Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(77)

She winced.

“Honorable.”

She flinched.

“Respectable.”

She winced again.

“And intelligent. Do you know,” he dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. “She pens quite—”

“Papa!” Her sharp command emerged as a high-pitched squawk. He looked to her questioningly. She gave her head a curt shake.

The duchess gave her a commiserative smile, as though she’d interpreted Hermione’s personal shame and sought to assure her that all was well here—which was quite wrong for so many reasons. Nothing was well here.

Papa frowned and appeared ready to protest Hermione’s plea for his discretion. He looked about. “Will we have the privilege of seeing the duke?”

Or had the duke come to his senses and realized Miss Hermione Rogers and her scandalous family was not worth having? But then, in this, she’d not been truthful with him either. He knew nothing of her history or her reasons why. A half-sob, half-laugh escaped her. As though her motives should ever matter to him.

“Indeed you will.” A familiar voice drawled from the doorway.

Sebastian. Hermione surged to her feet, as did the others present. Her heart fluttered wildly as the deep, familiar baritone washed over her, even in its anger, somehow warming. Everyone and everything fell away; the hatred he carried for her, her reason for being here, the vile thing she’d done. There was only them, as they’d been before Lady Brookfield’s ball. Then he turned a harsh, unrelenting stare on her, and the fleeting moment was shattered. She shifted on her feet. “Your Grace,” she said, her tongue wooden. She dipped a belated curtsy.

He motioned to a seat.

Gratefully, she slid into the comfortable folds of the chair. Papa and the duchess doing likewise.

Sebastian did a cursory search of her person and then he flicked his stare over to Papa, promptly dismissing her. Is this how it would be for the remainder of her life? Tears smarted behind her eyes and she blinked them back.

More merriment than she remembered in years wreathed her father’s wrinkled face. At least one of them should be happy. “I was just commending to the duchess on your fine selection in a bride.”

She repressed a groan, praying for the return of the laconic, morose papa and not the prideful, boastful one.

Sebastian arched a cynical eyebrow and she longed for the hardwood floor to fall away from her feet and swallow her whole.

“Quite loyal, my Hermione is. A wonderful daughter and good sister.”

She fixed her gaze on Sebastian’s immaculate cravat unable to meet his coolly mocking eyes. All the while Papa gushed effusive praise. So removed was he from life that he did not know, nor realize, Hermione had forced the duke’s hand. This was no marriage of love or affection or mutual respect—all such sentiments were strictly on her part.

“There is no more beautiful girl than my—”

“That is quite enough, Papa,” she bit out. She flushed as three pairs of eyes swung her way.

Sebastian held her gaze for a moment. She braced for the icy condescension and disgust at her suddenly garrulous father’s bombastic compliments. She tipped her chin defiantly back and boldly met his gaze. The fight drained out of her at the remoteness of his stare as he turned his attention to Papa. She hugged her arms to herself as Papa proceeded to talk. And talk. And then talk some more.

The butler appeared at the entrance of the room with a smiling, brown-haired, brown-eyed woman and a tall, commanding gentleman with blond hair and a small child in his arms. “The Marquess and Marchioness of Drake,” the servant announced.

Sebastian’s sister.

Except, Hermione remained fixed on the small girl. Mayhap no older than two years of age, she possessed full cheeks, red lips, and the widest cornflower blue eyes. The little girl looked at Hermione and smiled. “Hullo,” Hermione said quietly. She lifted her fingers and waved at the babe. The girl flapped her hand in an awkward wave and then as though excited, bounced up and down in her father’s arms and with a squeal buried her face in his chest. Emotion flared in Hermione’s breast as she imagined a different babe with Elizabeth’s golden-blonde hair and sweetly innocent smile. And the reminder flooded her of why she’d done exactly as she’d done in Lord Brookfield’s office.

“Hermione?” Sebastian murmured with the gentle concern she’d come to know of him.

She hopped to her feet once more and dimly registered the marchioness had spoken. To her. She looked wordlessly up at her husband-to-be. Cold ice filled his eyes, and she knew she’d merely imagined any hint of warmth.

Lady Emmaline cleared her throat. “My brother mentioned you enjoy Mr. Michael Michaelmas’ work,” she said softly.

“He did?” Hermione blurted. Which would mean he’d at least cared enough about her to mention her to his sister. Surely that meant something? She looked at her husband-to-be once again. He looked at a point beyond her shoulder. Or mayhap not. She shook her head, dispelling wishful yearnings. “Uh, yes, I quite enjoy…a Gothic novel.” There was something obsequious in claiming to like one’s work—even if others didn’t know she was, the Mr. Michaelmas.

Emmaline laughed. “You must be quite special if you’ve managed to convince my stodgy brother he’s been wrong all these years about a Gothic novel.” She wandered closer and claimed Hermione’s hand. “I always said when a young woman captured my brother’s heart—”