Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(73)

The day he forever tied himself to a lying, title-grasping miss. A conniving deceiver who’d orchestrated their every meeting, their every chance encounter. And he who’d managed to avoid any number of fortune-hunting schemers through the years in the hope of having a meaningful union based on love now found himself trapped. His lip pulled in a cynical grin. Love. What a bloody fool he’d been.

Sebastian downed the contents of his brandy, uncaring of the early morning hour. He welcomed the trail it scorched down his throat. In a handful of hours he would wed a woman who, but for the middle name Edith and an interest in Michael Michaelmas’ outrageous work, he knew not at all. He stared down at the amber drops that still clung to the side of his glass.

His fingers tightened reflexively about the tumbler. He’d imagined her to be different, and that inexplicable attraction to Miss Hermione Rogers the moment he’d spied her penning notes upon her dance card had been borne of his belief she saw more than his title. His lips pulled with bitterness. He wanted to hate her for being just like every other woman, but he hated himself more—for being blind to the truth before him.

Another knock sounded at the door. “I said get the hell—”

“Yes, I’m told that is what you’re ordering the servants.”

He stiffened at the sudden, but not unexpected, appearance of his mother. “Mother,” he said. His shoulders drooped, his gaze fixed on the window.

The rustle of skirts indicated she now moved toward him. “Oh, Sebastian,” she said softly.

His gut clenched at the aching pity buried in that four-syllable utterance. “Have you come to say something, Mother?” If it were all the same, he’d rather have her gone so he could be alone with his brandy and his miserable self.

“Come,” she said with a touch of reproach in her words. “Surely you don’t expect we’ll not speak on…on…what has happened.”

He swung around. “And what has happened?” Other than the fact he’d had his heart and trust shattered by a woman?

She firmed her jaw. “I understand you are angry, but you must speak of her.” She paused. “She is to be your wife.”

My wife.

Ragged silence met her pronouncement. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He would have Hermione Rogers to wed and to bed as he’d longed to—only under the lady’s terms. With a curse, he strode over to the sideboard. He grabbed for the nearest decanter of brandy and yanked the stopper out. He tossed it to the floor and splashed several fingerfuls into his glass. Then thought better of it and filled his tumbler to the rim. After all, it was a day of celebration.

“Don’t be crude, Sebastian.” Mother folded her arms across her chest, a dark frown trained on his glass. “I hope you don’t plan on being soused for the ceremony. You should have a care as to how it will appear.” Ah, how uncharacteristic of her, worrying after the gossips.

A mirthless chuckle escaped him. “Would you have me play besotted new husband for the ton’s benefit?” He held the glass mockingly up in salute.

“I would have you not recite your marital vows before your family and bride drunk,” she said bluntly.

He took another sip. “Oh, I assure you, my bride cares only about her new title of duchess.” Not him. It had never been about him. His gut clenched. What a bloody fool he’d been. The lies had been contained within her eyes, every time she’d looked at him, but he’d been too blinded by the dream of her.

His mother appraised him with sad, searching eyes. “I do not know your Miss Rogers,” she began softly. That made two of them. He knew Hermione Rogers not at all. Foolishly he’d thought she saw in him more than a title, rather the man he was. He’d made so very much out of her teasing and often assessing, bold stare. Lies. Lies. Lies. “But I do know, you’ve seemed quite…taken.”

Sebastian took a sip of his drink. He had been. From the moment she’d slipped from Lord Denley’s ballroom and he’d trailed after her like a lovelorn fool. He gave his head a disgusted shake. “With a woman who was not real,” he spat. He finished his brandy on a long swallow. “Regardless of the circumstances of our relationship or surrounding our marriage, I’ve little choice but to wed her.” He set the glass down hard on the sideboard. “So you will have your grandbabies, the line will be secured, and I shall at last have a duchess.” Except, he’d only allowed himself to think about how those grandbabies would come to be…and imagined himself lying Hermione down, and laying claim to her lean, lithe frame. He grabbed the bottle of brandy yet again and reached for his glass, hating himself for desiring her as he still did.

His mother recoiled. “Is that what you believe? That I merely care about your responsibility to the title?” Shocked hurt underscored that question.

He flexed his jaw and poured himself another glass. “Come, Mother, we both have known through the years what my obligations and responsibilities were to the Mallen line. Father made them very clear. Do not suggest you are not in some part happy in my being forced to at last wed.”

She marched across the room then ripped the glass from his fingers. Liquid droplets of brandy splashed his fingers and stained her gloves. “You are certainly free to sulk like a petulant child, Sebastian, and you are entitled to your resentment.” She stalked over the floor and hurled the contents of the brandy into the empty hearth where it noisily sprayed the cold metal grate. “I am not making excuses for Miss Rogers, but if the reports are to be believed…” She held a hand up when he attempted to speak. “And as you’ve not spoken to me or anyone in three days now, I am forced to rely on the tales of gossip, you followed your Miss Rogers into Lord Brookfield’s office.” She gave him a pointed look. “And those are certainly not the actions of a gentleman.”