Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(31)

Hermione stacked her pens together. Surely, there was some mistake. Sebastian had no business here.

“Why is there a gentleman here?” Addie persisted, relentless with her questioning.

“I don’t know, dear.” She took her by the shoulders and guided her toward the front of the room. “Bring my papers to my chambers.”

“Humph.” With a frown, Addie trotted behind her brother.

Hermione returned to the window and peered outside. If Addie and Hugh hadn’t been present she might have convinced herself she’d imagined the Duke of Mallen’s unexpected appearance. A lofty duke, with a golden halo of loose curls didn’t visit the homes of lesser lords of quite dire financial circumstances.

A knock sounded at the door. “My lady?”

She slammed a hand to her chest and turned to greet the servant who’d taken on the role of butler for their family.

“His Grace, the Duke of Mallen,” the younger man in his well-worn livery announced the duke and then took his leave.

Hermione stood. She swallowed hard as the duke trained his gaze over her person, probing and searching. She detested her awareness of him as a man, as he studied her in a quite perfunctory manner. When the ormolu clock ticked away the moments and still he didn’t speak, she tipped her chin up. “Your Grace,” she greeted. She dropped a belated curtsy.

Sebastian quirked a golden eyebrow and with an unnerving quiet, strode deeper into the room. He moved with such languid grace, her heart fluttered. She smoothed trembling palms over the front of her skirts. “W-would you care for tea?” she offered, remembering belatedly there was but a handful of servants and hardly the means for pastries for visiting dukes.

“No.” He waved a hand.

She drew in a grateful breath and motioned to the sofa. “Would you care to sit?”

Sebastian ignored her offer. Instead, he wandered closer, ever closer. He paused at the small single-drawer mahogany side table.

Unwittingly, Hermione backed up, and continued retreating. She placed the sofa between them as a small barrier to protect herself. Not that she feared him, per se. She didn’t. Rather, she feared her body’s awareness of his commanding, muscle hewn frame.

He tapped a hand along the side of his thigh, drawing her gaze downward. She gulped. Dukes didn’t have well-muscled thighs. Well, with the exception of the dukes in her stories. Those dukes did. The dark, brooding ones. Perhaps there really was something to be said for the golden-haired dukes, as well.

“I came to ensure you’d not come to any harm from your afternoon in the rain.”

She jumped. “No. No harm. That is, I came to no harm,” she stammered, willing her mouth to slow. Alas, her blasted nervous tendency controlled her thoughts. “It was just a bit of rain, Your Grace. I don’t imagine anyone’s been harmed by a bit of rain.” Which wasn’t altogether true. Surely some had been harmed. Perhaps they’d caught chill and—

“Sebastian,” he amended.

“Beg pardon?” Her voice emerged as a croak.

He continued his forward path toward her. “I thought we’d agreed, given our unconventional meetings thus far, you’d call me by my Christian name.”

“That was…What I’d…” Except, two words he’d spoken gave her pause. Perhaps it was that she possessed a writer’s soul and all words signified something.

Thus far.

He’d said “thus far,” which indicated there would be more meetings. It would be gauche to ask him the significance of that statement. Impolite and improper. But she really did need to know. “Thus far?”

His lips turned up in a knowing, seductive smile.

“Not that I need to know.” Then the words tumbled out in humiliating fashion. “That is to say I wanted to…” His grin deepened. Hermione snapped her lips closed. But really it begged explaining. “You said ‘thus far,’ which suggests there would be further visits, but you surely wouldn’t have any business with anyone in this particular household.”

The ghost of a smile played about his lips. “I assure you, I’m a duke, Miss Rogers. I have business where I will it.”

She furrowed her brow. Oh, how very arrogant of him. Then, she suspected arrogance came part and parcel with the proverbial title.

He lowered his head, his breath fanned her lips. “And do I still have leave to call you Hermione?”

Her lashes fluttered. She’d allow him to call her Hermie, Hermione, or a variation in between if he so wished it. Hermione gave him soft smile. “And how am I to respond to an all powerful duke who just maintained he has business where he wills it?” A bothersome strand of hair fell across her eye. She blew it back. It fell promptly back across her brow.

Her breath caught as he tucked the lock behind her ear. “When presented with such a conundrum, Hermione, the only course would be to avoid offending the…how did you word it? The all-powerful duke?” He brushed his knuckles along her cheek and she leaned into his caress. His touch so very fleeting, she didn’t know if his actions were deliberate or quite an unintentional, reflexive action. She rather preferred the romanticism of the latter option.

“Yes,” she said, detesting the breathless quality of her words. “All-powerful duke is precisely how I phrased it, Your…Sebastian,” she amended at the pointed look he gave her. How very silly to be worrying of liberties such as the usage of one’s name with the lack of a chaperone and his fingers upon her person. Or nearly upon her person.