Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(17)

“Oh, I am a rather astute gauge of character, Miss Rogers.” Somehow, when uttered in that very ducal tone, his earlier opinion didn’t seem at all like a compliment, not that she’d considered it one, but just now it was quite clear.

For the lack of brooding in this particular duke, he evinced the other qualities quite perfectly.

Dry wit.

Haughty.

Commanding…

She took a step toward him, eying him with a renewed interest.

“What is it?” He straightened from Lord Denley’s desk and took a step away.

She continued to advance. “Nothing,” she murmured. Why, perhaps she’d unfairly dismissed him, after all. He retreated until the back of his legs knocked into the leather wing-back chair opposite Lord Denley’s desk. And with a shortage of dukes she couldn’t afford to be too choosy. She gave a nod. He would do. Rather, he would have to do.

Hermione dropped a curtsy. “Good evening, Your Grace. I shall leave you to your thoughts.” She turned on her heel, crossed to the entrance of the room, but something made her pause. She shot a final look over her shoulder.

The duke stood, studying her through thick, hooded lashes. She swallowed past a tight throat. Yes, he far more belonged as the subject of a sculptor’s work. For even with all the words she craftily assembled, she could never manage to string together an adequate number of them to capture his beauty.

He quirked an eyebrow.

Her cheeks burned at being discovered studying him so. Hermione fumbled with the lock and jerked the door open. She fled Lord Denley’s office. Now that she’d located a duke, nay, this specific duke, well it shouldn’t be at all difficult to ascertain the gentleman’s whereabouts.

She disregarded the odd fluttering in her belly that surely had far more to do with the sudden excitement to return home to begin work on the story tasked her by Mr. Werksman. Her ruffled skirts flapped noisily as she sprinted down the halls toward the ballroom. Though, if she were being truthful, at least with herself, she could admit that she, and every other young woman favoring those dark, brooding dukes had been wrong.

There was something also intriguing about the too-affable, too-handsome, golden-haired ones as well.





C





hapter 6

The following morning Hermione picked her way down a crowded Whitechapel Street. The sole footman in her family’s employ trailed close behind. Not one given to a flare for the dramatics, Hermione readily admitted she found solace in his presence. If for no other reason than the flinty-eyed stares directed her way. And yet, she stole a glance at the vendors hawking their wares, part of her thrilled with the blur of sound and bustling activity. Possible story scenes played out within her mind…she gave her head a shake. “Focus,” she muttered under her breath. She needed to focus on her upcoming and unannounced meeting.

Hermione trained her gaze on the small wooden sign atop an increasingly familiar establishment. Following her meeting with the duke last evening, she’d been inspired to pay her publisher a visit. The dreaded difficulty she’d had penning this blasted story replaced by sudden genius. It was that inspiration that sent her out now, without an appointment, to Mr. Werksman.

Hermione paused at the establishment tucked between two shops. “I’ll be but a moment, Herbert,” she said to the faithful footman.

He touched the brim of his cap and rushed back to the carriage, setting himself up as a kind of sentry outside Mr. Werksman’s publishing house.

She climbed the three steps and pressed the handle of the door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit quarters. She peered around the empty, noiseless shop. The clatter of passing carriage wheels and the shouts of vendors penetrated the crystal panes at the front of the small space. “Hullo? Mr. Werksman?” Her quietly spoken question may as well have been shouted for all the force with which it resounded off the walls. Hermione wandered deeper into her publisher’s office, toward the cluttered desk. She frowned. “Mr. Werksman?” she called again.

An annoyed rumbling met her question. The bespectacled, bald, smallish man exited from a side room off the back of the shop. He continued muttering to himself, his head bent low over a sheet of paper in his hand.

“Mr. Werksman?” she repeated, this time louder.

The man looked up from his work. “You, again, Mr. Michael Michaelmas.” She’d met him but two times since she’d arrived in London and apparently had exhausted his patience. He tugged a kerchief from the front of his coat and dabbed at his moist brow. The pages in his hands slipped to the floor. “I didn’t summon you.” He scratched his brow. “Did I?” he muttered, more to himself. The first two meetings had been at his bequest. “I don’t think I did.” This one was not.

Hermione rushed over. She knelt and proceeded to collect the sheets. “You did not,” she said hurriedly.

“And your story is not due for another fortnight.”

She fisted the pages in her hand. “Three weeks,” she amended. She forced herself to lighten her grip and took a steadying breath. “That is, we’d agreed upon three additional weeks.” Hermione rose awkwardly with the bundle in her hands. She held them out. “However, there was a matter I wished to speak with you about.”

He accepted the pages without so much as a thank you. “I am quite busy, Mr. Michaelmas.”