Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (20 page)

Sebastian forgotten, she started across the ballroom, holding Lord Cavendish in her sights. He watched her approach; his gaze darted about as if he sought escape. And Hermione thrilled at the coward’s reaction. She sidled through the crowd, skirting dancers performing the steps of a quadrille. Nearby lords and ladies eyed her, an interloper in their extravagant London Society, with vague disinterest, and then shifted their attention to some other more worthwhile creature to gossip about.

She drew to a stop before him. Having been acquainted in the country, no formal introductions were required. Not that Hermione would have let formalities come between her and this meeting. Only, having detested him as she had for these four months now, and all the words she’d prepared to spew at him should their paths ever cross, she found herself robbed of speech. Her chest heaved.

“Yes?” He raised an insolent eyebrow. “May I help you?”

His disdainful greeting jerked her back from her momentary shock. “Lord Cavendish.” The baron paused; surprise flared in his eyes at her boldness. She stole a sideways glance at those around her, but surrounding ladies and gentlemen tittered on with their own morsels of gossip. “I’d speak with you, my lord.”

He gave a flick of his chin. “This is certainly not the place to discuss anything, Miss Rogers.” A furious glint reflected in his heartless eyes. “Nor are there any matters I have to discuss with you.”

She balled her hands into fists. In this moment, with his smug, deprecating stare trained on her, she hated him. God help her, if she had a pistol she’d put a ball through his chest right now, with a glad little smile. “Indeed, there is.” She tilted her chin back. “My sister. I’d discuss my sister with you.” Reason crept back in. She could not do this thing. Not in the public manner.

He feigned surprise. “Ah, forgive me. Now I remember. Please send my regards to…what was her name? Miss Lydia?”

She recoiled. Oh, God if he’d plunged a dagger through her heart, he could not have wounded her more.

“Ahh, no, it is Miss Elizabeth Rogers, forgive me,” he said with a mocking glint in his hard, cruel eyes. “If you’ll share with her the happy news of my recent betrothal.” The room dipped under her feet and foul fiend that he was, Lord Cavendish pounced on his opportunity to make a hasty retreat. “I bid thee good evening, Miss Rogers.”

His voice became distant. She reached out for purchase and then blinked away the momentary weakness, cursing him for reducing her to this shocked and stunned miss. She dug deep for the fury she’d carried in her heart these many months now, fed that rage, because it strengthened her; it kept her from dissolving into a panicky, empty heap. She blinked to bring the room into focus…and registered Sebastian directly across the dance floor, a hard frown trained on her.

Hermione closed her eyes a moment. If she left this ballroom, Sebastian would follow.
Do not. Do not. Do not.
It was a futile litany rolling around her mind.

God forgive me
. She turned on her heel and with wooden-steps continued through the crowded room and slipped away from the gaiety of polite Society. He would follow her.

She hated herself for knowing as much…

And going anyway.

C
hapter 18

S
ebastian listened halfheartedly to the discourse between Waxham and Sophie; all the while his thoughts remained fixed on another.

Hermione
. In a mere eight days, she’d come to mean so much to him that he could detect the subtle nuances of her body’s movements. Now, he studied her as she walked at a brisk clip, with an almost military-like precision through the crowd. All traces of warmth he’d come to expect replaced by a hardened mask he didn’t recognize. Then she stopped beside Lord Cavendish. He narrowed his gaze. Cavendish; a blond, fawned-over scoundrel.

“Mallen?” Waxham murmured, a question in that one word.

“Hmm?” However, he turned a deaf ear to the other man’s response. Hermione’s cheeks flared red. With rage? With embarrassment? And more…what was Cavendish’s connection to the lady? Then, after a handful of minutes she turned around and stalked toward the back of the ballroom. Their exchange so brief, he could almost convince himself he’d imagined it.

Almost.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he murmured to Waxham and Sophie. Before questions could be raised, he started after Hermione.

Even with a handful of meetings between them, her happiness had come to matter to him, enough that he wanted to bloody Lord Cavendish senseless for whatever slight the man had committed. This moment in the Brookfield ballroom so very similar to their first meeting at Lord Denley’s. She drew him, like a moth to flame and he was content to be burned if it meant he could have her in his life in every way.

He at last managed to escape the lords and ladies attempting to engage him and slipped from the ballroom, just as a flash of yellow skirts disappeared around the corner. He quickened his stride and set after her. Sebastian turned the corner. Hermione pressed the handle of one of Lord Brookfield’s many doors. “Hermione,” he said quietly. His voice, the lone sound in the empty corridor, echoed like the blare of a pistol.

Her skin turned ashen and she stiffened, but said nothing. He expected her to flee as she’d done on so many occasions, yet she stood tall and proud. “Sebastian,” she whispered when he came to stop before her.

Wordlessly, he pushed open the door. She passed her gaze over his face, her throat working with the force of her swallow, and then she backed into the room. He followed after her and closed the door behind them. Silence stretched between them. Now that he’d come here, words deserted him.

“I don’t suppose you came to talk about
The Bitterest Baron’s Bittersweet Love
?” she whispered.

He stalked over to her. “A silly title.” His voice rumbled from deep within his chest as he came to a stop so close the tips of her slippers brushed the tips of his boots. He cupped her cheek and she leaned into his touch like a kitten searching for warmth from its master.

“It i-is.”

He stroked his thumb along her lower lip. “It is what, Hermione?”

“A s-silly title. The worst. I wanted—” Her eyes flew wide. “Th-that is…I-I heard Mr. M-Michaelmas fought quite extensively with his publisher o-over the h-horrid title.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued on a rush. “D-did you know that? Did you know—?”

“Hermione?”

“Yes, Sebastian?”

“I didn’t come here to speak about Mr. Michaelmas’ horrid title,” he murmured, lowering his brow to hers.

She closed her eyes and her head fell back. “It’s not that awful.”

“It is.” He brushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

A breathy moan escaped the bow-shaped lips he longed to plunder. “You’re being q-quite d-difficult with Mr. Michaelmas.”

“Your Mr. Michaelmas can go to the devil just now.”

She blinked and the haze of desire clouding her eyes receded. A frown marred her cheeks. “That is not at all a nice thing to say, Sebastian.”

With the world righted. He recalled his purpose in searching her out. Remembered why he danced with disaster in simply being here with her. “Who was he, Hermione?” he asked bluntly.

Four little creases lined her brow. “He is the author of Gothic novels. No one knows much of Mr.—”

“Not, Mr. Michael Michaelmas.” He folded his arms. “The gentleman who sent you fleeing the ballroom.” He expected her to deny it, or mayhap feign confusion. A pained sigh escaped her and she angled away from him. He gritted his teeth in annoyance. He didn’t care for being shut out. Not by her. She dragged the back of her hand over her brow. “Who is he to you?” His stomach tightened with an almost dreaded anticipation of her answer because who Cavendish was to her mattered to him; mattered more than he wished it to.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” she said softly and spun back to face him.

A viselike pressure squeezed across his middle as he forced himself to confront her stolen moments, her lack of chaperone—there was another gentleman. At last, all the questions he’d had surrounding her lurking in the oddest quarters—it had been and, likely still was—for Cavendish. He balled his hands into fists never hating a person more than he hated the roguish lord in this very moment. “He doesn’t deserve you,” he said quietly. He’d known her but a handful of days, but knew enough of Cavendish from the reports of his scapegrace ways.

Hermione blinked in rapid succession. “You think that I…” She paused. “You think that Lord Cavendish and I… That
we
…” A mottled blush stained her cheeks. “You are mistaken,” she spoke through brittle lips. “I would never,
ever
do anything so foolish as to give my heart to one such as him.”

Her stammering protestations spoke to her honesty. He caressed her cheek. “Has he done something to offend you?” Because if Cavendish had, by God, Sebastian would see the bastard destroyed.

Tears filled her eyes and she blinked rapidly. A single, crystal drop streaked a path down her cheek and he brushed it away with the pad of his thumb. His Hermione did not cry. With her proud form and fiery eyes she boldly challenged life. Yet Cavendish had reduced her to this. A primal rage coursed through him. Dead. He would kill him dead. “What is it, Hermione?”

“I don’t want to talk of him. Or anything.” Hermione tipped her head back. “Kiss me.” And with that husky pleading, underscored by desire, he could deny her nothing.

With a groan, Sebastian lowered his head and claimed her lips. She pressed herself against him, the delicate swell of her breasts crushed by his chest. He slanted his mouth over hers again and again until her lips parted on a desperate moan, aching to drive back the hurt and pain gleaming in the sapphire-blue irises of her eyes. He slipped his tongue inside and sought hers in an age-old dance.

She collapsed and he caught her to him, running his hands over the gentle curve of her hips. His body sprang hard against her belly. “Sebastian,” she pleaded as he tore his mouth from hers.

He moved his lips in a deliberate trail over her cheek, down her neck. He flicked his teeth over the shell of her ear, and then suckled the delicate flesh. “I have wanted you since I first saw you,” he said, his voice rough with desire.

“Have y-you?” Her question ended on a soft, keening cry as he shifted his attention lower to the modest swell of her décolletage. She tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him close.

Encouraged by her boldness, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the plush, gold-upholstered sofa. He laid her down then hesitated above her. “I want you, Hermione.” He wanted her in every way a man desired a woman; in his bed, in his arms, his home. His heart. “I l—”

“Wait,” she said in an entreating voice. She shoved herself up onto her elbows and looked at him through thick, smoky lashes. Then the haze of desire in her eyes lifted, replaced by something akin to horror. She gave her head a frantic shake. “I need you to know something.”

He lowered his head, seeking her lips once more, but she pulled away. She came up on her knees and took his face between her hands. Regret mingled with guilt in her expression. The first stirrings of unease tripped along his spine. He drew back. She reached a hand to him. “Whatever happens, I need you to know—”

The door opened. Their gazes swung as one to the entrance of the room. Lady Pemberly and their distinguished host and hostess, Lord and Lady Brookfield, released matching gasps of shock. He positioned himself between their prying eyes and Hermione.

“What is the meaning of this, Your Grace?” Lady Pemberly cried. The outraged words, however, were belied by the happy gleam in her eyes.

Was the woman mad? What cause would she have to smile when presented with her niece’s ruin? Sebastian lowered his voice, his words for Hermione alone. “I promise you, I’ll do right by you.” She deserved the offer of marriage like the ones in the books penned by Mr. Michaelmas, not this offer made of necessity. Not when it was based on so much more. She covered her face with her hands. “Hermione,” he said quietly ignoring the scandalized gasps at his use of her Christian name. He lowered her hands to her side. Guilt bled from her eyes. A faint humming filled his ears even as the pit in his belly grew. What did she have to be guilty for, unless…

She held up her palms. “I’m so sorry,” she said on an aching whisper.

Why was she apologizing? Why, when he’d shattered her reputation? His actions toward Hermione, outside the bonds of matrimony, had been nothing but dishonorable.

“Unhand my niece this instant.” Triumph glittered in the older woman’s hard eyes.

“This is not your fault, Hermione,” he said close to her ear, ignoring her rightfully outraged aunt. “The blame lies in no one but me for following you in here.”

A spasm racked her face. She touched trembling fingers to her lips and shook her head. “It’s not
your
fault.” Her throat, that same graceful skin he’d caressed with his lips a moment ago now worked with the force of her emotion. “This is
my
fault. Forgive me.”

“Not well done of you, Your Grace.” The older gentleman shook his head and made a tsking sound. “Not well done at all. Can’t simply go about ruining a young lady’s reputation.”

His slow-churning mind only dimly registered Lord Brookfield’s reproachful tone. He sought to rationally explain away the remorse in Hermione’s expressive blue eyes and the gleeful expression worn by her aunt and more importantly, the significance of that ‘forgive me.’ What reason would she have to ask forgiveness unless… A hiss slipped through his teeth. No. He’d not believe it. Not of forthright and bold Hermione Rogers.

“You’ve no choice but to wed her,” Lady Pemberly spat.

Ignoring everyone, he held Hermione’s gaze. “Why did you plead forgiveness?” he asked, his voice hoarse. Already knowing; no confirmation needed from her treacherous lips.
Ah God. No. Not this. Not her.

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

He took her by the shoulders and the trio of observers emitted another round of scandalized gasps. He gave Hermione a slight shake. “Why did you ask me to forgive you?’”
Please let these vile unspoken charges be wrong and I’ll gladly spend the remainder of my days trying to earn your forgiveness.

Hermione opened her eyes slowly. That full, beautiful mouth he’d worshiped moment ago trembled. “I-I…” Her voice broke. “I can explain,” she whispered. Sorrow, regret, guilt all seeped through and threatened to shred him with the dawning truth of her deception.

No explanation could or would ever justify this betrayal.
I loved you
. “By God,” he hissed. He yanked his hands away from her satiny, soft skin and let his arms fall uselessly to his side. His mind balked at the truth, yet even as he resisted finding her culpable of wrongdoing, he knew. A chill raced along his spine. It spiraled out and spread through his body. It stole away every last trace of warmth he’d known for her and the promise of a future with her and left his heart dead.

She’d betrayed him.

“I…” Her gaze slid off to the entrance of the room, to their audience. “I am sorry,” she said softly when she looked back to him. “I need you to understand…”

He leaned close and whispered harshly against her ear. “Answer me, Miss Rogers, did you orchestrate this?”

Her lack of response proved more damning than any words.

Sebastian reeled backward. He retreated a step. And another. Then stopped. No distance could lessen this knife like pain twisting away at his heart. Since Sebastian had left university his father had urged him to make a match that would strengthen the Mallen line. All the while Sebastian foolishly carried on with the secret wish for his own happiness. He’d wanted love. A harsh, empty laugh spilled past his lips.

So
this
was love.