Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(79)

The vicar leaned close. “What was that, Miss Rogers?”

“I will,” she blurted, this time louder. She drew in audible breath. “I will,” she repeated, as though trying to convince herself she wished to do this thing.

He frowned. Which made little sense. She’d orchestrated everything that came before, in order to bring herself to this moment. Yet, her reaction was not one of an eager, thrilled-to-be-a-duchess young woman he’d expect of a fortune hunter.

“…I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“It is done,” she whispered.

It was done.

The jovial discourse of Hermione’s father and Sebastian’s family blended and blurred; their words all ran together as he stood beside this woman who was now his wife. He searched for words, something to say to this woman he’d trusted. Now knowing, she was really no more than a stranger. “Breakfast.” And a liar.

She tipped her head at an endearing little angle. “Beg your pardon?” And why did he still find her endearing? Why, when everything was nothing more than an act where Hermione was concerned?

He motioned to their small assembly of family members who filed out of the parlor with the vicar, leaving them alone. “I imagine it is expected we join our guests for a celebratory breakfast.”

She flinched at the mocking emphasis he placed on that one word.

He held out his arm. “Let us get on with it then.”

Hermione eyed it a moment and then looked up at him. “I am so, so sorry, Sebastian.”

He flexed his jaw. “It is a bit late for regrets, Your Grace.” No mere apology could wipe away the bitter pain she’d wrought.

Her lips turned up in a sad little smile. “Your Grace,” she murmured as though tasting the title.

A familiar resentment coursed through him.

She held her hands up. “It was not about your title.” She glanced down at her palms a moment. “Or it was.” She sighed. “It was,” she said once more, seemingly to herself. Her words knifed through him until she raised her shocking blue eyes to his. “But I was truthful when I said it was not solely about your title,” she whispered. “I need you to know that I—”

He jerked and took a step away from her. “There is no reason for lies, Duchess,” he hissed. “You do not need to maintain false—”

She closed the distance between them and stood so close the tips of her slippers touched his toes. “It is true,” she said, her tone stronger, bolder, the Hermione he remembered who’d challenged his presence in Lord Denley’s office that first night. “I’ve no reason to lie.” She bit down on her lower lip.

He narrowed his eyes at that slight, telling movement. “What other lies do you carry, madam?”

A guilty blush splashed her cheeks. She glanced over his shoulder at the door. “We should join our guests. If you’ll excuse me.” She dipped a curtsy and danced around him.

He gripped her loosely about the forearm.

She glanced down, eyes widened on his hand upon her person.

He pulled her close.

Her thick dark brown lashes fluttered. “W-what are you d-doing?” That question, a sultry, seductive whisper conjured all manner of wicked deeds involving Miss Hermione Rogers, now Her Grace, Hermione Fitzhugh, the Duchess of Mallen.

He filled his hands with her buttocks and drew her against the vee of his legs. “I’m kissing you, madam.”

A little moan escaped her lips. “Why?” she asked, even as she pressed her form against his.

Why, indeed?

Then she stilled, her words came out steady and controlled. “You don’t even like me.”

No, he did not. He loved her, even as he did not know her. He tightened his jaw. He would never give her that power over him. Not again. “I don’t care to talk,” he growled. He wanted to burn the taste of her into his memory and be done with her. He attempted once more to claim her lips. She turned her head and his kiss grazed her cheek.

“But you’re cross with me. It’s not altogether pleasurable kissing a person when cross.”

He closed his eyes a moment and calmed the desire churning inside him. “You’re incorrect, Hermione.” This hungering for her was as fierce as it had been at their first meeting.

“Why would you kiss me?” Did she want him to desire her? Why should the lady care when she already had everything she’d required of him in that damned title of duchess?

“I want to,” he settled for at least that truth. For as much as he detested what she’d done, he wanted her. But then, that was love; illogical, imprudent, and all things unwise.

She shook her head. “I’d rather not…not…”

He shot one eyebrow up. “Yes?”

She gesticulated wildly with her hands. “Do anything.” Another crimson blush stained her cheeks. “Er, that is anything of the romantic nature.” He tightened his lips to keep from pointing out that with the desire still flaring between them, there was no need for romance in their exchange.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You do realize you’re now my wife.”

She frowned, a slight expression that conveyed displeasure and annoyance. “I, of course, know that.” The lady was cross with him? “I do realize you’ll require an heir. However, it will be beneficial for us to wait.” Her words conjured seductive ponderings all involving her upon her back, arms outstretched in invitation. He was still the same, imprudent bastard where his wife was concerned. Under his intense scrutiny Hermione’s color deepened. If her cheeks turned any redder, she’d set her face afire. “That is, until we better know one another,” she finished lamely.