Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(72)

Sebastian shoved to his feet. He didn’t intend to speak of his confounded feelings to the father of the woman who’d betrayed his trust. “If there is nothing else to discuss, my lord, I must see to the special license and the arrangements.” He bowed. “If you’ll excuse me?” He started for the door.

“You didn’t ask why she stopped painting.”

Sebastian froze mid-stride. He turned slowly back around. The baronet tapped his pipe in a crystal tray and then gestured toward the child’s painting. Why would a young girl, who loved to paint cease doing so after that four-image sketch? “Why did she stop?” he asked, unable to quell his curiosity.

“That is not my place to tell.” The older man gave a sad little smile. “That’s for Hermione.” He inclined his head. “She’ll share it with you. If you but ask.”

Sebastian gave a terse nod. He had little intention of prying into his scheming bride-to-be’s oldest memories. Theirs was no love match; no coming together of like souls on grounds of love and trust. He pulled the door open then closed it behind him. Rather, what he and Hermione would forever have was a union forced upon them. Nay, forced upon him by her desire for the material comforts she’d clearly missed through the years. He strode through the house and…

…collided with Hermione.

He automatically caught her by the shoulders and steadied her.

Her swollen and bloodshot eyes indicated she’d been crying. He didn’t want to care. A pressure squeezed about his heart. Yet, he did. “Sebastian,” she said softly. For an infinitesimal moment, everything else slipped away but the two of them. He didn’t consider her actions last evening or his own bitter resentment. Then she dropped her gaze. “You met with my father.”

And he was brought quite forcibly back to their circumstances. “Indeed,” he bit out.

A spasm of pain twisted her face, as though he’d physically wounded her with his harsh tone.

Say something, Hermione. Tell me I wasn’t hopelessly blinded by your true nature and that you were the one woman who wanted me for more than the damned title.

“I…” She studied her palms.

With a silent curse, he continued his forward path, desperate to place much needed distance between them. To be with her roused his longing for the spirited hoyden.

“Sebastian?”

He froze. Tell me. He needed to hear Hermione say that he’d mattered.

“I—I would ask you something,” she said, her voice small and hesitant.

He turned slowly back around to face her and folded his arms at his chest. “Oh, you want something, do you, Miss Rogers? I am a duke with plentiful coffers.” She flinched. Sebastian tossed his head back and forced out a hard, cold laugh. “But then you well know that, don’t you?” Even as he braced for a request for baubles and trinkets, his heart hung suspended on the hope that she would speak of love.

Hermione smoothed her palms over the front of her skirts and took a step away from him. “My brother,” she said on a quiet whisper.

The last shred of hope contained within that useless organ withered and died. God help him, he was more pathetic than all those sonnet-sprouting fools he’d so disparaged over the years. He had to strain in order to make sense of that softly spoken whisper. “What about your brother?” Sebastian gave a flick of his hand. He glanced around for the angry little fellow he’d met on several occasions.

Hermione drew in a visible breath and took a step closer. “My brother…we…there were no funds for him to attend Eton.” A crimson blush stained her cheeks.

He eyed her expectantly. What was she on about?

“Will you see that he’s admitted?”

This is what she’d ask him? His skin turned cold and he embraced his anger. It strengthened him, kept him from becoming a weak, broken-hearted fool who’d been shattered by her deception. “Tsk, tsk, Miss Rogers,” he jeered. “Not even wed and you’ll put favors to me?” She winced but held his gaze with the same bold defiance she’d demonstrated in Denley’s office. He shook his head, his lip pulled back in a curl. “Your brother will attend Eton. Now, is that all, madam? Or are their other requests you’d put to me?”

She jerked as though he’d struck her but then managed a tight nod. “That is all, Sebastian.”

With her wounded blue gaze fixed upon him, he spun on his heel and at last took his leave, without a backward glance for his cunning betrothed.





C





hapter 20

With a half-empty brandy in his hand, Sebastian stood by the floor-length window of his office and stared down into the bustling streets below. Since he’d last seen Hermione two days ago, he’d been unable to quell thoughts of their hasty meeting in the quiet halls of her home. A woman who would trap a gentleman for his title would have a desire for jewels and fine French fabrics. Yet, of all the requests his wife-to-be would put to him, it had been for her brother, Hugh. Why, would a woman who so favored material possessions ask about an education for the boy? Why, unless there is more to Hermione than I’ve considered since Lord Brookfield’s.

Footsteps shuffled in the hall, followed by a soft rap on the door, breaking into his tumultuous thoughts.

He flexed his jaw. “I said get the hell out,” he snarled. The infernal knocking ceased and he returned to his own dark brooding. The last thing he cared for was company. Certainly not from his nauseatingly, blissfully wedded friend, Waxham, or his sister Emmaline. Not that he begrudged them their joy. He didn’t. He just didn’t need to be reminded of it at this particular point in his life, when his own marriage was to be a cold entanglement thrust upon him in such a humiliating fashion. The crystal windowpane reflected the curl of his lip. With a day’s growth of beard and his wrinkled garments, one would hardly know this was to be the Duke of Mallen’s wedding day.