Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(40)

She tapped a hand against her side and Sir Faithful sprung to all fours. He trotted over to her. “But if I should meet the young woman coincidentally, by pure chance…” she left those words to dangle.

“Em,” he called after her.

She slipped out of the room with a laugh and closed the door in her wake, her amusement muffled by the thick panel.

Sebastian stared after his sister, sipping his brandy. The long-case clock ticked off the passing moments. It was as Emmaline said: he was a gentleman who’d been schooled in the art of practicality. It had guided him through the years and prevented him from fortune-hunting, title-grasping ladies. It had seen the growth of his already plentiful coffers. His sister spoke disparagingly about control. Yet it was a good thing. An essential thing. And minxes, who sneaked about in a furtive manner, were not the sorts to value that very important characteristic.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and damned his sister’s very pointed, very deliberate visit that had forced him to consider…well, matters he’d really rather not consider. He’d far preferred his solitude and reading his copy of The Mad Marquess before she’d gone and shattered it.

Bloody, bloody hell.





C





hapter 12

“The Duke of Mallen. Visited my niece.”

Well, two days ago he had and but one visit. Hermione winced at her aunt Agatha’s excited tittering. Seated within the confines of the woman’s carriage she concentrated on the steady clip clop of the horses’ hooves to drown out her aunt’s endless prattling of the same seven words.

“The Duke of Mallen.”

As a writer, Hermione had great appreciation for the manner in which words could be strung together to form a whole variety of different meanings. Ah, and then there was tone. The tone was of equal import.

“The Duke of Mallen.” The shocked tone. “The. Duke of Mallen.” The proud tone. Her aunt did a quick study of Hermione. From the top of her head. “Visited my niece?” To the tips of her satin-slipper encased feet. Abject confusion. The abject confusion, Hermione decided was the most insulting of all. Her aunt shook her head. “I will never understand it.”

Ah, the first words to deviate from those now over-used seven, somehow more insulting than any look she’d given her less than pretty niece.

Hermione shrugged. “There really is nothing to understand. Nor is there more to his visit.” Furthermore, he’d not paid her a call since. She hoped because he was so engrossed reading her work but suspected otherwise. It was as she’d known with all the steady logic and reason that had driven her life—dukes did not wed impoverished young ladies one step away from societal ruin.

Aunt Agatha snorted. “There is always more to a visit, Hermione. A gentleman does not call upon a respectable lady unless he’s seriously considering an offer.”

Hermione tugged back the curtain and peered out at the dark London streets determined to ignore her aunt’s hopeful musings. The full moon cast a soft glow upon the cobbled roads.

“And everyone knows he is the market for a wife. Why, he seriously courted Miss Sophie Winters last Season to no avail.”

Hermione dropped the curtain and spun to face her aunt with such speed she wrenched the muscles along her neck. Her heart thudded painfully, but her aunt continued, unaware of her niece’s inner turmoil. Sebastian’s heart was spoken for? “Sophie Winters?” she asked, her tone wooden. Simply speaking the woman’s name aloud, caused a dull throb in her chest.

Her aunt waved a gloved hand once again. “Now she’s the Countess of Waxham, though why any fool girl would choose a mere earl over a duke, I’ll never understand.”

Hermione didn’t understand the Countess of Waxham’s decision either, but for entirely different reasons, reasons that had nothing to do with Sebastian’s title and everything to do with the aura of strength and bold self-assurance he possessed, his ability to laugh and tease. In a world where she’d grown accustomed to weak men, Sebastian evinced power and inspired confidence. She gripped the edge of her red velvet seat hating that it mattered that there was another woman and the only reason Sebastian was now unwed was because the lady had chosen another. The carriage hit a large bump and Hermione knocked against the side of the carriage walls. She grunted.

Her aunt caught Hermione’s gaze, identifying she had a full audience. “There was some great scandal. The countess was discovered in a compromising position with the earl. Really no choice but to wed the gentleman. Now the duke is free.” She gave a terse nod.

A pang of envy struck Hermione. To be free, as a duke. To not worry after one’s family, or the loss of servants, and the disrepair of your home. Particularly the portion of the ceiling in your chambers that dripped water whenever it rained—and rain it did in England. To make a match not with the salvation of your siblings at the forefront of your mind, but for no other reason than the will of one’s heart—

“The duke is free,” her aunt said pulling her back to the moment. “And for whatever reason, he’s taken an interest in you.”

She’d never make Aunt Agatha realize that one visit hardly constituted an offer of marriage.

Her aunt held up a finger. “And this family must grasp these great moments in order to transform your situation around.”