Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(48)

He lowered his lips close to hers so that a mere hairsbreadth separated them. “Improper?” he whispered. The sweet hint of honey filled his senses. He brushed his lips over hers in the faintest meeting. Her head fell back. “You waste a good deal of your words on proper, Hermione.”

She blinked several times. “I must,” she said softly. “Impropriety would mean my ruin.”

“And you imagine being ruined by a duke to be a singularly terrible fate?” he asked with a sardonic twist to his words. When any other lady would surely welcome the prospect of becoming his duchess, regardless of the circumstances landing her that enviable title, Hermione sought to avoid discovery. The lady rose further in his estimation.

She narrowed her cat-like eyes into little slits and then slipped down and under, escaping his hold. “Your words reek of arrogance, Your Grace. I’d not have a gentleman because he was forced to do right by me.”

“Then how would you have a gentleman?” Except, the unwitting question roused all manner of delicious images of the many ways in which he could have Hermione Rogers. In his bed. Legs spread. Astride him. Standing with her thighs anchored about him. He buried a groan.

“Well,” she trailed her fingers along the length of shelving, running them over the spines of several books. She plucked one from the shelf and fanned the pages. “I’d have a gentleman because he couldn’t live without me.”

Ah, of course, his Hermione Rogers, lover of Gothic novels, was a romantic. He schooled his expression. “And what else would you require of this esteemed gentleman?” He paused. “Other than stability.”

She frowned and ran a probing stare over him. “Would you mock me for my desire for some constancy in life?” Which suggested her life was unstable.

“No,” he said quietly. “I wish to know the gentleman you’d set your sights upon?” And then he’d spend the rest of his life hating the blighter for having the opportunity to have her in his bed. Legs spread. Astride him. Standing… He growled.

She closed the book and tucked it back onto the shelf. The peal of children’s laughter from somewhere within the store filled the quiet. “Well, he must have a love for not just his family, but my family as well.”

That was what she would require? Her second most concern about the man who’d take her to wife, was the gentleman’s devotion to her family? How many other women would desire baubles and trinkets and priceless gems? And every cynical thought he’d once carried of a woman’s grasping motives of an advantageous match, lifted when presented with this unique, selfless lady before him.

Addie and Hugh’s muted bickering from another row pierced his thoughts. He considered Hermione’s sense of responsibility, the almost motherly role she appeared to have assumed for her youngest siblings and felt a kindred connection to one whose responsibility was for the care of their family. He’d accepted that heavy mantle upon the passing of his father. Never so young though, as Hermione had been at the passing of her mother.

She deserved more.

Sebastian walked slowly toward her. “And what else, Hermione?” Part of him wanted her to be selfish and have a dream for more—for herself, because she, with the responsibility she’d taken on, deserved more.

“He must possess a keen wit.”

“I have been assured I’m quite clever,” he said automatically.

Her lips pulled at the corner. “No lady, gentleman, or servant would ever dare say otherwise.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have a care, Sebastian or I’ll believe you desire a spot upon my list.”

He stilled. Her words from any other woman would have been construed as calculating. Not from this woman, Hermione, who spoke and teased with a candidness he’d not known existed in the opposite sex.

Her shoulders shook with the force of her silent laughter. “You may be rest assured, Your Grace, there is no list. And if there was, I’d not place you at the top of that very important list.”

He imagined she merely intended to reassure him she didn’t have designs upon his title, and yet… A muscle ticked at the corner of his right eye as he considered the following: one, Hermione Rogers did not consider him worthy of a placement upon that very important list and… two, there were other gentlemen she would place there. If she had one.

He shot a hand out and wrapped it loosely about Hermione’s waist. A startled gasp escaped her as he drew her close. He brushed his knuckles along her jaw. “I imagine a woman who craves the romance to be found in a Gothic novel should require more from the gentlemen she places upon her very important list.”

“Are you making light of me?” She leaned into his caress.

By the very nature of their closeness, they danced with ruin and yet, he could no sooner set her away than he could lob off his own right arm. “I wouldn’t dare,” he whispered against her lips. He pulled her closer.

“You shouldn’t.” But she didn’t move away.

“Make light of you?” He dropped his brow to hers. “I’ve already assured you, I wouldn’t.”

A startled laugh escaped her. “No, I referred to…” He ran the pad of his thumb over her lip. “That.” Her lids fluttered wildly. “You shouldn’t do that.” She sucked in breath as though delving deep within herself for strength. To step away? To ask for his kiss? “It is dangerous for us to be this close. A-and you certainly shouldn’t touch me.” Nor did she draw away from him.