Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(60)

Some dark, powerful look blazed to life in his eyes.

And then she pressed her lips together, as a horrifying heat blazed across her body at the implications of the words she’d tossed at him. “Not that I presume you’re in love with me,” she said quickly.

He remained stone-faced.

Unable to quell the nervous tendency that required her to fill voids of silence, she continued on a rush. “Nor do I presume you’d wed me. Tomorrow, that is. Or I suppose any day for that matter. I’m merely saying…”

“Yes?”

She bristled at the wry amusement underscoring that one word utterance. “I believe we were discussing your displeasure with The Mad Marquess.”

“Did you hear it as displeasure?” He rolled his shoulders. “I merely thought I provided an honest critique.”

Which is probably what she most disliked—the sincerity of his opinion about love. She gave her head a firm shake. Nay…not love. She disliked his opinion on her book, that was all. “And do you intend to read any more of my…” She coughed and buried the sound in her hand. “Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work?” She held her breath, not knowing why she should await his answer with this breathless anticipation.

“Will I be required to meet and discuss my thoughts with you on his other works?”

“I suppose that might be…er, useful.” Though she couldn’t be certain her response wasn’t born of pure selfishness, a selfishness that had nothing to do with improving her craft and everything to do with being in Sebastian’s company. The same recalcitrant dark brown lock fell across her brow.

They reached for it as one. Their fingers touched as he brushed it back and her breath caught. “Well, then I imagine I will be completing the reading on the remainder of his works.”

“Why?” She should be shamed by the boldness of that whispered question.

“Why, Hermione?” He leaned down so close their lips nearly brushed and everything fell aside; her maid in the corner, the horrifying revelations shared by Papa a short while ago, Hugh’s bitter charges, the story for Mr. Werksman and she braced, desperate for his kiss. “Is it not obvious?”

She managed to shake her head.

“Why, it is because I find myself quite captivated…”

A wild, fluttering spiraled throughout her belly and crept higher to her heart as she tipped her head back, craving his kiss.

“…by your Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work,” he finished.

Mr. Michaelmas? Her eyes flew open. He studied her with a knowing smile.

Humph. “Oh, er right, very well, then.” She leaned around him and grappled for a familiar book on the rose-inlaid side table. She slapped it into his hands. “If that is all you require, Your Grace, I’ll hand off one of his more recent works to you.” She hopped to her feet.

He remained seated, eying her quizzically. “Have you just dismissed me, Miss Rogers?”

This time, Hermione leaned close to him, so their lips nearly touched once more. “I imagine if you’re so very captivated, you are very eager to begin,” she lowered her voice to a sultry whisper, “reading.” She smiled widely and then clapped her hands once. “Off you go then, Your Grace.”

He stood, his impossibly tall, powerful frame unfurled, swallowing up her shadow making her too-tall self, who never felt small around gentlemen or ladies, feel slight of frame. He glanced over in her maid’s direction and then returned his attention to Hermione. He appeared poised to say something further but then gave a short bow. “Miss Rogers.” With that, he left.

Hermione stood there long after he’d gone, staring at the empty door he’d disappeared behind. She sank into the sofa and gripped the edge of her seat as dread sank like a pit in her belly.

She’d gone and fallen in love with Sebastian.





C





hapter 17

Sebastian stood beside the empty hearth in his office with the tick-tocking long-case clock as his only company. He clasped his hands behind his back. He periodically glanced over at the book given him by Hermione. Another of her beloved Mr. Michaelmas’ works, The Bitterest Baron’s Bittersweet Love. It really was quite an atrocious title, nearly as bad as the author’s name of said book—Mr. Michael Michaelmas.

He should have departed for Lady Brookfield’s ball—he glanced at the hands of the clock—well, at least an hour ago. Perhaps longer. Instead, he’d pondered the very atrocious title of a tartly delivered gift from earlier that morning. And staring into the cold metal grate of the hearth, Sebastian acknowledged that the very moment Hermione Rogers had slapped her copy of The Bitterest Baron’s Bittersweet Love into his hands and all but tossed him from her parlor, he would offer for her.

Most gentlemen preferred their wives biddable and docile and he, having dealt with the infuriating nonsense of a younger sister, had imagined he would be one of those ‘most gentlemen’ craving calm and quiet. With Hermione’s tendency to prattle on when flustered, there would never be quiet. And with her passion-filled eyes, well, there would be no calm either. And he found he wanted it. Nay, her. He wanted all of her.

By your own admission, Your Grace, do you believe if we were to wed tomorrow, you’d not be capable of loving me for…what was it three years? Four? Five?