Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(15)

He snorted. “My hearing is quite fine, madam.” He had some years before he was one of those monocle-wearing dukes with squinty eyes and an inability to detect mocking words. Or rather he hoped, anyway.

The hard glint was back in her sapphire blue eyes, turning them nearly black. “Then what do you—?”

“I merely sought to determine what an unfamiliar young lady was doing stealing through her host’s home, invading his office, and rummaging through his desk.”

He expected her to be properly contrite. Instead, she tipped her chin up a notch. “You’ve also stolen through Lord Denley’s home, invaded his office—”

“Ah, yes, but I merely did so in pursuit of you.”

“Oh.” She clamped her lips tight. A stretch of silence marched on. Then she widened her eyes. “Oh, my. You imagine… That is… You believe I have nefarious intentions.”

His mouth twisted ruefully at the slight emphasis on that one word. Studying her, so slim he could span her waist with his hands, there was nothing the least bit threatening about her. “I did wonder what would send a lady fleeing the amusements of the ballroom for—”

“Privacy,” she blurted. “I wanted privacy.”

Well, he could both understand and appreciate that. The chatter and tittering of lords and ladies through crowded ballrooms grew tedious. Yet, she clutched that little card close to the pages in her hands, indicating more than a desire for solitude found her in Denley’s office. He stepped around the desk. She matched his step. In the opposite direction. He continued advancing.

“Y-you know, y-you really shouldn’t be here.” She waved a hand. A page slipped free and fluttered to the floor. “The whole r-risk of d-discovery business.”

His lips twitched. “Are you a fortune hunter?”

Outrage flared to life in her lively eyes. “Certainly not.”

He stepped on the page she’d dropped. Not taking his gaze from her, he bent and picked up the sheet.

She flew over and yanked it from his hands. “I’ll take that.”

He expected her to seek refuge behind Denley’s desk, except she remained rooted to the spot, so close a mere handbreadth separated them. The lavender scent of her wafted about, the sweet summer scent bright in the gloom of the somber office, a seductive reminder of how much he missed the country. How much he detested London. “Do you have a name?” Until now.

“A name?” She eyed him as though he’d sprouted a second head. “Of course. I…” Color stained her cheeks. “Oh, are you asking my name?” She spoke on a rush. “If so, you’d really need just ask as opposed to wondering whether I do have one. As all people have them. Names,” she clarified. Then she took a step backward. Suspicion glared from her eyes. “Why do you want to know my identity? Do you intend to tell my au—?” She pressed her lips together.

Her aunt. So, the young lady was Lady Pemberly’s niece. Odd, he’d never heard mention of the childless countess having a niece. “I assure you, I don’t intend to tattle,” he drawled. Then, he didn’t pay a jot of attention to any gossip. “I ceased the business of tattling sometime in the schoolrooms.” He was a duke, and all.

“Adults don’t tattle.” She held a finger up. “They gossip. Tattling, gossiping, all really the same.”

He blinked. Had the impertinent miss just accused him, Sebastian Fitzhugh, the 5th Duke of Mallen, of being a gossip? He didn’t know if he should be amused by her outlandish charge or annoyed. He settled for a healthy dose of both sentiments. “Your name,” he pressed in the ducal command he’d perfected as a small boy.

Despite the papers in her hands, she folded her arms at her chest, noisily wrinkling the sheets. “Are you asking me? It’s really quite rude making demands, of ladies no less.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are forgiven.”

He opened his mouth to point out that in no uncertain terms had he been apologizing when she dropped a hasty curtsy. “Miss Hermione Rogers.”

Hermione Rogers. He rolled the name around in his mind, searching for familiarity of a slip of woman with the name but came up empty. However, it suited her. A hint mischievous and a touch interesting—she seemed very much a Miss Hermione Rogers.

“And I suppose I should have the courtesy of knowing your name, sir?”

He sketched a bow. “Sebastian Fitzhugh.” He braced for the moment when her insolence fled to be replaced with the subservient simpering of other young ladies her age. “The 5th Duke of Mallen.”

Her mouth fell open. The paper and pencil in her hand fluttered to the floor in a noisy rustling of white sheets, landing in a disorganized heap at her feet. “You’re a duke,” she blurted.

Cynicism pulled at his lips. He’d grown accustomed to the clamoring for his title.

Her probing gaze took in every inch of him, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. “You are a duke.”

Sebastian bristled at being evaluated as though she were some great artist and he were the specimen she’d selected for the subject of her work, wishing for once a young woman could see him as more than a title and herself as potential future duchess and—

“You are a duke.” She sighed, and gave her head a forlorn shake.