Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(20)

She’d been nearly trampled by a carriage. “Fine,” he said, his voice gruff. Most other ladies would have been in histrionics and then have feigned a swoon to capture the duke’s attention.

She cupped her hand around her ear. “What?” The wind carried her soft laughter to his ears.

They certainly wouldn’t boldly wink and tease and ask after his well-being. He drew to an abrupt halt, placing a sizeable, safe distance between them. After all, he really should have a care. Even though they were nowhere near the fashionable parts visited by the polished members of the peerage, it wouldn’t do to be seen speaking with an engaging, unchaperoned lady.

A liveried footman appeared just beyond Hermione’s shoulders, his eyes briefly met Sebastian’s and then the young man dropped them to the ground. She was not alone. The loyal servant’s message to Sebastian, as clear as if the words had been bellowed by the stout fellow. She continued walking toward him, stopping just a foot away.

Yes, he should leave. “Are you all right?” Instead, he remained. A gentle wind whipped about them and a piece of muddied velum caught against his legs. Sebastian made to dust aside the scrap, when a curl slipped free of her chignon.

“I’m quite fine,” she said with more cheer than he’d expect of a woman who’d nearly met her death. The silken strand, an intriguing shade, not quite brown and not quite black robbed him of breath. Had he truly considered her plain? “Quite careless of me. Do you know…?” No, but he would like to know whatever question had been on her lips. Then her eyes went wide.

He followed her look of horrified fascination down his legs to the piece of street trash stuck to him.

Sebastian bent to retrieve it. Mud smeared the page, obscuring the words. He made to ball the trash when his eyes snagged upon a handful of words.

Charming…He skimmed the sheet. Affable. Green eyes…Du…

Hermione yanked the page from his fingers. He stared unblinking at his now empty hands. Had she just ripped the sheet from his hands? Sebastian stared at her bemused.

She backed away from him, horror in her eyes. “You shouldn’t be touching refuse from the street.”

Sebastian matched her steps. “Because I am a duke,” he said, taking great delight in her sudden unease. Good, he didn’t care to believe he was the only one with this inexplicable awareness to their body’s closeness.

She stopped and jutted her chin out. “There is that.” Why did the lady sound so very disappointed over the fact that he was a duke?

He couldn’t resist teasing her. “Ah, you were protecting me from… sullied hands?” He swept a bow. “I am in your debt, madam.”

She ran her gaze over his face, and silence stretched between them. Then, at last, she said, “Hermione.”

He looked at her questioningly.

People bustled past, casting curious glances at them. “You’d agreed to call me Hermione,” she said on a faint whisper, gone were all traces of teasing. With that she spun on her heel and made her way back to the frowning servant and her waiting carriage.

Sebastian stared after her. Perhaps he’d had the right of it at Denley’s. The lady had captivated him.





C





hapter 7

Hermione rushed across the street to the waiting carriage, careful this time to avoid speeding conveyances. Herbert stood at the opened door, waiting to hand her up. All the while, her skin prickled with the heat of Sebastian’s gaze upon her retreating form.

“Thank you, Herbert,” she said with a smile as she climbed inside. The door closed behind her and she lightened her grip upon the muddied page with notes for her next story.

The carriage lurched forward. The steady clip clop of the horses’ hooves marked the path home. She really should be focused on the story due to Mr. Werksman. With a groan, she laid her head back on the seat squabs. Instead, Sebastian—not the duke, not His Grace, not the Duke of Mallen—Sebastian had infiltrated her thoughts.

He’d rescued her from certain harm, and for the slightest moment interest, a man’s interest of her as a woman, had blazed to life in his penetrating eyes. She groaned. “Don’t be a ninny.” Of course one such as him would never be interested in one such as her.

He was a duke. Do you take me for one of those indolent dukes? His amused words danced around the chambers of her mind. Only, for his teasing there had been merit to his charge. She’d never considered the possibility that dukes were…well, people. Sebastian had initially represented a much needed figure for her research. He would say ducal things and act in ducal ways, and she would transform those details into a fully fleshed character for her book.

But he was real. Her heart fluttered. So very real.

The dread of telling this story lifted, replaced with such eagerness her fingers twitched with an urge to pick up a pen and begin his story.

Her heart paused. His, as in the charming duke. Not Sebastian. She stuffed her thoroughly muddied page back into her reticule. Silly bee. He was merely the source of inspiration behind her story. All authors required inspiration. Hers had merely come in the unlikeliest place—Lord Denley’s office—in the unlikeliest form—the Duke of Mallen.

“Sebastian,” she murmured into the quiet of the carriage. She tasted the feel of his name upon her lips. It was a strong name. A commanding one born to the role of all-powerful duke. There had been the hint of arrogance and an aura of power to the striking gentleman and Hermione had always detested the arrogant, imperious types. Those fellows were reserved for the pages where they might be redeemed.