Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(29)

Which really should have very little bearing on the role that he would serve in her life. Yet, somehow it mattered. Even as she knew the perils in such a thing mattering. Her fingers ached with the need for a pencil so she might commit these confounded emotions to paper. Perhaps all her heroines had it all wrong…





C





hapter 9

For a man concerned with an early death, Sebastian reckoned he really should have more of a care than to stand in the middle of Hyde Park in the midst of a deluge, but by God he’d been expertly handled…by a slip of a young lady, no less. Lightning cracked across the blackened sky, and when presented with the new possibility of dying by lightning strike, he managed to at last set aside his fixed interest in the suspicious Hermione Rogers.

Sebastian trudged through the rainy grounds of Hyde Park, hoping his faithful, if skittish, horse had not abandoned him to his own devices. The wind kicked up and slapped his cheeks with stinging drops of rain. All the while, Miss Hermione Rogers and her lean limbs exposed to the cool air clung to his mind with an annoying tenacity, the one bit of warmth on this dismal day.

With one stumble and an accidental lifting of skirts, the young lady, once plain, was, well…no longer plain. Instead, she was a young woman with impossibly lithe legs that conjured all manner of wicked thoughts, all of which involved those lithe limbs wrapped about a man’s waist.

He doffed his useless, hopelessly ruined hat and beat it against his leg. What manner of woman embarked out on this infernal day on her own? Likely the same woman seated at the edge of an evening’s festivities, penning notes upon her dance card. He’d be daft as old King George himself to not realize there was certainly more to the mysterious young lady. Having avoided far too many parson’s traps these years, he knew better than to feed into this dangerous, insatiable curiosity of the lady’s goings-on. Or, he should know better, anyway.

The nervous whinny of his horse penetrated his musings, and he wandered to the edge of the walking path. Bolt danced back and forth.

“Easy, boy,” he murmured, gentling the fractious creature. The giant, black stallion tossed its head back, and his silken mane sent drops flying. Sebastian claimed the reins. “Hardly fair to require you to come out in this all to avoid my sister and mother’s matchmaking.” He patted Bolt’s withers.

The faithful horse whinnied his agreement. Sebastian placed his foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the mount. With a little nudge of his knees, he urged the horse forward, and gave him some much deserved freedom. He streaked through the lush, empty grounds of Hyde Park, stretching his strides. Wind and rain whipped at Sebastian’s face and he embraced the invigorating cold upon his skin.

He guided his horse through the empty London streets, on toward his townhouse in Grosvenor Square. The old, faithful servant, Carmichael, who’d been with his family since his youth stood at the entrance—the man always had an uncanny ability to know when someone approached the front door. Sebastian dismounted. He tossed the reins to a waiting footman and bounded up the steps where he shrugged out of his drenched cloak then handed it as well as his ruined hat to the butler.

“Your Grace,” Carmichael greeted.

“Is she…?” Sebastian glanced around.

“The Marchioness of Drake left only a short while ago,” the older man replied, a twinkle in his old eyes.

“And my mother?” he asked, starting for the stairs.

“Has gone out, Your Grace.”

Sebastian took the stairs two at a time. His wet Hessians left a sopping trail of moisture in his wake. He reached the main landing and strode down the hall, pausing when he reached his chambers. Drawing a deep breath, he pressed the handle and entered his rooms, closing the door behind him, expelling the breath in a long sigh.

In the privacy of his room, he allowed himself to consider the dubious Miss Hermione Rogers. He’d been accused of many things in his life. Ducal bore—by his sister. Pompous duke—by his brother-in-law. No one, however, had accused him of being a lack-wit. And he would have to be a total lack-wit if he did not acknowledge Hermione’s dubious behavior.

He tugged free his cravat and tossed it to the floor. Young ladies did not go sneaking off in their host’s home in the midst of a ball and rifle through the gentleman’s personal desk. Nor did young ladies dash notes upon their dance cards. And they certainly didn’t go out unchaperoned, for a walk in Hyde Park on a day when the birds themselves had sense enough to stay sheltered. He shrugged out of his jacket. It joined the cravat in an ignoble heap then he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

Who was this Miss Hermione Rogers, other than Lady Pemberly’s niece, who should arrive mid-Season? Of course, it was more likely there was nothing at all amiss with the young woman’s peculiar behaviors. He’d never been one with an overactive imagination but if he did, he’d have said Hermione was orchestrating their meetings, as evinced by the manner in which she studied him, intelligent eyes, committing his every detail to memory. He could have his solicitor make inquiries about the lady…

Sebastian shoved back the idea as quickly as it had come. He’d not be reduced to subterfuge. Furthermore, those sapphire depths didn’t glitter with greed nor had she rained false compliments upon him. Rather, she’d met him in Denley’s office and Hyde Park with the same, proud, bold challenge flaring in her eyes, his title as duke be damned.