Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(37)

Addie slipped her palm into Hermione’s and tugged. Hermione glanced down, staring blankly. “Aunt Agatha says you shall wed well and then Hugh will be off to Eton and all will be well.” She scratched at her brow. “Except with Elizabeth. She said that will never be well.”

Hermione knew their aunt had been extremely magnanimous in providing Hermione a Season, but oh, how she detested the woman. She mustered a smile. “Don’t listen to Aunt Agatha. All will be well,” she assured them, wishing she could believe her own lie. She wagged her eyebrows. “Now, would you have me stand here all afternoon imagining a husband for myself or writing my story?”

“Writing your story.”

She tweaked the little girl’s pert nose. “Off you go, then.”

Addie sighed and skipped over to the door. She paused at the entrance of the room, a pointed frown for her brother. “Why is Hugh allowed to remain? I want—”

“I need to speak to Hugh a moment.”

The little girl pouted and shot a final glower at her still silent brother.

Hugh sat, slouched in his seat, his thin frame looking impossibly small in the broad chair. Her heart ached with what the boy had become. Once an always smiling, troublesome lad, he’d become a truculent, often quiet boy.

“I know you are very much aware of our family’s situation, more than probably even I’d realized until this moment.”

He said nothing.

“You’re going to Eton, Hugh. And Papa will eventually emerge from his sadness.” She could not speak to what would happen to Elizabeth. Not even for the benefit of her brother’s jaded innocence.

An angry challenge blazed to life in the boy’s eyes. “You cannot promise all that. I’m not Addie. I know you cannot…” Red flared in his cheeks. “You cannot do everything Addie believes you can do. You couldn’t protect Elizabeth. You failed her just as Papa did.”

She jerked, his words a lash upon her heart. Her throat worked with the force of her emotion. He spoke words she herself already knew. She was to blame. And it was a shame that would haunt her for the remainder of her days. She claimed the edge of the sofa and leaned close so their knees brushed. “Look at me, Hugh.” Hermione waited until he complied. She spoke in solemn tones. “You are correct. I did fail Elizabeth. And so did Papa—”

“I wouldn’t, though.” His little mouth settled into a hard line. He slapped his fist against his palm. “I would find Lord Cavendish and duel him for what he did.”

A chill stole through her as she gave thanks for his young years because he carried enough anger and bitterness that she feared what would become of him in the years to come. She did not doubt if he were older, he would indeed hunt down and call out Lord Cavendish. “You cannot blame Papa,” she said softly.

“It is all Papa’s fault. I hate him.” He spewed the words like venom. “I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.”

Real blame could be scattered around for many. Hermione for being so busy writing her stories she’d not looked after Elizabeth with a more careful eye. Her mouth tightened. “You should not hold Papa solely responsible.”

“You’d defend him?” The question exploded angrily from his lips.

“I’m not defending him,” she said soothingly. Hugh had become more and more explosive these past years so that she no longer knew how to deal with his outbursts.

“You would.” He jumped to his feet and jammed a finger in her direction. “He’s a horrible father and if you imagine I’m going to Eton or that you’ll ever marry than you’re as silly as the women you write about in your silly books.”

She gasped. Hugh wheeled around and raced from the room. Hermione covered her face with her hands and not for the first time, damned her father for having abandoned them all these years. She sucked in a shuddery breath as the reality of her family’s circumstances slipped into the stolen interlude with Sebastian. Had it been only minutes ago? Gone was the innocent happiness she’d not even known herself capable of.

With a sigh, she lowered her hands back to her side and stood. She started for her chambers in search of the escape that could only be found on empty pages in the stories she crafted. Except…this time, a cloying panic sucked the creative thoughts from her head.

What was she going to do?





C





hapter 11

Sebastian dipped the tip of his pen in the crystal inkwell then marked several numbers on the far right column.

From the corner of his eye, the brown leather book stared mockingly back at him. Not that books stared necessarily. They couldn’t. He, of course, knew that. Miss Hermione Rogers’ book, however, did—stare. There was no other accounting for why his gaze continued to wander back to the silly, nonsensical drivel read by hopelessly romantic young ladies such as his sister and likely every other lady in the whole of the realm.

He threw his pen down and glared at the offending piece of literature. “Literature,” he scoffed under his breath.

Do you imagine there is something wrong in reading about love and passion, Your Grace? Is your life so empty, so vastly cold that you should mock any and all who read a Gothic novel?

Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose as he remembered Hermione in all her indignant outrage. With fire snapping in her eyes and the bold challenge on her lips, she was not at all the agreeable, biddable creatures who courted his favor. And he rather found he preferred the honesty of her; a woman not taken with or by his title, a lady not cowed by his presence or his rank.