Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) (22 page)

Sebastian eyed the weathered chair piled with books and ledgers.

“Er, forgive me.” Color slapped the baronet’s cheeks. “If you’d just set them aside.”

In the course of his life, not a single man, woman, or child had tasked him with moving things about. How ironic the baronet who’d snagged a duke for his daughter, should now give him orders. With stiff movements, Sebastian lifted the enormous stack. Arms filled, he arched an expectant eyebrow.

The older man gestured with his pipe. “Set it on the floor if you will.”

He set the stack down, and for the blinding rage and numb shock he’d felt since Hermione had uttered that desperate ‘forgive me’, he felt the faintest stirring of amusement at the farcical drama his life had become. If anyone were to see the Duke of Mallen in this ramshackle office, moving books to find his own seat, they’d have laughed at the mere sight of it.

The baronet continued to puff away on his pipe, quietly watching him.

Sebastian took the extended silence as an opportunity to look about the other man’s office. The faded curtains, the torn fabrics, the aged furniture again spoke volumes of the family’s financial circumstances. His gaze caught a painting just beyond the man’s desk. The ornate gold frame, perhaps the costliest object within the modest space, yet the canvas within was divided into four quadrants of four painted images, all better suited to a child’s work.

The baronet took another puff on his pipe and followed Sebastian’s stare. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

It was. For a child’s piece.

Apparently, the man didn’t require confirmation, for he stood and wandered over to the image. He gestured with the pipe. “My Hermie did this. Just a child,” he explained, never taking his gaze from the page. “I believe eleven, or so.” His mind stalled. Hermie? Ah, the man referred to his daughter, Sebastian’s soon-to-be-wife. He’d not even known that charming sobriquet belonged to the lady. Just another reminder of just how much a stranger Hermione Rogers was to him. “Never very gifted with watercolors or pastels,” the man said with no disappointment, rather instead a raw honesty. “She loved it, anyway.”

He tried to draw up images of the girl who’d painted that page a lifetime ago; she’d have likely had long, dark tresses and a mischievous glimmer in her sapphire blue eyes. His stomach tightened as she became something different than the treacherous woman who’d wound her way into his heart only to betray him. He thrust back foolhardy reverie.

The baronet tossed another glance over his shoulder, his lips turned up in a secretive smile. “She was always so proud of her work. Her mother and I were content to let her imagine she might be the next DaVinci.” His expression grew wistful. “Or I was, anyway. Her mother despaired of what would become of Hermione.” The woman would have surely reveled in the title snatched by her daughter.

Sebastian peered over the man’s shoulder at the divided page: a book, a baby rattle, a toy soldier, and a violin, without any strings. Why had she not finished the sketch? Had the pixie like child become too distracted by some other girlish interest and flitted on to her next distraction?

“She captured a collection of her brother and sisters’ favorite images. Said that way they might hold onto them forever and always be happy.”

The words pulled at him; a somber statement for a small child that belied his earlier musings. Why would a girl so young worry about the possibility of losing those things? He glanced about the office in its state of disrepair. Had Hermione’s personal circumstances been dire then? The possibility tugged at his heart, once again.

“Hermione learned loss early on,” her father murmured, lost in thought. “That was the last painting she ever did,” he said returning to the subject of that intimate portrait of a past.

Sebastian fixed his gaze on the image, not wanting the other man’s words to matter, preferring his own volatile anger to the memories that had shaped Hermione into the woman his heart had wanted. “I’ve come to offer marriage to your daughter,” he said his flat tone devoid of emotion.

The baronet turned around with his pipe clamped between his teeth, and then withdrew the wood piece. “Her aunt said as much,” he said more to himself. Had the baronet had less of a role in orchestrating this union than he’d initially believed?

Which only presented the other, unwelcome niggling truth. Hermione’s father was so removed from his daughter’s life he didn’t realize what had transpired at Lord Brookfield’s. He skimmed the stacks of pages in this cluttered space in search of
The Times
or some other scandal sheet that provided details of Hermione’s ruin last evening. If the man read any newspapers, there was no evidence of it here.

The baronet motioned for him to sit once again.

Impatient to be done with this meeting, Sebastian sat. “I’ve come to discuss the terms of the contract.”

“The contract?” the man repeated, unblinking.

He bit back a curse. “The betrothal contract,” Sebastian said impatiently. “Considering the circumstances, it is best.” And necessary. “To secure a special license.”

“The circumstances?” Hermione’s father was beginning to sound like one of those colorful parrots favored by many of the nobles. He shook his head slowly. “I’m not aware of any circumstances,” he said, only confirming Sebastian’s earlier supposition. The man didn’t properly care for his daughter.

Yet, shame sat heavy in his gut. Even though Hermione had orchestrated their discovery in Lord Brookfield’s office, Sebastian was complicit in their embrace. There was something reprehensible in speaking these sordid details to the father who still hung eleven-year-old Hermione’s painting upon his wall. “May I speak candidly?”

Her father inclined his head.

“Your daughter and I were discovered in a compromising position.” The man gave no outward reaction. He swiped a hand over his face. Surely the baronet understood the implications? “As a result, your daughter is ruined and…”
I’ve no honorable choice but to wed her.
“We are to be wed,” he finished.

The baronet sat back in his seat, puffing away on that damned pipe. “Ahh.”

This is what he would say? If a gentleman had come into Sebastian’s office composed and insufficiently shamed after ruining his own daughter, he’d have taken him apart with his bare hands.

“Do you love her?”

I did.
He would have been happy for the rest of his life if she’d proven to be the woman he’d first taken her for. Emotion clogged his throat. Regret. Pain. Resentment. “It is a bit late for discussions of love,” he managed to squeeze out. And even with her betrayal, he suspected she’d always hold his heart. He curled his fingers into the arms of his chair.

The leather chair creaked as the man leaned forward. “Ah, it is never too late to discuss matters of the heart.”

Sebastian winced. At last, Hermione’s romantic spirit, the blasted Gothic novels, they all made sense when faced with her foolish sire. He continued in clipped tones before the other man could prattle on with such nonsensical musings. “I intend to allot Hermione £300 each month, whatever her dowry—”

“It is modest,” the baronet interrupted. “But £1000.”

“—will revert to her, should anything happen to me.” He carried on over the baronet. It mattered not what she brought to the union. For him, it had never been about wealth or connections with Hermione.

The other man steepled his fingers, eying Sebastian over the top of them. “That is incredibly generous,” he waggled his eyebrows, “for a gentleman who’d not speak of love.”

Sebastian shoved to his feet. He didn’t intend to speak of his confounded feelings to the father of the woman who’d betrayed his trust. “If there is nothing else to discuss, my lord, I must see to the special license and the arrangements.” He bowed. “If you’ll excuse me?” He started for the door.

“You didn’t ask why she stopped painting.”

Sebastian froze mid-stride. He turned slowly back around. The baronet tapped his pipe in a crystal tray and then gestured toward the child’s painting. Why would a young girl, who loved to paint cease doing so after that four-image sketch? “Why did she stop?” he asked, unable to quell his curiosity.

“That is not my place to tell.” The older man gave a sad little smile. “That’s for Hermione.” He inclined his head. “She’ll share it with you. If you but ask.”

Sebastian gave a terse nod. He had little intention of prying into his scheming bride-to-be’s oldest memories. Theirs was no love match; no coming together of like souls on grounds of love and trust. He pulled the door open then closed it behind him. Rather, what he and Hermione would forever have was a union forced upon them. Nay, forced upon him by her desire for the material comforts she’d clearly missed through the years. He strode through the house and…

…collided with Hermione.

He automatically caught her by the shoulders and steadied her.

Her swollen and bloodshot eyes indicated she’d been crying. He didn’t want to care. A pressure squeezed about his heart. Yet, he did. “Sebastian,” she said softly. For an infinitesimal moment, everything else slipped away but the two of them. He didn’t consider her actions last evening or his own bitter resentment. Then she dropped her gaze. “You met with my father.”

And he was brought quite forcibly back to their circumstances. “Indeed,” he bit out.

A spasm of pain twisted her face, as though he’d physically wounded her with his harsh tone.

Say something, Hermione. Tell me I wasn’t hopelessly blinded by your true nature and that you were the one woman who wanted me for more than the damned title.

“I…” She studied her palms.

With a silent curse, he continued his forward path, desperate to place much needed distance between them. To be with her roused his longing for the spirited hoyden.

“Sebastian?”

He froze.
Tell me.
He needed to hear Hermione say that he’d mattered.

“I—I would ask you something,” she said, her voice small and hesitant.

He turned slowly back around to face her and folded his arms at his chest. “Oh, you want something, do you, Miss Rogers? I am a duke with plentiful coffers.” She flinched. Sebastian tossed his head back and forced out a hard, cold laugh. “But then you well know that, don’t you?” Even as he braced for a request for baubles and trinkets, his heart hung suspended on the hope that she would speak of love.

Hermione smoothed her palms over the front of her skirts and took a step away from him. “My brother,” she said on a quiet whisper.

The last shred of hope contained within that useless organ withered and died. God help him, he was more pathetic than all those sonnet-sprouting fools he’d so disparaged over the years. He had to strain in order to make sense of that softly spoken whisper. “What about your brother?” Sebastian gave a flick of his hand. He glanced around for the angry little fellow he’d met on several occasions.

Hermione drew in a visible breath and took a step closer. “My brother…we…there were no funds for him to attend Eton.” A crimson blush stained her cheeks.

He eyed her expectantly. What was she on about?

“Will you see that he’s admitted?”

This is what she’d ask him? His skin turned cold and he embraced his anger. It strengthened him, kept him from becoming a weak, broken-hearted fool who’d been shattered by her deception. “Tsk, tsk, Miss Rogers,” he jeered. “Not even wed and you’ll put favors to me?” She winced but held his gaze with the same bold defiance she’d demonstrated in Denley’s office. He shook his head, his lip pulled back in a curl. “Your brother will attend Eton. Now, is that all, madam? Or are their other
requests
you’d put to me?”

She jerked as though he’d struck her but then managed a tight nod. “That is all, Sebastian.”

With her wounded blue gaze fixed upon him, he spun on his heel and at last took his leave, without a backward glance for his cunning betrothed.

C
hapter 20

W
ith a half-empty brandy in his hand, Sebastian stood by the floor-length window of his office and stared down into the bustling streets below. Since he’d last seen Hermione two days ago, he’d been unable to quell thoughts of their hasty meeting in the quiet halls of her home. A woman who would trap a gentleman for his title would have a desire for jewels and fine French fabrics. Yet, of all the requests his wife-to-be would put to him, it had been for her brother, Hugh. Why, would a woman who so favored material possessions ask about an education for the boy?
Why, unless there is more to Hermione than I’ve considered since Lord Brookfield’s.

Footsteps shuffled in the hall, followed by a soft rap on the door, breaking into his tumultuous thoughts.

He flexed his jaw. “I said get the hell out,” he snarled. The infernal knocking ceased and he returned to his own dark brooding. The last thing he cared for was company. Certainly not from his nauseatingly, blissfully wedded friend, Waxham, or his sister Emmaline. Not that he begrudged them their joy. He didn’t. He just didn’t need to be reminded of it at this particular point in his life, when his own marriage was to be a cold entanglement thrust upon him in such a humiliating fashion. The crystal windowpane reflected the curl of his lip. With a day’s growth of beard and his wrinkled garments, one would hardly know this was to be the Duke of Mallen’s wedding day.

The day he forever tied himself to a lying, title-grasping miss. A conniving deceiver who’d orchestrated their every meeting, their every
chance
encounter. And he who’d managed to avoid any number of fortune-hunting schemers through the years in the hope of having a meaningful union based on love now found himself trapped. His lip pulled in a cynical grin. Love.
What a bloody fool he’d been
.

Sebastian downed the contents of his brandy, uncaring of the early morning hour. He welcomed the trail it scorched down his throat. In a handful of hours he would wed a woman who, but for the middle name Edith and an interest in Michael Michaelmas’ outrageous work, he knew not at all. He stared down at the amber drops that still clung to the side of his glass.

His fingers tightened reflexively about the tumbler. He’d imagined her to be different, and that inexplicable attraction to Miss Hermione Rogers the moment he’d spied her penning notes upon her dance card had been borne of his belief she saw more than his title. His lips pulled with bitterness. He wanted to hate her for being just like every other woman, but he hated himself more—for being blind to the truth before him.

Another knock sounded at the door. “I said get the hell—”

“Yes, I’m told that is what you’re ordering the servants.”

He stiffened at the sudden, but not unexpected, appearance of his mother. “Mother,” he said. His shoulders drooped, his gaze fixed on the window.

The rustle of skirts indicated she now moved toward him. “Oh, Sebastian,” she said softly.

His gut clenched at the aching pity buried in that four-syllable utterance. “Have you come to say something, Mother?” If it were all the same, he’d rather have her gone so he could be alone with his brandy and his miserable self.

“Come,” she said with a touch of reproach in her words. “Surely you don’t expect we’ll not speak on…on…what has happened.”

He swung around. “And what has happened?” Other than the fact he’d had his heart and trust shattered by a woman?

She firmed her jaw. “I understand you are angry, but you must speak of her.” She paused. “She is to be your wife.”

My wife.

Ragged silence met her pronouncement. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He would have Hermione Rogers to wed and to bed as he’d longed to—only under the lady’s terms. With a curse, he strode over to the sideboard. He grabbed for the nearest decanter of brandy and yanked the stopper out. He tossed it to the floor and splashed several fingerfuls into his glass. Then thought better of it and filled his tumbler to the rim. After all, it was a day of
celebration
.

“Don’t be crude, Sebastian.” Mother folded her arms across her chest, a dark frown trained on his glass. “I hope you don’t plan on being soused for the ceremony. You should have a care as to how it will appear.” Ah, how uncharacteristic of her, worrying after the gossips.

A mirthless chuckle escaped him. “Would you have me play besotted new husband for the
ton’s
benefit?” He held the glass mockingly up in salute.

“I would have you not recite your marital vows before your family and bride drunk,” she said bluntly.

He took another sip. “Oh, I assure you, my bride cares only about her new title of duchess.”
Not him
. It had never been about him. His gut clenched. What a bloody fool he’d been. The lies had been contained within her eyes, every time she’d looked at him, but he’d been too blinded by the dream of her.

His mother appraised him with sad, searching eyes. “I do not know your Miss Rogers,” she began softly. That made two of them. He knew Hermione Rogers not at all. Foolishly he’d thought she saw in him more than a title, rather the man he was. He’d made so very much out of her teasing and often assessing, bold stare.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
“But I do know, you’ve seemed quite…taken.”

Sebastian took a sip of his drink. He had been. From the moment she’d slipped from Lord Denley’s ballroom and he’d trailed after her like a lovelorn fool. He gave his head a disgusted shake. “With a woman who was not real,” he spat. He finished his brandy on a long swallow. “Regardless of the circumstances of our relationship or surrounding our marriage, I’ve little choice but to wed her.” He set the glass down hard on the sideboard. “So you will have your grandbabies, the line will be secured, and I shall at last have a duchess.” Except, he’d only allowed himself to think about how those grandbabies would come to be…and imagined himself lying Hermione down, and laying claim to her lean, lithe frame. He grabbed the bottle of brandy yet again and reached for his glass, hating himself for desiring her as he still did.

His mother recoiled. “Is that what you believe? That I merely care about your responsibility to the title?” Shocked hurt underscored that question.

He flexed his jaw and poured himself another glass. “Come, Mother, we both have known through the years what my obligations and responsibilities were to the Mallen line. Father made them very clear. Do not suggest you are not in some part happy in my being forced to at last wed.”

She marched across the room then ripped the glass from his fingers. Liquid droplets of brandy splashed his fingers and stained her gloves. “You are certainly free to sulk like a petulant child, Sebastian, and you are entitled to your resentment.” She stalked over the floor and hurled the contents of the brandy into the empty hearth where it noisily sprayed the cold metal grate. “I am not making excuses for Miss Rogers, but if the reports are to be believed…” She held a hand up when he attempted to speak. “And as you’ve not spoken to me or anyone in three days now, I am forced to rely on the tales of gossip
, you
followed your Miss Rogers into Lord Brookfield’s office.” She gave him a pointed look. “And those are certainly not the actions of a gentleman.”

A dull flush heated his neck and he gritted his teeth. He’d not be made to feel culpable. Except, blast and hell, his bloody mother was right and he detested that she, regardless of how many years he’d attained, invariably always proved correct.

His misery was a product of his own carelessness. He’d followed Hermione. He’d observed her sad little smile, her subtle gaze, and he’d set after her, all the while knowing they were one reckless exchange away from ruin. Responsibility for his circumstances lay firmly with his own actions. If he’d not trotted after her like a lovesick swain then perhaps even now he’d be paying a visit to the lady’s father, requesting her hand, and working out the details of the betrothal contract, as opposed to the perfunctory, curt exchange he’d had with the gaunt man two days ago.

“Oh, Sebastian,” she said softly. He jumped as his mother touched his shoulder, not having noted her return. “All I’ve ever wanted was for my children to be happy.” Her lips twisted wryly. “Even though Society seems to find such sentiments a secondary concern to marital connections and amassed fortunes.” She squeezed his arm. “For everything that transpired at Lady Brookfield’s ball, you must try and remember what came before it with your Miss Rogers. You must search for what drove you to risk scandal to follow after her.” She gave him a sad smile. “Unless you move past your resentment and anger toward Hermione, you’ll never be happy.”

Would his mother truly defend the schemer who’d trapped him? “Do you imagine I can ever be happy with a woman who saw in me nothing more than a title?” Living with Hermione, he’d merely be reminded daily of his own poor judgment.

“I don’t know the answer to that.” Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “I only know marriage is until death, and that is quite a long time to live with this fury.” She hesitated a moment. “Your sister mentioned you seemed quite taken with the lady.”

He gave his head a derisive shake. What a fool Hermione had made of him. In front of his family, his friends, the whole of Society. “The lady is a fortune-hunter,” he said tiredly. “You’d defend her?” Was he the only logical one to see Hermione as the viper she was?

“Perhaps there is more to your Hermione’s actions that night.”

I’m so sorry.

For a moment he grasped with hope to his mother’s supposition. And he shoved aside such wistful yearnings. He scoffed. “Do not try and pardon her actions, Mother.” He remembered the stricken expression on her face. The apology in her eyes. Even with her betrayal, he’d ached to take her in his arms and drive back the pain he’d seen there. Fool. A bloody fool. He’d become
worse
than the sonnet-sprouting types.

“I intend to leave after the wedding,” his mother said quietly, unexpectedly.

“You do not have to do that,” he answered automatically. His marriage to Hermione would be one of obligation. There was no warmth or regard. Anything he’d felt or imagined he’d felt for the bold miss had died with the apology on her lips in Lord Brookfield’s office.

“Of course, I do.” His mother snorted. “You and Hermione will not need me underfoot. I intend to join Emmaline and her family in the country, following your wedding ceremony.” She hesitated. Something in her tone gave him pause. “Your sister is expecting,” she said cautiously as though he could be anything but happy for Emmaline and her husband. “She intends to retire to the country for her confinement.”

“That is wonderful.” He managed to squeeze the required words out past a tight throat. With their loving marriage, Emmaline and Drake, now expecting a second child would forever possess something denied him by Hermione’s greed. In the end, Sebastian would have a perfunctory partnership, devoid of any of the quiet, congenial companionship he’d at least hoped.

His mother took his hands in hers. “I trust you can find happiness with your Hermione.”

“She is not my Hermione,” he said, exhaustion in his tone. She had never been his. Everything she’d said, every meeting had been a lie.

Do you imagine there is something wrong in reading about love and passion, Your Grace…?
The memory as she’d been that day passionately defending her Gothic novel slipped into his mind, refusing to stay buried. The muscles of his stomach tensed. Had anything about the lady been real?

His mother’s lips tugged slightly at the corners. “Alas, Sebastian, she
is
your Hermione.” With that, she gave his hands a final squeeze and then slipped out of the room.

He stared after her. Yes, it would seem Hermione would forever belong to him.

Whether he wished it or not.

“I don’t know why I can’t attend the ceremony.”

As Hermione stared at her wan reflection in the chipped bevel mirror, she realized the great irony in her sister’s pleading. Addie wanted to attend the wedding between the Duke of Mallen and her older sister, more than anything.

And more than anything, Hermione wished she herself could be anywhere but where she would be in…She looked to the small table clock at her bedside. One hour. In a mere sixty minutes. Thirty-six hundred seconds. Her stomach churned and she fisted the annoyingly bright, canary yellow skirts her aunt had insisted upon for Hermione’s wardrobe. No one should wear this obscene color. No one. Particularly not on this miserable, shameful day.
Her wedding day.
She pressed her eyes closed.