowed to remain?”

  “Because I’m older,” he shot back.

  Because he was constantly causing mischief.

  Her sister snorted. “You’re only eighteen minutes older.” She turned swiftly back to Hermione. “Why is he allowed to remain? He’s rude and foul and—”

  Hermione clapped her hands once, interrupting the remainder of those inciting words, and settled for the bane of every child’s question. “Because, I said so.” Her sister’s lips formed a moue of displeasure and then she stomped from the room.

  “Elder sisters,” she muttered under her breath and then slammed the door in her wake.

  She folded her arms across her chest.

  Hugh scuffed Sebastian’s Aubusson carpet with the tip of his boot. “What?” he asked defensively.

  She continued to study him in silence. He dropped his gaze to the floor. “You are Papa’s heir. As the eldest boy, you have a responsibility to protect your sister from hurt.” She wandered closer. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He hesitated and then gave a jerky nod. “Have you finished?”

  Hermione sighed at his belligerent tone. Her brother was in dire need of a strong, male influence in his life, of which their family was remarkably lacking. “That is all.”

  He started for the door and then froze. “I hate him,” he uttered the familiar three lines to the thick door with such vitriol a shiver stole down her spine.

  He and Addie, they’d been forced to grow up far sooner than they should have. “Oh, Hugh,” she said softly. She closed the distance between them. “Look at me.” When he remained immobile, Hermione dropped to a knee and touched a hand to his shoulder, forcing him around. “Look at me,” she repeated, infusing a firm edge to those three words.

  He reluctantly met her gaze.

  “He loves you and he is, for all his failings, remarkable in other ways.” After all, most any other baronet, prince, or nobleman between would have sent Elizabeth away after her illness had robbed her of her mind. Papa had not. He continued to, at least through Nurse Partridge, care for her. The flaws against his other children could slightly be pardoned for the devotion he’d shown Elizabeth.

  “Not Papa.” Hugh wrinkled his nose, in a way so very much like their younger sister. “The duke. Your duke.” He glared at Sebastian’s desk, nearly singeing the duke’s inanimate possession with his heated ire. “He’s just like Papa—”

  She sank back on her haunches, stunned. “He is not, Hugh.” Sebastian hadn’t stopped caring for his family. He’d merely ceased caring about her. Those were entirely different.

  “Then he’s just like Lord Cavendish.”

  “No.” A denial exploded from her. “No, he’s not.” Lord Cavendish represented the basest, most vile aspect of a black-hearted human being. In taking advantage of a beautiful woman, who in her mind would remain a forever child, he’d demonstrated a depravity that chilled. “He is nothing like Lord Cavendish.” She held up a finger when he made to speak. “I wronged him, Hugh.” Her admission stunned him into silence. He stared wide-eyed at her. She cuffed him gently under the chin. “Come, you’ve read the pages to know what they’ve accused me of.”

  “They say you trapped him.” His frown deepened. “I didn’t believe you really did. I…” His words trailed off and he glanced at a point beyond her shoulder. His stark shock conveyed his disillusionment, far more painful than any words of disappointment he might have hurled at her. It occurred to Hermione, that for all his outbursts toward her and about her, a sliver of him had still believed her a worthy, honorable person.

  Her heart flipped unto itself with shame at the realization she’d shattered perhaps that last bit of faith he had in an adult presence in his life. She touched his shoulder. He jerked his arm back as though repelled by her. “I did it for you,” she said, knowing even as the words left her mouth how empty they were.

  Addie had been correct. Hugh still did not attend school, Hermione still couldn’t rely that Elizabeth’s care would be seen to. What had she done for anyone, other than shatter Sebastian’s trust and steal an empty title?

  “I wished you hadn’t,” Hugh said at last. “Now you are sad and lon
ely and you’ll be sad and lonely forever because a duke could never forgive what you’ve done.” With that, he spun on his heel, yanked the door open then rushed out, slamming it behind him. It shook hard on its foundations.

  Hermione remained rooted to her spot, kneeling upon the floor for a long while, her brother’s words swirling through her mind. It was a sad day indeed, when one’s eleven-year-old brother, in all his infinite child’s wisdom, had the sense to realize that which she herself had failed to note—no one could ever love, respect or care for a woman who’d trapped a gentleman into marriage. Whether she’d sacrificed her reputation, her own self-worth, her honor, all for Addie, Hugh, and Elizabeth—in the end, her actions could never be redeemed. Most certainly not in the eyes of her absent husband.

  She awkwardly shoved herself to her feet and wandered over to his desk. A desk she’d, since his hasty flight, claimed as her own and climbed into his enormous leather chair. She drew her legs up then looped her arms about her knees, rubbing her chin back and forth over the fabric of her skirts. She looked at the pages scattered about his desk to the familiar loathsome scandal sheet. The Times stared mockingly back at her.

  She shifted her attention to the opposite end of the room and then with a soft curse leaned over and dragged the paper close. Hermione skimmed the well-read page, all the while knowing what it mentioned. Knew because she’d committed it to memory earlier that morning. Just as she’d committed each day’s reports about the dashing Duke of Mallen’s actions from the previous evening.

  A certain Duke of M continues to keep residence at his clubs. The estrangement to the Duchess of M, seems certain to continue…etc., etc., etc.…

  Hermione threw the paper onto the floor, finding some small measure of satisfaction in the solid thump as it hit the hard wood. But beyond that slight sound, finding no real solace in…much of anything, anymore. She missed him. She missed the Sebastian she’d once known; the slightly indignant duke who didn’t seem to know what to make of a young lady who challenged him, yet who’d never once been haughty or condescending.