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

Shaken from her reverie, Hermione raced down the slick grass onward to her weeping sister. “Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.”

Partridge jumped up from the chipped stone bench but Hermione reached Elizabeth first.

She fell to a knee beside her sister and set aside the violin. “What happened, love?” she asked gently.

Her sister rocked back and forth. “B-bit me. The rose bit me and…” She let loose another round of noisy tears.

Hermione drew her into her arms and simply held her until she quieted. She drew back and brushed her fingers over Elizabeth’s tear-dampened cheeks. “Better, now?”

Elizabeth sucked on her injured digit. “No.”

“What if I say I brought you this?” Hermione asked, and reached for the violin.

An excited squeal replaced all previous upset and Elizabeth made an awkward grab for the instrument. “I play. You say I play.”

“Of course you can play,” she said handing over the violin.

Elizabeth sank into an inglorious heap; her skirts rucked up about her legs, Hermione forgotten. Her sister tugged clumsily at the strings with stiff, awkward fingers, periodically emitting a coarse whine as a discordant song filled the air.

Hermione brushed a hand over her sister’s silken tresses. “I have to leave, love,” she said softly.

Her sister never picked her head up, giving no indication she heard or was outwardly affected by the truth that her sister, once best friend, now useless protector, would leave.

Partridge held Hermione’s gaze and gave a sad, knowing smile.

She tried again. “Did you hear me?” But Elizabeth remained fixed on her damaged violin. A pang struck Hermione’s heart. She didn’t know what Elizabeth understood, how she felt; it was as though she’d become trapped in a world of her own. “I have to leave.” She stroked the top of Elizabeth’s head. “I’m going off to London.” To be somber and serious and not at all happy. She stared at a butterfly fluttering about from one wildflower to the next.

The memory of those words uttered a lifetime ago, on the edge of a river before their world had been thrown into upheaval danced silently through the air.

How eerily wrong Elizabeth had been. On the last day of their normal happy existence, Elizabeth had imagined they had their whole lives to be somber and now, staring at her so blissfully unaware of the impending doom facing them, there was nothing somber about her elder sister.

It would fall to Hermione to set her family to rights. As her sister Addie had pointed out, all she needed to do was find one duke to tell her story. She had six weeks to find a duke, conduct her research, and tell her story.

How difficult could it be to find a dark, brooding duke at the height of a Season? Why, London should be fairly teeming with dukes of all sorts. All she needed to do was pluck one from a gathering…





C





hapter 2

The day the Fourth Duke of Mallen’s heart stopped beating, he’d not been an old man. Granted, he’d not been a very young man either. Five years shy of his sixtieth year and the picture of robust health, the late duke could have comfortably wrestled men thirty years his junior. Or, that is what Sebastian Fitzhugh, now 5th Duke of Mallen had believed at the time. The illusion of his father’s resilience and indomitability had been broken with one gasp, a shattered glass of brandy, and then a blank-eyed stare.

In that moment, that single defining moment, Sebastian had realized one significant, very pivotal point. When a man died, the material wealth and powerful connections left behind meant nothing. It had been a staggering realization for a son who’d been carefully schooled on his responsibilities and obligations to the ducal line since he’d been no more than a child.

Seated at the desk once belonging to that late, great figure, Sebastian studied the page laid out upon the immaculate surface of his mahogany desk list.

Age 31

Serve on Board of London Hospital √

Have profitable estates √

End sister’s childhood betrothal established by the 4th Duke of Mallen √

Marry off sister √

Marry off sister to best friend, Christopher Earl of Waxham

Sire an heir

He placed a ledger along the bottom of the page, obscuring the last three damning words he’d written six years to the date when he’d stepped into the role of duke. Words his father would have viewed as extraneous and irrelevant in the scheme of his life.

The items he’d accomplished really weren’t unimpressive. He drummed his fingertips on the sheet. Why, he did serve on the Board of London Hospital as was evidenced by that clever little check and he had severed the childhood betrothal established between his sister Emmaline and the Marquess of Drake. He frowned. Granted she’d been the one who’d severed the arrangement and then promptly accepted an offer from the same gentleman anyway. But that was neither here nor there.

Yet, if he were to be wholly honest—with at least himself—he hadn’t accomplished much in his thirty-one years; certainly nothing worth mentioning, anyway. Which wouldn’t matter to most gentlemen. No, most would be content to embrace the carefree life of bachelorhood and the revered title, especially with all familial obligations firmly wedded and happy.

It did matter when presented with his father’s early death and his own advancing years. And it would have mattered to his father. A great deal. His sire had instilled in him a commitment to the ducal responsibilities from the moment Sebastian uttered his first word, Da. From then on, each lesson had been carefully ingrained into the only son and heir to the late Duke of Mallen.