Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(19)

From across the street, her footman held a hand up in greeting. Hermione rushed down the steps, and then a prickle of awareness raced down her spine. She paused at the edge of the street and glanced in both directions, blaming her overactive imagination on her writer’s soul…and then stilled.

She fisted the page in her hand. As though she’d conjured him out of her thoughts, walking at a brisk pace down the street, his long, black cloak swirling about his ankles, strode the duke. Her heart thudded wildly and she knew she looked a lack-wit, frozen as she was at the edge of the street, staring after him.

Fate.

She gave her head a shake. Not fate. She’d ceased in believing in fate a long time ago. Earlier than most young ladies. Convenience. That is what this was—a matter of convenience. And tugging her cloak close and, pulling her bonnet forward, she did what any bluestocking researching the actions of a charming duke might do…she made to follow him.

“Miss?” Herbert called out, concern in his tone.

Hermione looked back and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be but a…” She collided into a wall. Stars danced behind her eyes and she tossed her arms out to keep from falling over and her page of notes danced through the dirtied streets. Dazed from the force of her collision, she gave her head a shake and then registered the steadying hands upon her shoulders.

She inched her eyes up. Higher. Higher. Ever higher. Blast, he was tall.

“Miss Rogers. We meet again,” the duke drawled in that lazy baritone.

She swallowed hard. Oh, dear.



So many lessons had been drilled into Sebastian by his father on practicality and logic that he’d long ago ceased to believe in matters of fate.

On the other hand, trained to be wary of a suspicious young lady’s actions, particularly as they pertained to his title and fortune, he recognized not all was as it seemed with Miss Hermione Rogers.

“Miss Rogers,” he greeted again.

She dropped a belated, and by his way of thinking insolent, curtsy. “Your Grace.” A becoming rosy blush stained her cheeks and her tantalizing pink tongue shot out to trail along her lower lip. “What are you doing here?” she asked, the question upon his own lips. Her color deepened. “That is…” He quirked an eyebrow. It was not every day a young lady called into question his actions. “What I meant to say is…” And he preferred the honesty of Hermione’s response.

He angled his head, sparing her the pained search for proper words. “I serve on the board of London Hospital and I’ve a meeting.”

“London Hospital?” she repeated as though he’d announced his intentions to overthrow the king and name himself head royal. “But you are a duke,” she blurted.

Sebastian winked. “Do you take me for one of those indolent dukes?” he asked, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

Miss Rogers blinked and pulled herself from the momentary shock that had befuddled her. “You serve on the board of a hospital,” she repeated, more to herself. She raised her hand at a peculiar angle, as though poised to write.

“I do.”

She widened her eyes.

Did the lady really find it so peculiar for him to have responsibilities beyond—

Miss Rogers spun around, her gaze moving frantically about the bustling road. She placed a careless step out into the street.

“Bloody hell.” He yanked her back just as a fast-moving carriage rattled past. The alacrity of the movement knocked her bonnet askew. It hung awkwardly off to the side of her head. His heart thundered filled with a surge of terror by how close she’d come to being trampled.

Hermione’s eyes formed wide circles in her face, her skin turning a pale white. She touched her fingers to her lips. “You saved me,” she breathed. Then her hand fell to her side. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said softly, her eyes boldly held his.

When every other man, woman, and child looked away, she met his gaze proudly, unwavering. For the first time in the course of his life, a woman saw behind the title, the rank, the wealth—seeing only him. He cleared his throat, not knowing why her reaction should matter. “Sebastian.”

She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t—?”

And yet it mattered.

Sebastian captured her gloved hand. “Considering these unconventional circumstances, I imagine you might refer to me by my Christian name.” He raised her knuckles to his lips, damning the fabric between them, aching to know the silken softness of her skin.

Her lips formed a moue of surprise and then mindful of passersby, he released her. Did disappointment flare in those fathomless blue irises?

She gave a jaunty toss of her windswept locks. “That wouldn’t be proper…” Silver flecks of mischief twinkled in her eyes. And then she whispered, “Sebastian.” She gave a little wink, wreaking havoc on his senses with each bold movement. “And I suppose you should call me, Hermione,” She colored again. “Only because of the unconventional circumstances, of course,” she said, a slow, mischievous grin turned her full lips up.

And that smile, the slightest movement of muscles transformed her into a spirited, unconventional siren.

He retreated. Panic pounded in his chest, blurring with the loud shouts of street vendors hawking their wares.

She tipped her head at an endearing angle, that enticing, slightly too-full mouth slipped into a frown. “Your Grace?” Concern threaded those two words. “Are you all right?”