Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(14)

One could not abandon inspiration when it at last presented itself. Even if inspiration came at the most awkward time and place, inside her host’s office in the midst of his formal ball.

Hermione slid into the leather seat. The aged fabric crackled loudly in the silent space. She picked up the tiny pencil and paused shaking her head in annoyance. Nefarious Duke. Mr. Werksman could not have had him be a mere earl or lesser lord. He may as well have ordered her to name the Prince Regent hero of her latest work and sent her out after the rotund monarch, in the name of research.

She disentangled the ribbon at her wrist and spread the card upon the immaculate surface of Lord Denley’s desk. Pencil in hand, she began to write. Engrossed in copying the handful of words and ideas she’d scratched earlier upon her card, she only dimly registered the slow creak. Of the door.

She blinked down at the parchment.

“Good evening.” The perfectly clipped tones bespoke the stranger’s lofty status.

She raised her head with a jerk. A shriek escaped her lips at the familiar, golden-haired gentleman framed in the entrance of the room. As if he’d noted her interest, the nobleman who’d captured her attention a short while ago, smiled.

Hermione shoved her seat back. It scraped along the floor and tipped over with a resounding boom that echoed off the walls. She glared at the intruder who’d stolen her solitude, even as her heart thumped madly at the sheer beauty of him. “You, sir. What do you want?” she asked, pleased her voice didn’t shake as she uttered that imperious question.

He entered the room and closed the door with a soft, decisive click.

She swallowed hard. Oh, dear.





C





hapter 5

When Waxham noted Sebastian’s interest in the odd young lady, he’d scoffed at the idea he’d be attracted to a rail-thin lady with nearly black hair and pale cheeks. Yet, as the tendons of her throat worked with the force of her swallow, he paused to appreciate the elegant length of her graceful neck.

The lady’s fingers tightened about the little pencil in her hand. She waved her ineffectual, makeshift weapon. “Did you hear me, sir? I asked what you wanted.”

Amusement pulled at his lips. The spirited beauty appeared ready to bury the tip of her assuredly dull pencil in his belly if he so much as uttered the wrong word.

She narrowed her eyes, the sapphire blue irises freezing him. He’d been wrong in his earlier assessment of the young lady. A woman who possessed a piercing blue stare such as hers could never be considered plain.

“Is something wrong with you, sir?” she barked. “Turn around and—”

“I’m quite certain Lord Denley doesn’t have a daughter.”

Her words died on her lips. She tipped her head.

He motioned to her. “Or perhaps you are Lord Denley’s lover?”

Twin splashes of crimson suffused her cheeks, putting him in mind of a summer berry. “I beg your pardon?” The indignant, maidenly modesty confirmed his earliest supposition—hers was no clandestine tryst between two lovers.

Sebastian folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the door, not knowing how to account for the lightening in his chest. “Well, if you aren’t a daughter, which I realize you assuredly aren’t as Lord Denley has but two sons, and you’re not a lover, there must be something to your visiting his private office.”

Her eyes formed round moons. She dropped her gaze hastily to the piles of parchment she’d removed from their host’s desk and then her gaze flew back to his. “Are you one of those sons?”

He cocked his head.

“Or perhaps you are Lady Denley’s lover?”

A sharp bark of laughter burst from his lips. Nearly seventy, the woman would be forty years his senior. His earlier intrigue redoubled at this innocent miss who’d speak so plainly and toss his words back at him of forbidden lovers without so much as a blush. Sebastian pushed away from the door and strolled over to the desk. He lowered his voice. “I assure you, Lady Denley is not my lover.” He infused a husky, seductive whisper to his words that sent the fey lady scurrying from behind the desk.

She rushed to the opposite side of the desk, placing the large piece of furniture between them, a form of protection. He lowered his hands upon the opposite side. “Then h-her s-son.” The faint tremble to her words belied the courageous rejoinder and the insolent toss of her black tresses. The abrupt movement freed another strand.

“Neither,” he replied smoothly.

He dropped his gaze to the papers littering Denley’s desk and damned the dim lighting that made it nearly impossible to make out the words she’d marked down. She followed his scrutiny and hurriedly leaned across the wide desk, gathering together the pages, arranging them into a neat stack. “Then what do you want?” She pulled the sheets protectively to her chest.

In a world where no one questioned what he did, why he did it, or whether or not he should do it, this woman boldly challenged him. The honesty of her reaction was oddly…refreshing. Of course, that would all change the moment she realized she conversed with a duke, but for now he appreciated the uncomplicatedness of being any other gentleman.

She furrowed her brow. “Is something wrong with your hearing, then?” The tentative question at odds with the spitfire’s previously scathing tone.