Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(42)

“Miss Hermione Rogers.” The servant’s resounding voice echoed through the ballroom.

Every pair of eyes in the room swung to Hermione. She swallowed hard. Not that she could speak in such absolutes; however, it certainly appeared as though every lord and lady present had their gazes trained upon her. She glanced around. Perhaps there was another Hermione Rogers.

Her aunt dug her elbow into her side. “Pretty face, my dear,” she ordered between a tight-lipped smile.

She sighed, taking a step forward. Alas, it would seem Society quite concurred with Aunt Agatha and a single visit from Sebastian constituted more—or at least, merited a further study from bored, indolent nobles. Hermione followed beside her aunt and her gaze did an involuntary search of the room, looking for the sole smiling person she’d encountered in her time moving about Polite Society.

“I imagine this will increase your matchability among the other gentleman.”

Hermione bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that matchability was not a word. After all, she supposed in a world where terms such as marriage match and Marriage Market existed, matchability was a completely plausible term for one to bandy about. She cast a longing glance to the neat line of black-painted Trafalgar chairs at the far corner of the room.

Aunt Agatha tapped her with her fan. Hermione winced. “You’ve your first suitor,” she murmured. “Lord Bull missed you at Lady Denley’s.”

Her heart sank at the corpulent gentleman with his familiar sweating brow. He ambled through the crowd. His wide belly knocked against the unfortunate lords and ladies who came too close to Lord Bull’s determined path. Hermione loosened the strings of her dance card. It fluttered to the floor in a whispery heap. “Oh, dear,” she muttered. She bent to retrieve the frequently empty card and discreetly tugged at the white lace trim of her gown.

Riiiiiip.

The satisfying sound of shredded fabric filled her with a giddy relief. She stood, just as Lord Bull made his way over. “Your niece, I take it,” he grunted without awaiting an introduction.

Aunt Agatha smiled widely. “Indeed, Lord Bull. Allow me to present my niece, Miss Hermione Rogers.” She fixed a hard stare on Hermione. “Hermione, allow me to introduce you to Lord Bull.”

Hermione dropped a curtsy. “How do you do, my lord?”

He ignored her question, his gaze trained on her non-existent bosom. A frown marred his fat, fleshy lips no doubt he’d found her lacking. He moved his attention onward to her hips.

She narrowed her gaze. It was not every day a gentleman bearing the name Lord Bull eyed her like she was some form of livestock whose worth he was assessing.

“I’ll dance with her,” he muttered and reached for her card.

Hermione drew her hand back and schooled her expression in one of great regret.

“Hermione, give him your card,” her aunt snapped.

She gestured to her torn skirts. “I would dearly love to dance, my lord,” she lied through her slightly crooked, white teeth. “However, I’m afraid one of Lady Smith’s guests quite shredded my hem.” She only felt a tad bit guilty for placing blame on some nameless guest.

Her aunt snapped her eyebrows into a suspicious line. Hermione dipped another curtsy and hurried off.

She imagined a lecherous old nobleman in the market for a young bride would make just the perfect villain for her affable duke story. She kept her gaze trained forward, resisting the urge to seek out a certain affable duke…if he was even in attendance.



From his vantage point at the corner of the ballroom, alongside a massive Doric column, Sebastian had studied Miss Hermione Rogers’ every move since she’d entered Lady Smith’s ballroom and it was therefore how he knew she had torn her hem. He’d wager all his landholdings her efforts were a ploy to be free of Lord Bull.

Sebastian gripped his glass hard. The blinding fury at the fiend’s attentions receded. He grinned over the rim of his champagne glass at Hermione’s resourcefulness in sidestepping loathsome Lord Bull’s ogling. Sebastian studied her with such intensity, he also knew she’d torn her hemline quite viciously and with clear deliberation to avoid the bastard’s lecherous grasp.

Now, the young woman wound her way through the crowded ballroom. Her pretty blue-eyed stare darted periodically about the room as though she searched for someone. And the fool part of him wished he were the specific someone she sought. She stole through a doorway at the opposite corner of the room and disappeared down the hall. It appeared, however, she simply sought privacy to attend to her gown. Sebastian finished his champagne and set it on a servant’s tray.

It really would be quite foolish to follow the young lady. Particularly with a sea of curious lords and ladies wondering as to his connection with Hermione. Not that there was a connection. There were a handful of chance meetings and one afternoon visit. And a kiss. And a Gothic novel by Mr. Michael Michaelmas.

And a kiss.

With a silent curse, Sebastian skirted the edge of the ballroom floor and moved past the waltzing couples. He walked toward the hall she’d disappeared down a short while ago and pressed ahead in foolish pursuit of Hermione…

…and promptly collided with a tall, lithe figure exiting the hall. He steadied the familiar, endearing form.

Hermione shrieked and pressed a hand to her chest. “Your Grace.” She scowled. “You startled me.”