Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(46)

They reached the front of the shop and Hugh growled. “Finally. I imagined you intended to stand outside making calf-eyes at the duke all day.” He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him.

Hermione choked as embarrassment churned inside her belly. “I…wasn’t making calf-eyes at you,” she said on a rush.

The duke’s lips twitched.

“I wouldn’t,” she continued, a defensive note threaded those words. “I’m certainly not the kind of young lady who—”

“Would make calf-eyes at me. I understand.” He motioned behind her. “I am more than willing to allow you to continue and debate the point, if you feel inclined—?”

She shook her head hard. She most certainly did not feel inclined. The only inclination she had in this precise moment was throttling her brother. She stared at the door Hugh had just disappeared behind. “He’s becoming increasingly difficult,” she muttered.

“Is he?” Humor tinged his question.

She started, not realizing she’d spoken aloud. “Forgive me,” she said on a rush.

He ran his gaze over her face. “There is nothing to forgive.” His intense emerald eyes lingered on her lips and for one slight moment borne of madness, she imagined he might kiss her. The familiar warmth whenever he was near blazed to life, threatening to consume her. And shamefully, she wanted his kiss and would gladly take it, here amid the busy London streets in front of God and everyone, just to know the pleasure of—

“Are you all right, Miss Rogers?” Sebastian doffed his elegant black hat then beat it against his thigh.

She jumped and a different fire flared, this one in the form of a mortified blush that climbed up her neck. “Er—uh—yes,” she lied and hated that he should be so unaffected when her body trembled with awareness of him. She yanked the door open and set a tiny bell ajingle.

The comforting smells of leather and dusty old books filled her senses. She inhaled deep and drew the familiar scent in, hoping for a steadying effect, one to overtake the hint of sandalwood and mint that clung to Sebastian. She sighed. Alas, sandalwood and mint lingered more potent than the headiest aphrodisiac. It was now in her soul, forever imprinted into her consciousness.

An older man with a shock of white hair came rushing forward. “Welcome, welcome, miss. May I be of any—?” He winced at a loud thump from the back of his shop, followed by a series of shouts and shrieks.

Hermione gave him a remorseful smile. “No, I don’t require help.” Rather, she could supply it. She glanced up at Sebastian as the responsibility that went with being the last dependable person in her siblings’ life reared its head once again. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace. Thank you for the escort. I imagine you have a good deal more important business to attend.” With a final curtsy she raced toward the familiar quarreling voices, selfishly wishing just once she could be the carefree miss accompanied by the charming duke.

She marched toward the raised voices and peered down one long row of towering books. Then continued walking. She peeked down another row.

Winifred, wedged between brother and sister, sent a desperate glance toward the end of the row in Hermione’s direction.

“It is not silly, Hugh Rogers! Give it back this instant!”

Hugh held a single book above his head, out of Addie’s reach. Hermione raced down the row. “Hugh,” she called out sharply. The book tumbled from his fingers and landed with at thump on the wood floor. Hermione drew to a stop beside the opened book, with a now bruised spine. She planted her hands on her hips.

“I’m so sorry, miss,” the maid, said on a rush. “I—”

“This is certainly not your fault,” she interrupted. “I’ll speak to them.”

Winifred bowed her head and hurried off and in fairness to the young maid, Hermione could certainly identify with that much needed reprieve from the constant quarreling between the youngest Rogers siblings. Hermione looked back and forth between the two, and then settled her gaze on Hugh. He stared sheepishly back at her.

Addie bent and retrieved the injured book then cradled it close to her chest like a pup she’d just rescued from the street. She jabbed a finger at Hugh. “He said I couldn’t have it.” Her lower lip quivered.

“I told her it was too costly and we certainly couldn’t be wasting funds on her silly—” He ducked his head at the matching frowns trained on him by his sisters. “On her book,” he wisely amended.

“I want it, Hermione, and I don’t believe I ask for much.”

Addie was correct—she didn’t ask for much. Neither did Hugh or Elizabeth, for that matter. Guilt tugged as Hermione wished their circumstances were different, wished she could spend the coin on the prized book.

“So may I have it?”

“Let me see it, poppet.”

Addie held out the book.

Hermione took the black leather volume. The desire to purchase the expensive gift and feed her sister’s love of the written word warred with practicality for their family’s circumstances. The cost of the book alone would be all of Partridge’s wages for an entire month.

“See?” Hugh exclaimed triumphantly. “I told her—”

“Quiet,” Hermione ordered her brother, her gaze on the costly, leather copy of A Legend of Montrose. How very wrong to dedicate your life to writing books and be unable to afford a single volume of another author’s great work. With pained reluctance she handed it back. “Not today, Addie.” Likely, never.