Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(64)

Wordlessly, he pushed open the door. She passed her gaze over his face, her throat working with the force of her swallow, and then she backed into the room. He followed after her and closed the door behind them. Silence stretched between them. Now that he’d come here, words deserted him.

“I don’t suppose you came to talk about The Bitterest Baron’s Bittersweet Love?” she whispered.

He stalked over to her. “A silly title.” His voice rumbled from deep within his chest as he came to a stop so close the tips of her slippers brushed the tips of his boots. He cupped her cheek and she leaned into his touch like a kitten searching for warmth from its master.

“It i-is.”

He stroked his thumb along her lower lip. “It is what, Hermione?”

“A s-silly title. The worst. I wanted—” Her eyes flew wide. “Th-that is…I-I heard Mr. M-Michaelmas fought quite extensively with his publisher o-over the h-horrid title.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued on a rush. “D-did you know that? Did you know—?”

“Hermione?”

“Yes, Sebastian?”

“I didn’t come here to speak about Mr. Michaelmas’ horrid title,” he murmured, lowering his brow to hers.

She closed her eyes and her head fell back. “It’s not that awful.”

“It is.” He brushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

A breathy moan escaped the bow-shaped lips he longed to plunder. “You’re being q-quite d-difficult with Mr. Michaelmas.”

“Your Mr. Michaelmas can go to the devil just now.”

She blinked and the haze of desire clouding her eyes receded. A frown marred her cheeks. “That is not at all a nice thing to say, Sebastian.”

With the world righted. He recalled his purpose in searching her out. Remembered why he danced with disaster in simply being here with her. “Who was he, Hermione?” he asked bluntly.

Four little creases lined her brow. “He is the author of Gothic novels. No one knows much of Mr.—”

“Not, Mr. Michael Michaelmas.” He folded his arms. “The gentleman who sent you fleeing the ballroom.” He expected her to deny it, or mayhap feign confusion. A pained sigh escaped her and she angled away from him. He gritted his teeth in annoyance. He didn’t care for being shut out. Not by her. She dragged the back of her hand over her brow. “Who is he to you?” His stomach tightened with an almost dreaded anticipation of her answer because who Cavendish was to her mattered to him; mattered more than he wished it to.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” she said softly and spun back to face him.

A viselike pressure squeezed across his middle as he forced himself to confront her stolen moments, her lack of chaperone—there was another gentleman. At last, all the questions he’d had surrounding her lurking in the oddest quarters—it had been and, likely still was—for Cavendish. He balled his hands into fists never hating a person more than he hated the roguish lord in this very moment. “He doesn’t deserve you,” he said quietly. He’d known her but a handful of days, but knew enough of Cavendish from the reports of his scapegrace ways.

Hermione blinked in rapid succession. “You think that I…” She paused. “You think that Lord Cavendish and I… That we…” A mottled blush stained her cheeks. “You are mistaken,” she spoke through brittle lips. “I would never, ever do anything so foolish as to give my heart to one such as him.”

Her stammering protestations spoke to her honesty. He caressed her cheek. “Has he done something to offend you?” Because if Cavendish had, by God, Sebastian would see the bastard destroyed.

Tears filled her eyes and she blinked rapidly. A single, crystal drop streaked a path down her cheek and he brushed it away with the pad of his thumb. His Hermione did not cry. With her proud form and fiery eyes she boldly challenged life. Yet Cavendish had reduced her to this. A primal rage coursed through him. Dead. He would kill him dead. “What is it, Hermione?”

“I don’t want to talk of him. Or anything.” Hermione tipped her head back. “Kiss me.” And with that husky pleading, underscored by desire, he could deny her nothing.

With a groan, Sebastian lowered his head and claimed her lips. She pressed herself against him, the delicate swell of her breasts crushed by his chest. He slanted his mouth over hers again and again until her lips parted on a desperate moan, aching to drive back the hurt and pain gleaming in the sapphire-blue irises of her eyes. He slipped his tongue inside and sought hers in an age-old dance.

She collapsed and he caught her to him, running his hands over the gentle curve of her hips. His body sprang hard against her belly. “Sebastian,” she pleaded as he tore his mouth from hers.

He moved his lips in a deliberate trail over her cheek, down her neck. He flicked his teeth over the shell of her ear, and then suckled the delicate flesh. “I have wanted you since I first saw you,” he said, his voice rough with desire.

“Have y-you?” Her question ended on a soft, keening cry as he shifted his attention lower to the modest swell of her décolletage. She tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him close.

Encouraged by her boldness, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the plush, gold-upholstered sofa. He laid her down then hesitated above her. “I want you, Hermione.” He wanted her in every way a man desired a woman; in his bed, in his arms, his home. His heart. “I l—”