Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(52)

Awareness radiated down his back and he stiffened. He squinted into the distance at the lone figure, seated atop a crisp white blanket, vivid on the splash of vibrant green grass at the edge of the riding trail. Even with the space between them, he recognized the thick, nearly black hair. His lips pulled. It would seem the young lady hadn’t the sense from their last exchange on this very path to avoid the riding trails.

Sebastian patted his horse’s withers and studied her with the distance between them. For his awareness of her nearness, he may as well have been an inanimate part of the landscape. With the slight bend to her shoulders and her focus on something on her lap, she remained engrossed in whatever task occupied her attention.

Which really begged to be discovered.

With a final stroke of his horse’s sweat-dampened coat, he started in the lady’s direction. Except…with each step he took, all earlier amusement with her concentration faded to be replaced with annoyance at the unchaperoned young woman. Upon their first meeting at Hyde Park, she’d insisted she’d left her maid back at her carriage.

Now, studying her as he did, it occurred to him—she went out sans chaperone. Didn’t she have sense enough to know a lady without a chaperone could encounter all manner of danger? He continued striding toward her. By her admission, there was no mother. He clenched his teeth. However, there was certainly a father. What manner of gentleman allowed his daughter to embark through London, even the fashionable parts, on her own?

Sebastian paused just before the edge of her blanket. Hermione’s pencil flew wildly over the page, back and forth. Periodically she’d pause in her efforts and chew at the tip of the pencil in an endearing manner that hinted at her singular focus on her important task. His earlier annoyance faded and for the first time he celebrated her lack of chaperone, a luxury that allowed him another stolen moment with her, beyond the watchful eyes or judging eyes, or any eyes…but their own.

He fished into the front of his jacket and withdrew Drake’s gift. He tossed it down onto the blanket before her.

Her pencil froze mid-sentence and she stared at the copy of The Earl’s Entrapment while blinking in rapid succession. She picked it up and studied it.

“Hello, Hermione.”

Her lean frame went taut and she tipped her head back slowly until their eyes met. “Sebastian,” she said, her voice the same husky whisper he remembered from their kiss that roused forbidden images involving her luscious dark hair draped about them as a silken curtain. Then she snapped the journal in her hands closed, jerking him back from his desirous musings. She scrambled to her feet and folded her arms behind her back, shielding the book in her hands. “What are you doing here?”

Going mad one blink of your thick, dark lashes at a time. He arched an eyebrow. “I suspect the better question, Miss Rogers, is what are you doing here?”



Hermione’s fingers twitched reflexively about the journal in her hands. What was she doing here, he’d asked. She couldn’t very well say, “Oh, you see, I write Gothic novels and came here to draw up inspiration from our meeting for a story about an affable duke, who is, in fact, you.” She didn’t imagine that would ever be well received with the affable Duke of Mallen.

“Hermione?”

She jumped. “Er…”

He took a step toward her, wrinkling the fabric of the modest white sheet she worked upon. A faint spring breeze carried the edge of the blanket and it danced in the early morning air. “Are you following me, Hermione?” His seductive whisper wrapped about her, more heady than her first taste of bubbling, French champagne.

Heat splashed across her cheeks, which had nothing to do with his charge and everything to do with the thrill coursing through her at his body’s nearness. Except, on the heel of her body’s awareness was the dangerous idea dangled by Aunt Agatha two nights ago. “C-certainly not. I was here f-first,” she stammered. “I wouldn’t…” His slow grin deepened, wreaking havoc on her senses and driving away the unpleasant thoughts of her duplicitous aunt. “You’re making light of me.” She’d forgotten what it was like to smile and laugh. At their every meeting, Sebastian reminded her how.

“Indeed I am.” He captured one of her tresses between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed the lock. “Are you always so serious?” This was not the first, or even the second time he’d leveled that charge.

“Yes,” she whispered. Her lids fluttered closed. She hadn’t always been. There’d been a time when she’d been carefree and lively and recognized gentle teasing. Life tended to replace such sentiments with a harsh solemnity, though.

“That is a shame. A young lady should wear an easy smile and not have the solemn look you so often wear.” His words drew her back to the reality of her situation, a cruel reminder of the duke’s part of just what drove a woman to become so solemn and more guarded with her smiles. He rubbed the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. “I’d like to know the reason your lips turn down at the corners. Here,” he touched first one corner. “And here.” Then the next.

The horrid truth that was her life hovered upon her lips so all she wanted to do was take the burden thrust upon her and pour it into his surely more capable hands. She trailed her tip of her tongue over her lips and his green eyes fixed upon the movement.

“You’ve bewitched me,” he whispered. And there, in the early dawn hours in the lush, manicured grounds of Hyde Park, with the threat of discovery breathing about them, Sebastian claimed her lips.