Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(78)

“The vicar has arrived,” Sebastian said harshly. His interruption killed the words on his sister’s lips.

Hermione looked to the door where a small, slender man of indeterminate years now stood. He took in the collection of individuals and then audibly gulped at the fierce glint in Sebastian’s eyes.

A muscle ticked at the corner of her husband-to-be’s mouth. “Shall we begin?” he asked coolly.

Unless she was prepared to add another great scandal to her family and see Addie and Hugh also ruined, it seemed she had little choice.



“It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined…”

She’d been crying.

Sebastian stared over the vicar’s head at the ornate, gold-framed mirror. Considering the circumstances surrounding their hasty union, he would imagine those salty drops were tears of great joy for having secured the title of duchess, and yet the wide, dark circles under her eyes and the pinched set to her mouth indicated the lady’s sadness.

The vicar’s monotonous tone droned on and on, echoing about the still parlor. But for his sister, mother, brother-in-law, and Hermione’s father, there was no cheerful crowd, no observers, and no guests.

And for the love of God, why, did he care that she’d been crying? Because damn it, he did. Because he was a weak, blasted fool.

Hermione remained stoically silent. With the exception of a breathless ‘Sebastian,’ she’d not uttered a single word to him. Not even when her father had placed her hand upon his shoulder.

“Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak…”

Her red, swollen eyes suggested the lady had been crying for the better part of three days. Sebastian kept his attention on the clergyman officiating the services, but unbidden he stole another glance at the tall, proud woman with her expressionless face and remote gaze. He could not make sense of the aching pain in her striking blue eyes. She had everything she wanted. Her title of Duchess of Mallen. Yet, she wept. What reason was there for her tears? Had she expected he should celebrate in their circumstances?

He didn’t want to care how she felt or why she felt as she did. He wanted to feed the seething fury deep inside, for it protected him from the agony in knowing he’d loved a woman who didn’t exist. He’d been schooled by the late Duke of Mallen, trained to be level-headed and practical in all matters. Secretly, in the privacy of his own thoughts he’d scoffed at his late father’s expectations of him, insisted on a meaningful match based on love. Of course, his father, even in death was proven correct. Ina matter of days, a handful of meetings, three stolen kisses, and a Gothic novel, Sebastian had given his heart to a woman he barely knew. Perhaps there was something to be said for logic, after all.

His parents had been fortunate. Emmaline and Drake, as well. Those unions, however, had been mere chance. There was no matter of chance or romance in what he and Hermione had shared. By her own admission, he’d merely represented an ideal match for his title alone. He rubbed a hand his chest to ease the dull ache there.

“Your Grace?” the vicar prodded. “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

He felt Hermione’s stare trained on him and internally cursed her. “I will,” he said tersely.

The vicar continued.

Sebastian balled his hands into fists. No, he didn’t care about the scheming miss. Only…

There had been that frozen moment where she’d stared longingly at Emmaline’s baby, Regan. She’d waved to the girl in an altogether un-title-grasping like move. Those women, whose company his wife now kept, cared for jewels and fabrics. They didn’t smile at babes or look at the husband whose title they’d stolen with sad little eyes. “Goddamn it.”

The vicar stumbled through his verse as Sebastian’s mother and sister emitted shocked gasps.

“Will you get on with it?” he managed between clenched teeth.

The vicar stammered along.

“Hermione Edith Rogers, Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Silence met the vicar’s question. A good deal of silence. The ormolu clock atop the mantle tick-tocked away the moments.

The aggrieved looking vicar cleared his throat. “Miss Rogers,” he urged, his tone fairly pleading.

Sebastian shot an impatient glance at Hermione and stilled. For a moment, a very long moment, it appeared she could not bring herself to speak the two words. He stared at the tight, drawn corners of her lips, her wan complexion. If she cried off now, she’d be ruined and he’d be spared the eternal reminder of his folly in trusting Miss Hermione Rogers. Anxiety clenched like a vise about his heart. Why, in spite of her betrayal did he want her to utter those binding vows?

“I will,” she whispered, her words so soft he struggled to hear.