Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(80)

With his outrage, the last thing he should crave was this scheming temptress in his bed, but God help him, despite her betrayal he wanted her. He wanted to claim her lips, taste her mouth, lay her down and part her legs with his knee, laying siege to her body, showing her just how pleasurable it could be when kissing someone while cross. “You do not want me to make love to you, then?”

Her eyes formed round moons amidst a burning red face.

He lowered his head closer. “Madam?” he whispered against her lips.

Hermione trailed her tongue over her lips. She gave her head a jerky shake. “No.” The whispered rejection appeared dragged from her. And for all the lies she’d told, by the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her flushed cheeks, her slightly parted bow-shaped lips, Sebastian knew she added an additional lie. She wanted him. Whether she’d admit as much to herself…or him.

“God help me, why do I still want you as I do?” he asked on a groan. He took her mouth under his, swallowing whatever lies were on her lips. She collapsed against him and he mercilessly plundered her mouth, his kiss, hard and demanding. He wanted to punish her and mark her all at once. He swept his tongue inside and boldly stroked hers. She met him with eager thrusts as their tongues danced in a forbidden dance of lovers.

Hermione moaned into his mouth and he swallowed the whimpering sound of her desire. Sebastian drew her close to his throbbing manhood and her head fell back on a soft cry. He moved his attention down her neck to the modest décolletage. He planted a series of kisses upon her satiny soft skin until she gripped his hair and anchored him in place. He wrenched away from her and set her aside.

Hermione blinked wildly, looking much like a night owl caught out in the day.

“You do not want me to make love to you, madam.” He inclined his head. “As you wish. I’ll honor your request.” With that he spun around and stalked out of the room; her labored breathing punctuating his every step. Bloody hell, he hated himself for loving her as he still did.





C





hapter 22

When Hermione was at last able to remember that her name was Hermione Edith Rogers… She wrinkled her nose. Well, that wasn’t quite right. She was Hermione Rogers no longer. When she was at last able to remember her name was Hermione Edith Fitzhugh, Duchess of Mallen, and her heart didn’t pound an annoyingly erratic rhythm, and her body didn’t thrum with desire in remembrance of Sebastian’s kiss—she managed to move her feet forward.

She stepped out into the hall. A nervous maid shuffled back and forth on her feet. She dropped a curtsy upon catching sight of Hermione. “Your Grace,” she said on a rush. “His Grace asked me… That is…” The girl blushed. “He asked me to show you to the breakfast room.”

Hermione looked about for the duchess the young woman spoke of and then froze at the sudden realization—she was now that woman. “Of course, thank you,” she said lamely. She quite detested her new lofty title. A simple miss provided so much more obscurity than a ‘Your Grace’.

As she followed behind the maid in stoic silence mortification ate Hermione’s insides. Her husband, in his unwillingness to wait and escort her himself to the celebratory meal had indicated quite clearly for his servants that this was no happy occasion. And in the servants knowing…well, then all would know.

At the end of the hall, rumbles of laughter and chatter echoed, eerie in the otherwise quiet townhouse. Hermione turned to the young servant. “Thank you,” she murmured.

The woman dropped a curtsy and hurried away. Hermione hovered outside the breakfast room. She didn’t want this. Most assuredly she didn’t want Sebastian in this awful manner. Yet, it was, as he’d said, a bit late for regrets. She’d made her choice and in so doing, had sealed their marital fate. Hermione closed her eyes as the tinkling sound of laughter spilled outside the room once more. Odd, how others could smile and laugh, while her heart was breaking.

Cowardly, she wanted to remain on the fringe of the festivities and yet, she still found the courage to shove away from the wall and step inside the room. A momentary silence filled the room as conversation came to a screeching halt. Then the guests surged to their feet. Hermione glanced about the table. The duchess’ warm eyes, Emmaline’s kind ones, the marquess’ somber ones… she found Sebastian. And Sebastian’s detached ones.

Then activity resumed in a flurry as a servant pulled out a seat beside her husband. She cleared her throat and hurried to take her chair. Everyone reclaimed their seats. A servant carried over a plate from the sideboard with eggs, ham, cold beef, and buttered bread. Her stomach churned at the mere sight of food. She offered him a smile and then picked up her fork, grateful to at least have a plate to fix her attention upon.

“Tell me, Hermione, what is your favorite work of Mr. Michael Michaelmas?”

The question brought her head up. Emmaline smiled expectantly at her. Alas, there was to be no reprieve from anyone’s attention. Not this day. “Er…I’ve always enjoyed,” The Entrapped Earl until her sister made that horrid, if accurate, inadvertent juxtaposition between Hermione and the now loathsome Lady Louisa. “The Mad Marquess,” she substituted. It would forever remind her of Sebastian’s husky baritone as he recited lines when he’d taken leave of her. At her side, he stiffened, as though he followed the direction her thoughts had traveled.