Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(10)

Her aunt cleared her throat. “Lord Whitmore, this is my niece, Miss Hermione Rogers.”

He swept his arms wide and dropped a deep bow, so low she suspected the heavy amount of oil in his greased, tight red curls could send him toppling to the floor. Her lips twitched. Now, that would indeed be a delicious piece to any stor—“Ahem.” Lord Whitmore peered down the length of his nose at her.

Hermione sank into a deep curtsy. “An honor, my lord.”

“Of course it is.”

She furrowed her brow at his cool, clipped tones. A hero this one would never be…in any story.

“My niece is recently from the country.” Agatha pursed her lips, likely wishing she had more praise to sing of her niece than…she’s from the country. “Isn’t that right, Hermione.”

“It is,” she answered automatically. Her aunt’s gaze narrowed. Hermione’s mind spun. But really, what did Aunt Agatha expect her to contribute to such a statement? “Er…that is…I am from the country.” There, that was a touch more elaborate.

“I imagine you find London quite stimulating from the tedium and provincialness of the country.” He tugged at the lapels of his coat. “You know, the lack of stimulating discourse with the less intelligent, simple country dwellers.”

At his arrogant supposition of those living outside his hallowed streets of London, Hermione narrowed her eyes. She far preferred the honest sincerity in the villagers of Surrey to the condescending lords and ladies who mocked with both their words and eyes. She schooled her features into an expressionless mask. “Oh, indeed. I imagine those country dwellers,” from which she herself was one, “wouldn’t even have the intelligence enough to realize the word provincialness is in fact not a word.”

Aunt Agatha’s eyebrows shot to her hairline.

Lord Whitmore scratched his brow. Then, a sudden rush of color blazed across his cheeks. “W-well.” He jerked on the lapels of his coat once more, spun on his heel, and marched off.

It really was such a shame when one possessed such a name as Whitmore and happened to be wholly witless. Another suitor scratched from the proverbial list. And by the tightness of her aunt’s mouth—a once more displeased Aunt Agatha.

She fought back a sigh.

“Hermione Rogers, if you continue this way, you’ll remain unwed, and you require a husband more than any of the other ladies here.”

That certainly didn’t seem like something her aunt could speak of in such absolute terms. Oh, it was most likely there were no other scandalized, impoverished families present, at least to the extent her family had managed to bungle it up.

Still, her aunt surely could appreciate that, though Hermione didn’t expect one of those dashing, sonnet-writing gentlemen, she still aspired for at least polite …and certainly not a cruel one. “He called into question the intelligence of all those I—”

“I don’t care if he called into question God’s creation of the universe, you need a husband,” her aunt gritted out between tightly clenched lips.

So, it would seem Aunt Agatha could not appreciate Hermione’s desire for, at the very least, a nice gentleman. Now she knew.

Her aunt drew in an audible breath, more flustered than Hermione remembered. “Now, Hermione,” Aunt Agatha began, “I promised your father I would see you wed to a wealthy, respectable,” but not respectful, “nobleman. I am doing this for your mother. My sister. I intend to present those who’d be willing to have you.”

A snort escaped Hermione, which she buried into her palm as a cough. “Pardon me.” How very hopeless her aunt made her sound.

Only the hint of Aunt Agatha’s nearly black irises were revealed through the narrow slit of her gaze. Her aunt motioned to the seat. “I’ll return in a short while with another gentleman and this time I expect you to be perfectly polite and proper—”

She opened her mouth.

“Even if he insults the whole of the ballroom. Make. A. Match.” With that, her aunt stormed off, marching through the crowd with a military precision better reserved for the king’s army than a matchmaking aunt.

With a sigh, Hermione reclaimed her seat. A determined matchmaker was what her aunt was. “All stories need a determined matchmaker,” she murmured under her breath. She picked up her pencil and wrote a handful of words onto her still partner-less dance card and then let it flutter back to her side. She studied her aunt’s forward progress through the crowd. She really was grateful to Aunt Agatha for throwing her support behind her and acting as her chaperone, but really, did she possess such a low opinion that she would—Hermione leaned forward in her seat. That she would… Her aunt…

…now spoke to a rotund gentleman. The corpulent fellow scratched at his sage waistcoat. Oh, dear. No, her aunt wouldn’t expect her to make a match with a stranger closer to Papa’s age than Hermione’s twenty-two years. Perhaps the greying gentleman was merely a friend of Uncle Horace. The man tugged out a kerchief and dabbed the gleaming beads of sweat upon his drenched brow. With his eyes, he followed her aunt’s less than subtle point across the ballroom, through the sea of dancers.

Right to Hermione.

And though Hermione would never be so shallow as to determine a gentleman’s suitability by his appearance alone, she would be particular enough to avoid the suit of one older gentleman who licked his lips, leering at her like she was a glazed sugar biscuit.