Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(21)

She drew the curtain back and stared out at the passing scene. Yet, for all the ways in which the Duke of Mallen typified a duke, there had been a charming smile, and intelligence in his eyes.

I did not realize Lord Denley had a daughter…

A smile played on her lips. And quick-witted. The duke had a sense of humor. As the carriage rattled on, she released the curtain. The fabric fluttered back into place. Which was why her duke would make an ideal hero, deserving of a story.

She blinked. Her duke. She shook her head. She’d not meant her duke. Rather, her duke…for literary purposes, of course. Hermione had no need for a duke. None at all.

Well, with the exception of salvation for her youngest siblings, rescue from their dire financial circumstances, and protection for Elizabeth. In those regards, she could very well benefit from a duke of her own. The not-literary-fiction duke.

The carriage rocked to a slow halt before her family’s modest townhouse. A moment later, the driver opened the door. “Miss Hermione.”

She accepted his hand. “Thank you.”

He tipped the brim of his hat. She paused on the pavement to consider Papa’s townhouse. The red brick fa?ade cracked and aged, the black paint of the front door chipped and faded. With a sigh, she started toward the also cracked and chipped steps. She’d come to London but once as a child. Otherwise, her family had not left the confines of their once happy, country cottage in Surrey. She’d found herself desperately missing the star-filled night skies, the clean, country air. Until today. Until him.

Elliot, who served as the butler, footman, and in whatever other capacity he was required, stood at the entrance. “Hello, miss,” he said as she swept inside. He closed the door behind her.

“Hullo, Elliot.” She loosened the strings of her bonnet and started above stairs. “Is my father indisposed?” The question needn’t even be asked. Invariably he was. The baronet, not even fifty years of age, had been indisposed for the past six years, ever since Mama’s death.

The young servant inclined his head. “He is in his office.”

Hermione faltered, and caught her balance. She readjusted her path and forged ahead to Papa’s office. She’d seen her father a handful of times since their arrival in London. He remained otherwise shut away in his office or chambers. The wood floors creaked in protest as she walked down the small, narrow corridor toward her father’s office.

She paused outside the room and ducked her head inside the small opening in the doorway. The pale, gaunt stranger with ashen skin was someone she no longer recognized. His gaze fixed, unblinking at the window. She shoved the door open and slipped inside. “Hullo, Papa.” She removed her bonnet.

The baronet blinked. His eyes registered recognition. “Hermie, dear,” he greeted, his tone more lucid than she remembered.

Hermione closed the door behind her. How she detested the abhorrent name. No heroine would ever be given such a dreadful moniker as Hermie. She made her way over and set her bonnet down on the only open space upon the surface of the old, oaken desk. As she claimed a seat, she studied the stacks of ledgers strewn haphazardly about the desktop.

He followed her stare. A mottled flush stained his cheeks. “Er, don’t be worrying yourself about any of this. Not any longer,” he insisted, his tone far less than convincing.

“Papa,” she cajoled.

He pressed his fingers along the sides of his temple. “It will get better,” he mumbled.

It wouldn’t. And if Elizabeth’s circumstances were discovered, it would indeed become a good deal worse before it “got better”.

He gave her a weak smile. “And you’re lovely, Hermie. I imagine you’ll make quite an advantageous match.”

“Oh, Papa,” she said softly. Addie’s loyalty came from this very man. Her sister, though likely remembered little of the man who’d hoisted his children atop his shoulders and carried them through the modest walls of their cottage, running from make believe fire-breathing dragons. “I don’t imagine there is a respectable gentleman willing to overlook our circumstances.”

Papa leaned back in his seat. “Pish-posh,” he said with far more spirit than he’d exuded in so very long. He waved a hand. “There are any number of handsome, young gentleman who will be quite taken with your beauty.” He leaned forward once more. “And more importantly, Hermie dear, your intelligence. He will make you an offer.”

She wondered about this fictional ‘he’. With the romantic sliver of her soul that crafted happily ever after moments for equally fictional young ladies she wished the fantastical gentleman her father spoke of possessed a golden crop of loose curls.

He, the hopeless romantic to their serenely beautiful, calm mother. Hermione had penned her first story at his knee. He’d looked over her shoulder and asked encouraging questions and his support had overshadowed Mother’s displeasure who’d realized even at fourteen, Hermione’s likely fate was that of a bluestocking.

“Perhaps,” she said, noncommittally.

“You shall see, Hermie. There is some handsome chap who’ll capture your heart.”

Again, the harsh angular plains of the Duke of Mallen’s face danced through her thoughts.

Father wagged a bushy black brow, sprinkled with white. “Well, who is he, my dear?”

A shock of heat slapped her cheeks. She gave her head a shake. “No one,” she said quickly. She’d become so accustomed to her father being a shell of a human being she hardly remembered how to react to his moments of teasing before he retreated back into himself. She reached inside her reticule and fished out a handful of coins, then placed them in front of him. “I received these earlier this week.”