Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(41)

How very neatly the woman removed herself from the situations surrounding Hermione’s family. “You make me sound like Boney and his quest to conquer Europe.”

Aunt Agatha pursed her lips. “I don’t believe you understand the implications of your family’s current circumstances.”

“I am well aware, my lady.” Hermione bristled. She knew a good deal more than her father, sisters or brother combined and the knowing is what had driven her desperation to sell her stories. That, however, had merely been when poverty was the greatest tragedy faced. All that had shifted with Lord Cavendish’s vile act against Elizabeth…and the steady decline of Papa’s finances.

The carriage rocked to a halt. Lord and Lady Smith’s pale pink townhouse bathed in the soft glow of candlelight was a good deal more appealing than the icy coldness of her aunt’s conveyance. Hermione didn’t wait for the servant but instead grasped for the handle, desperate and eager for a reprieve of her aunt’s needling.

Aunt Agatha placed her hand over Hermione’s, effectively stilling her movements. “You would be so fortunate to have a duke as your husband.”

Hermione opened her mouth. Then remembered Sebastian’s lips on hers, the hot, heavy strength of his hand upon her person, and she couldn’t manage another word, reliving the magic of that moment.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Hermione?”

It wouldn’t do to point out that she’d ceased paying attention to her aunt’s prattling. “Er…”

She gave Hermione a sly look. “The Duke of Mallen can be your salvation.” She dangled those eight words.

“My salvation?” she repeated dumbly.

Her aunt leaned across the carriage and rapped her on the knee. “Do pay attention. You’d make him a fine duchess.”

No, she would make him a dreadful duchess. A duke, particularly one who sneered at Gothic novels would never tolerate a bluestocking wife who penned stories for coin under the rather unclever pseudonym Mr. Michael Michaelmas.

The servant rapped on the door.

“Just a moment,” her aunt snapped. She returned her attention to Hermione and spoke in hushed tones. “Let me be clear, Hermione, as you seem quite content with your own, individual circumstances.”

Hermione bristled with the sharp insult. She’d placed each of her siblings’ own welfare before her own. She rather resented her aunt’s implication that she had acted with anything but complete and total selflessness.

“Your brother will inherit a bankrupt baronetcy from your father. You’ve one sister who is a simpleton who by all rights should be removed from society.”

She curled her hands into tight balls in her lap as rage coursed through her being at her aunt’s total disregard of Elizabeth. But then wasn’t that how Society viewed those like her sister? Best shut away from the rest of the world. Nausea churned in her belly.

“Do attend me,” her aunt snapped. “Adeline will be ruined. What future will either of your siblings have?”

Hermione tipped her chin up a notch. “All.” Perplexed lines creased her aunt’s brow. “You said either of my siblings,” Hermione clarified. “What you surely meant is all of my siblings. I’ve three.”

Aunt Agatha slashed the air with a hand. “Marriage to the Duke of Mallen would erase all of this.”

Hermione flattened her mouth in a single line. Nothing could erase this. At best, marriage to a powerful nobleman could muffle any whispers that should come of Elizabeth’s situation, but not erase them entirely. It could see Hugh at Eton… She tamped down the niggling thought and gave her head a little shake. “Aunt, I cannot force the duke to court me. I cannot somehow manage to have him pay further visits. I…”

“Can force him to wed you.” With that pronouncement, her aunt shoved open the carriage door and climbed down past a gape-mouthed Hermione. Her aunt expected her to trap Sebastian into marriage. She would have Hermione ruin her reputation and steal her sense of self-worth…

To protect your family. The dark thought sank its venomous teeth into hers and clung with a dogged tenacity. And in that moment, as she accepted the servant’s hand and allowed him to help her down from the carriage, Hermione hated herself for not thrusting Aunt Agatha’s vile proposition aside.

Her aunt waited at the top of the steps and gave her an impatient look.

Hermione quickened her stride and at last pushed aside the dark seed planted by her grasping aunt. The butler threw the door open wide and they entered the luxuriant townhouse; another home with its Italian marble floors and crystal chandelier far grander than all the rooms in her home combined. She shrugged out of her cloak and a servant took the garment. Wordlessly, she trailed after her aunt to the noisy din of the crowded ballroom. The lively country reel, the stomping of slippered feet and merry laughter spilled out from the open ballroom doors. Hermione took in the flurry of activity about the room. She clenched and unclenched her hands at her side, resisting the urge to fold her arms protectively about her chest.

“Will you stop fidgeting, Hermione,” her aunt snapped from the corner of her mouth as Lord and Lady Smith came to greet them.

Hermione started. “Er, right.” She detested introductions, that excruciating moment when a servant bellowed your name out into a sea of curious glances and indolent expressions. However, being a wallflower certainly had its perks, as one didn’t tend to attract—