Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(58)

The boy scuffed the tips of his worn boots along the mahogany floor, a youthful lad once more. He shuffled over to the door, head hung down. “Where’s your chaperone?” Hugh demanded, seeming to find one last boost of courage.

At last, a sensible member of her family who recognized the very important fact, Miss Hermione Rogers appeared to have forgotten at some point.

A young woman shuffled in behind Hermione, her serviceable brown wool gown and the white cap atop her head bespoke her station. Ahh, the oft-absent maid. She disappeared to the far corner of the room and claimed a rosewood open armchair.

Hugh stepped past his sister, but Hermione placed a hand on his shoulder, staying his movements. She leaned down and whispered something close to his ear. He gave a small, tight nod and then with a final black glare for Sebastian, took his leave.

Sebastian broke the silence. “Hermione,” he greeted, a warmth filling his chest at the simple sight of her.

Yet, she hovered at the doorway and he feared one wrong word uttered on his part would send her into flight. Had the same events that transformed Hugh into an angry, spitting-mad young boy resulted in Hermione’s somberness?

“I must confess to being surprised by your visit, Your Grace.” She spoke with the usual directness he’d come to appreciate her for.

Sebastian fished around the front of his jacket. “You dropped this when you left earlier this morning,” he murmured. He withdrew the letter that had fallen from her book at Hyde Park. Not reading the contents of the note had been perhaps one of the hardest chores he’d undertaken in life.

Her dark brown eyebrows shot to her hairline. She sprinted across the room and then she yanked the note from his fingers. Her chest heaved with the force of her upset. She held it close to her breast. More than ever he wished he’d read the blasted sheet.

“Generally a thank you would suffice,” he said sardonically.

“Did you read it?” she asked tightly.

He really should have scanned the damned contents of the note. “You insult my honor with such a question.” The icy cold fury in his rebuttal would have had most people cowering in terror.

Miss Hermione Rogers, however, tipped her chin back as bold as you please and challenged him with fire in her eyes. “Did you?”

“No.” He balled his hands into fists at his side and the niggling of suspicion sank into his mind of the person who’d penned that letter—a gentleman, perhaps the young lady carried a deep love for. Such clandestine missives would certainly indicate why he’d come upon her in Lord Denley’s office and numerous times, unchaperoned at ungodly hours.

The tension in her narrow shoulders seeped from her narrow frame. “So that is why you’ve come?” Did he imagine the trace of disappointment to her question or was that his own desiring?

“Yes.” No. He’d come to see her. He would have come whether or not the folded ivory sheet marked in her initials hadn’t tumbled from the book she’d been writing in that morning.

“Oh.” The whispery soft exclamation definitely contained a trace of disappointment.

“If you’d not fled so quickly, I would have given you the note earlier.” But then he’d have no logical reason to justify a visit, outside the very obvious reason assumed by his friends, family, and the whole of Polite Society—he was courting the young miss.

She continued to fiddle with the folded page.

“It occurs to me, Hermione, you have a devilish tendency of running off.” And he didn’t like it. Not in the least. Particularly when she was running away from him.

Hermione lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Perhaps it is because there is everything improper in our being alone together unchaperoned.” She dropped her voice and glanced past his shoulder. He followed her stare toward the maid with her bent head. “As we’ve been three times thus far,” she whispered, returning her attention to him.

And how very dearly he wished it could be a fourth. He took a step toward her. His fingers burned with the desire to stroke the soft curve of her cheek. “I read your book.”

“My b-book.” Her squawking voice could have rivaled the grey geese at his country estate at Leeds.

“I read the copy of Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ Mad Marquess,” he clarified.

She blinked and then her eyes formed round moons. “Oh, the book.” A breathless laugh escaped her.

He furrowed his brow, not altogether certain of the distinction between the two.

Hermione danced away from him and continued moving backward. She paused beside the torn sofa. “Will you please sit, Your Grace?” She gestured to the seat across from her.

Sebastian strode over. He slid into the seat closest Hermione. Their knees brushed. She sucked in a breath. A thrill of masculine satisfaction filled him at her reaction to his nearness. The minx wasn’t as unaware of him as he’d earlier believed. Hermione grabbed a closed journal atop the table and a nearby pencil. She fanned to the middle of the book and then stopped abruptly.

“And what did you think of The Mad Marquess, Your Grace?”

“Sebastian,” he murmured. “I believe you were correct. It is a story of passion and love and certainly not anything I’d…” He cocked his head and repeated, “Certainly not anything I’d…” He paused. “Miss Rogers are you taking notes on what I’m saying?”