Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(62)

Aunt Agatha went slack-jaw.

She didn’t mean to be ungrateful, yet what did her aunt expect? No lady preferred to be the pathetic, pitiful wallflower at the edge of the dance floor. Hermione could no sooner drum up a partner than she could force Cavendish to do the right thing by her family.

Her aunt angled herself in a way that she shielded their exchange from the crowd. “I gather you are aware of your father’s meeting with a certain lord?”

“I am,” she said on a hushed whisper. At least Aunt Agatha had the discretion to not mention the actual gentleman’s name. Even as Hermione’s actions would never warrant notice, one could never be too careful when there was a sea swarming with gossipy ton members.

Her aunt gave a curt nod. “If you sought salvation from that one, there will be none coming.” Oh, God. She’d desperately prayed Papa had been wrong in this regard. “He is to wed a wealthy heiress and will never dare acknowledge a connection to your family. There is to be a formal announcement…” Her aunt’s words came as if down a hall and she stared unblinking at the ridges upon the enormous Doric column. Hermione reached a hand out and grasped it, seeking support. Elizabeth. Her babe. Addie. They would all be ruined. “…He is here…the…”

She shook her head. “He is here,” she blurted. Sick dread filled her at the prospect of seeing the man who’d robbed her innocent sister of her virtue. Her significant height allowed her to look with ease over her aunt’s shoulder. Hermione scanned the crowded room in search of a familiar gentleman with hair so fair it was nearly white.

“Are you listening to me, Hermione?”

She jerked her attention back to Aunt Agatha. “Yes,” she lied. She’d heard just bits and fragments of her aunt’s flurry of words.

“If you are not prepared to make this great sacrifice for yourself, my dear, at least think of your sister and brother.”

This great sacrifice. That evil, vile, horrid plan mentioned three days ago by her aunt. An act which would never, could never, be redeemed. Trap Sebastian. Her mouth went dry at the great appeal of being not his duchess, but his wife. Such a man would never so fail his family as her father had done. You’ll never have to worry for Addie, Hugh, or Elizabeth’s future again. The venomous thought snaked around her mind, spewing its poison.

“I see you’re considering it,” her aunt snapped. “Which means you are not as foolish as I’d imagined.”

“Thank you,” she said between tight lips.

Alas, her aunt failed to hear or care about her niece’s sarcasm. “The gentleman has expressed interest enough in you that yours will not be an unhappy union. All you need do, my girl, is coordinate a meeting, and I shall see to the rest.”

Hermione’s stomach dipped at the effortless manner in which her aunt spoke of compromising her niece’s reputation and robbing a man of choice. And, Hermione, who’d never been without words, found herself incapable of mustering a single reply for her avaricious aunt, never more grateful than when she turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd. How could this cold, title-grasping woman share the blood of Hermione’s departed mother? Her mother, who’d been so hopelessly in love with Papa that she’d foregone far loftier, more advantageous matches to wed a bookish baronet with a whimsical heart.

She made for her seat, and then froze. The crowd fell away. Her aunt’s scheming slipped her thoughts, and she took a step forward as Sebastian made his entrance. He strode down the stairs, elegantly attired in his midnight black breeches and black jacket, looking for all the world as though he were the owner of the ballroom. Eager matchmaking mamas clamored for his notice. Gentlemen threw their hands up in greeting. Hermione smiled sadly. Her aunt expected her to make a match with him. Yet, by the circumstances of his noble birth and her modest, country lifestyle, they could not be more different. Dukes just a breath shy of royalty wed young ladies of equal blue blood. Hermione and Sebastian barely moved within the same social sphere and then, only by his seeming interest.

Someone stepped into his path, staying his forward movement—a well-matched couple. A handsome gentleman with chestnut brown hair, arm looped through that of a blonde, voluptuous young lady who smiled with such familiarity at Sebastian, Hermione’s insides twisted with jealousy. His smile, a charming gift he now bestowed upon the woman.

Hermione forced herself to look away. Aunt Agatha deluded herself if she imagined more to Sebastian’s smiles than there truly was. Why, he likely smiled that same, dangerous, slightly crooked grin at any number of young ladies and had surely left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. She fisted the fabric of her yellow skirts and looked at the crowd…

…and froze.

Her heart pounded hard as she stared at the familiar, loathsome sight of the rogue who’d destroyed her sister’s heart and shattered the possibility of a respectable future for any of them. She’d known it was likely that they would again meet, and now seeing him grinning and casually sipping champagne, a mind-numbing fury threatened to consume her.

He glanced almost disinterestedly about the room…and then his gaze collided with hers. Momentary confusion filled his eyes and then dawning horror. Lord Cavendish’s lips parted as if in a gasp and he choked on his French champagne, attracting concerned stares.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Good, the blighter deserved to choke for what he’d done. She contained a bloodthirsty streak. But then, when you were a sister that is what you did. You loved fiercely. You donned silly yellow skirts and attempted to catch a husband as though men were trout in a well-stocked lake. And you slayed dragons real and imagined, or in this case, Lord Cavendish the man who’d stolen Elizabeth’s virtue.