Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(26)

“I’m cold.”

The unrelenting wind whipped at Hermione’s skirts; the rain battered her face. She stole a sideways glance at Hugh.

He scowled and tugged the brim of his black cap over his eyes.

Guilt tugged at her heart. She really shouldn’t have dragged her siblings along on her search of Hyde Park.

“Papa wouldn’t be pleased to discover you’d dragged us off into the rain,” her brother called out. They both knew the lie to his words.

At one time, their father would have cared. Before Mama died of her wasting illness, Papa had been attentive and diligent. Not this empty shell of a man, who didn’t know if one, two, three, or all of his children had wandered off, or worse, allowed one of his children to be raped by a charming nobleman.

She shoved aside the momentary twinge of self-pity for her family’s changed circumstances and devoted her attention instead to the sudden truth—Sebastian Fitzhugh, the Duke of Mallen was not here, nor would he likely be coming. Rain stung her cheeks.

“Miss, the children really should not be out in this weather,” pleaded the maid, Winifred. Teeth chattering, she pulled her cloak close.

No, indeed they should not. Again guilt flared. A young woman, touting along two younger siblings, earned a good deal less scrutiny than a single young lady in the market for a husband. “Very well,” she said on another sigh. “Come along then.” She turned and motioned her brother and sister forward.

Addie groaned. “But I don’t want to return home. Papa is ever so dreary, and Aunt Agatha will be coming over. She’s forever scolding me about not being a proper young lady.”

“That is because you aren’t a proper young lady,” Hugh shot back.

As they began the long trek back to the carriage, Hermione’s siblings continued their bickering.

Another rumble of thunder filled the sky. Only… She furrowed her brow, steady and constant like horses hooves pounding—Her heart quickened and she slowed her stride, all the while scanning the horizon.

It is him.

It had to be.

Battling back the excitement swirling in her breast, Hermione shot a look back over her shoulder at Addie and Hugh as they marched back toward the carriage. “I dropped my reticule at the side of the river,” she lied. “Take the children back. I’ll join you shortly.”

Winifred opened her mouth to protest, but a streak of lightning stole across the greyish-black sky and she jumped, hurrying after her charges.

Hermione waited a moment and then dashed back down the rain-covered grass toward the gravel path alongside the Serpentine. Her vision obscured by the heavy brim of her bonnet, she yanked the strings free and tugged the sopping garment from her head. She did a quick search of the grounds. Where was he? With determined steps she continued on, down toward the riding trail, the thunder of hoofbeats growing closer and closer.

Except with each step she took, the more unlikely it was that the lone rider was her Duke of Mallen. No duke would dare be caught riding in this chilled, rainy spring day, certainly no sensible one. Perhaps the brooding dukes, hiding some dark secret would brave thunder and lightning and welcome the fury of the storm. She rather suspected her nefarious duke required a tremendous storm.

Rain dripped into her eyes and she brushed back the moisture. A midnight black horse burst into view. She squinted as the creature bearing down on her drew closer. Her heart thudded wildly.

Sebastian. Her charming duke.

Then Hermione did what all great heroines attempting to gain attention from their prospective suitor did within the pages of a book. She rooted herself to the riding path. And waited. And waited. And—

Bloody hell!

A scream lodged in her throat as she stared down the eyes of the fierce, black beast. Hermione dove out of the path of the galloping stallion then tumbled, rolled and toppled over herself. She skidded down the slight slope. Her breath caught with the inevitability of disaster. She slid toward the water. A slight breath of relief escaped her as she stopped one slippered foot from the edge of the Serpentine. “Humph.” She stared up at the thick, billowing storm clouds above. Rain pelted her face and blinded her. Well, that is certainly not how I’d intended for this to go. She grunted and shoved herself onto her elbows conceding there was nothing even slightly romantic about a lady being caught in the rain, on her buttocks with her skirts rucked about her knees.

Oh, every last heroine she’d written who’d found herself thus was surely nodding their fictional heads in approval. A despairing laugh bubbled up past her lips.

His curse split the tempestuous storm. “Are you hurt?”

She didn’t think she’d been hurt. Then she registered the deep, mellifluous baritone. She located the owner of that husky question.

The Duke of Mallen cut an impressive path toward her, his black cloak whipped wildly in the wind. The muscles of her throat worked with the force of her swallow as she revised her earlier, impulsive opinion of rainstorms and injured ladies.

He dropped to one knee beside her and doffed his hat then tossed it aside. Concern lined the angular plains of his cheeks. “Have you been injured, miss…” He lifted his gaze to hers and the momentary flash of recognition sparked in the emerald irises of his eyes. “Miss Rogers,” he greeted as formally as if they were meeting in a drawing room and not in the empty Hyde Park with rivulets of rain running into his mouth.