Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(59)

Her head shot up and a guilty blush stained her cheeks. “Uh…no. Should I be?”

“You should not be,” he said curtly. He flicked his gaze from Hermione to the maid with a smile on her lips. He frowned. The last bit of gossip he cared to have bandied about was his recent interest in Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ Gothic novels. He imagined the ton would have a great deal of amusement at his expense.

“Sebastian?” Hermione prodded.

He draped his ankle over his knee. “Do you know what I believe?”

She inched to the edge of her chair, bringing their legs in contact once again. “What?” She tapped the edge of her pencil against her lip while closely scrutinizing him.

Except when she asked with that whispery soft entreaty underscoring her words, her smoky lashes lowered, he couldn’t think of much beyond one shocking truth—the idea of marriage to Miss Rogers was not at all unpalatable. Quite the opposite. And he, who’d avoided the parson’s trap and fortune-hunting ladies desiring the title of Duchess of Mallen, found he quite enjoyed the idea of taking this particular woman, this unconventional woman, to wife.

“Sebastian?” she prodded, her eyebrows dipping.

He gave his head a clearing shake. “I believe your Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work isn’t altogether drivel.”



Through the years the sliver of herself that penned romantic tales of forbidden love and scandalous matches had held onto the dream of more for herself. Despite Cavendish and Papa, the whimsical portion of Hermione’s soul had secretly longed for and imagined a gentleman who’d pay call, snip a black strand of hair, then tuck it close to his chest. All truths she’d not admitted, even to herself—until this very moment. She’d imagined a man who’d dash sonnets upon a page, then hold the poem in one hand and a bouquet in the other.

Yet, all of those frivolous dreams were naught when compared with Sebastian’s almost compliment, an unwitting compliment from a gentleman when no gentleman would dare admit to reading a Gothic novel.

“Thank you,” she said, a smile pulling at her lips.

“I imagined a boastful, gloating response more than anything else.”

“I’m not the boastful type,” she said.

“That isn’t to say the work was flawless,” he continued.

Her smile slipped. “I beg your pardon?” She could not call back the indignant exclamation.

He rested his forearms upon the arms of his chair. “Would you prefer I lied to you and said your Mr. Michaelmas’ work can rival the greats?”

“Humph.” She folded her arms across her chest. There really was nothing more humbling than having one’s work picked apart by a lofty duke. A strand of hair fell across her eye. She blew it back. “Well, on with it then.”

“The marquess lacks depth.”

She straightened. “He most certainly does—”

He arched an eyebrow.

Hermione cleared her throat and gave a wave of her hand. “Very well, carry on.”

“His love for the heroine is immediate. He, who pledged to never love falls in love quite quickly and without reservation.”

She scrunched up her mouth. “Well, why would he want to fall in love slowly?”

He dragged his chair closer to the edge of her seat and leaned in. “Otherwise how can he truly know her?” he pressed. The faintest hint of mint and warmed chocolate clung to his breath and she drew in the intoxicating scent of him.

She desperately wanted to attend his questioning. Only…He does believe in love. This powerful, confident, and bold gentleman, a duke no less, spoke so candidly, with such assurance of that emotion. “He knows,” she said, at last her voice hoarse. “He knows upon first meeting her. Love is instantaneous—”

“It is not.” He shook his head. “It is born of a deep understanding of one another and comes after many years—”

A snorting laugh bubbled up past her lips. He believed in love but didn’t truly understand it. “Many y-years?” she sputtered. So was the way with gentlemen on matters of the heart. She tipped her head. “Do you imagine there is a prescribed number that dictates matters of the heart?”

His jaw hardened as though he took offense at her laughter. Perhaps a duke was unaccustomed to others finding amusement at his words. “By your admission, Miss Rogers, you’d believe a person can know another person, their interests, their hopes,” he dropped his voice, and his words whispered in that husky baritone wrapped about her, “their desires in just a single meeting.”

She swallowed hard. He was indeed, correct. So why with Sebastian did she allow herself the whimsy of a fairytale?

He pressed on, relentless, lowering his voice even further. “By your admission, you’d believe yourself capable of loving me since that meeting in Lord Denley’s office?”

Her throat worked involuntarily. God help her… He quirked an eyebrow, so coolly unaffected that reality came crashing down around her, and dashed all the fanciful yearnings that had occupied her ponderings. “I—I d-don’t,” she said, wishing her voice was steady. And more…wishing she believed her own words.

His lips turned in a half-mocking, half-knowing grin.

She pursed her lips. Oh, the lout. He believed he knew all; matters of the heart and matters of literature. Hermione folded her arms across her chest. “By your own admission, Your Grace, do you believe if we wed tomorrow, you’d be incapable of loving me for, what was it, three years? Four?” She raised an eyebrow. “Five? Or did you fail to mention the requisite number of years one must know a person to love a person?”