Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(28)

“I find I’m intrigued, Miss Rogers,” he said when the empty London streets pulled into focus.

She stole an upward glance at him as they continued walking. “And what has you so intrigued, Your Grace?” She searched for a plausible explanation as to what would send a young lady out in this raging storm.

“Your dance card.”

She glanced at her wrist, wrinkling her brow in search of this supposed dance card.

“Two nights ago,” he clarified. “Throughout the night you penned notes upon your card.”

“Oh.” Her mind whirled rapidly. “Er… I was…” What could one really say? She couldn’t very well admit, Oh, you see, I craft stories for a mere half crown and selected you as the subject of my current book. I’m merely conducting research … “I was marking down…” Nothing. She had no plausible explanation that wouldn’t make her look like an absolute ninny. She pulled back her hand. “Er…if you’ll excuse me. I see my maid.” At least the carriage, anyway. Hermione dropped a curtsy. “I thank you for your assistance.” She stepped around him.

The duke stepped into her path, blocking escape. She sighed. Of course, a duke would not be so easily dismissed. Especially the charming ones. “Do you know it occurs to me…” He caught a rain dampened strand of hair in his fingertips and tucked it behind her ear. Her breath lodged at that innocently sensual gesture. “…you didn’t answer my question.” He lowered his head, his mouth close to hers. His breath, a delicious blend of coffee and mint, caressed her lips.

“I didn’t?” She struggled for a single coherent thought. “I’m sure I did.” Raindrops stung her eyes and she blinked them back.

With a gloved finger he collected a bead of rain before it trailed into her eyes. “Oh, no, I’m sure you didn’t.” How could a voice sound both seductive and stern? “Furthermore, it doesn’t escape my notice the unusualness in you, a lady being out in this weather, Miss Rogers.” His penetrating stare yanked her from the spell he’d cast.

With his questioning words, she sank into her only opening to freedom. Gasping, she stepped back with feigned indignation. “You dare question my honor as a lady!”

His eyes went wide. “I—”

She wagged a finger. “How very ungentlemanly of you, Your Grace.” Hermione dropped a hasty curtsy. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I shan’t tolerate such disrespect.” With that pathetic farcical drama she sprinted toward her carriage, feeling more than a bit guilty at the unfair charges she’d leveled at him. A lady must do what a lady must. Especially author ladies concealing their craft. The damp soles of her slippers slid across the wet grass and she threw her arms out to steady herself. All the while a pinprick of awareness pierced her neck and she stole a quick glance back.

The Duke of Mallen remained rooted to the spot. He beat his hand against his sculpted thigh, a bemused glint in his eyes as he followed her flight.

Hermione swung her gaze forward. She’d never before been accused of cowardice, but something of his presence, an unexplainable aura that had nothing to do with his title and everything to do with him teased her and worse reminded her why young ladies did foolish things and tossed away their reputations all for the pleasure of a man. It would seem she, practical and plain Hermione Rogers, was not immune to the lure of a charming, too-handsome nobleman. But then, Sebastian was no mere nobleman. Hermione groaned, humbled by the depth of her own weakness.

She approached her carriage. The driver hopped down from the box and tugged the door open. He handed her inside, and then closed the door behind her.

“Papa will be most displeased,” Addie lamented, taking a single look at a bedraggled Hermione.

She gave her sister a wan smile. “I’m sure he will.” The lie came easily. Poor Addie still operated under the grand illusion Papa noticed his children.

“I don’t think he’ll even notice,” her brother grumbled.

She gave Hugh a pointed look. His lips settled into a mutinous line, but he fell silent.

As the carriage rocked forward, Addie launched into a flurry of conversation about the rain and the sheer beauty of the crystal droplets—ever a hopeless romantic. Hermione tugged at the curtain and peered outside. Her heart thudded wildly at the duke’s retreating frame, her gaze fixed until he became nothing more than a dot upon the dreary, stormy horizon.

The memory of his fathomless green eyes trained on her exposed leg filled her, drowning out her sister and brother’s bickering, the outward chill, her maid’s annoyance. In that moment, he’d looked at her as though she was not simply plain, too-thin Hermione Rogers, but rather as an object of beauty. The implausibility of a duke expressing any interest in a lady of lesser nobility was best reserved for the pages of her books. Except, he’d noticed her today, and by his own account, two nights ago when he’d said…

The curtain slipped from her fingers and fluttered into place.

When he’d said…

Throughout the evening, you made notes upon your dance card…

Which meant he’d observed her mark her card not once, but numerous times. In her haste to be rid of him a short while ago and spare herself the embarrassment of revealing the truth, she’d fled. Hermione adjusted her cloak. Except, only now did she realize the duke had acknowledged to studying her throughout the evening.