Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(71)

He tried to draw up images of the girl who’d painted that page a lifetime ago; she’d have likely had long, dark tresses and a mischievous glimmer in her sapphire blue eyes. His stomach tightened as she became something different than the treacherous woman who’d wound her way into his heart only to betray him. He thrust back foolhardy reverie.

The baronet tossed another glance over his shoulder, his lips turned up in a secretive smile. “She was always so proud of her work. Her mother and I were content to let her imagine she might be the next DaVinci.” His expression grew wistful. “Or I was, anyway. Her mother despaired of what would become of Hermione.” The woman would have surely reveled in the title snatched by her daughter.

Sebastian peered over the man’s shoulder at the divided page: a book, a baby rattle, a toy soldier, and a violin, without any strings. Why had she not finished the sketch? Had the pixie like child become too distracted by some other girlish interest and flitted on to her next distraction?

“She captured a collection of her brother and sisters’ favorite images. Said that way they might hold onto them forever and always be happy.”

The words pulled at him; a somber statement for a small child that belied his earlier musings. Why would a girl so young worry about the possibility of losing those things? He glanced about the office in its state of disrepair. Had Hermione’s personal circumstances been dire then? The possibility tugged at his heart, once again.

“Hermione learned loss early on,” her father murmured, lost in thought. “That was the last painting she ever did,” he said returning to the subject of that intimate portrait of a past.

Sebastian fixed his gaze on the image, not wanting the other man’s words to matter, preferring his own volatile anger to the memories that had shaped Hermione into the woman his heart had wanted. “I’ve come to offer marriage to your daughter,” he said his flat tone devoid of emotion.

The baronet turned around with his pipe clamped between his teeth, and then withdrew the wood piece. “Her aunt said as much,” he said more to himself. Had the baronet had less of a role in orchestrating this union than he’d initially believed?

Which only presented the other, unwelcome niggling truth. Hermione’s father was so removed from his daughter’s life he didn’t realize what had transpired at Lord Brookfield’s. He skimmed the stacks of pages in this cluttered space in search of The Times or some other scandal sheet that provided details of Hermione’s ruin last evening. If the man read any newspapers, there was no evidence of it here.

The baronet motioned for him to sit once again.

Impatient to be done with this meeting, Sebastian sat. “I’ve come to discuss the terms of the contract.”

“The contract?” the man repeated, unblinking.

He bit back a curse. “The betrothal contract,” Sebastian said impatiently. “Considering the circumstances, it is best.” And necessary. “To secure a special license.”

“The circumstances?” Hermione’s father was beginning to sound like one of those colorful parrots favored by many of the nobles. He shook his head slowly. “I’m not aware of any circumstances,” he said, only confirming Sebastian’s earlier supposition. The man didn’t properly care for his daughter.

Yet, shame sat heavy in his gut. Even though Hermione had orchestrated their discovery in Lord Brookfield’s office, Sebastian was complicit in their embrace. There was something reprehensible in speaking these sordid details to the father who still hung eleven-year-old Hermione’s painting upon his wall. “May I speak candidly?”

Her father inclined his head.

“Your daughter and I were discovered in a compromising position.” The man gave no outward reaction. He swiped a hand over his face. Surely the baronet understood the implications? “As a result, your daughter is ruined and…” I’ve no honorable choice but to wed her. “We are to be wed,” he finished.

The baronet sat back in his seat, puffing away on that damned pipe. “Ahh.”

This is what he would say? If a gentleman had come into Sebastian’s office composed and insufficiently shamed after ruining his own daughter, he’d have taken him apart with his bare hands.

“Do you love her?”

I did. He would have been happy for the rest of his life if she’d proven to be the woman he’d first taken her for. Emotion clogged his throat. Regret. Pain. Resentment. “It is a bit late for discussions of love,” he managed to squeeze out. And even with her betrayal, he suspected she’d always hold his heart. He curled his fingers into the arms of his chair.

The leather chair creaked as the man leaned forward. “Ah, it is never too late to discuss matters of the heart.”

Sebastian winced. At last, Hermione’s romantic spirit, the blasted Gothic novels, they all made sense when faced with her foolish sire. He continued in clipped tones before the other man could prattle on with such nonsensical musings. “I intend to allot Hermione ￡300 each month, whatever her dowry—”

“It is modest,” the baronet interrupted. “But ￡1000.”

“—will revert to her, should anything happen to me.” He carried on over the baronet. It mattered not what she brought to the union. For him, it had never been about wealth or connections with Hermione.

The other man steepled his fingers, eying Sebastian over the top of them. “That is incredibly generous,” he waggled his eyebrows, “for a gentleman who’d not speak of love.”