Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(83)

C





hapter 23

Hermione was not the wagering type. She rather considered it a frivolous waste of funds. But in that moment staring around the empty foyer, she’d wager every shilling she’d made as Mr. Michael Michaelmas that the last thing her husband desired was her presence. The burning fury in his impenetrable stare had indicated he’d likely see her in hell than in his home.

Rooted to the white marble floor, Hermione toyed with the staircase bannister. She suspected this unsettled moment between she and her husband represented a kind of crossroads. If she allowed him to seethe in his fury, it would destroy him, and ultimately any possibility of a happy them. She’d been accused of being many things—bluestocking, inevitable spinster, too-practical, now fortune-hunter. Shame turned in her belly at that. Never had she been considered a coward.

So, squaring her shoulders, she lifted her yellow skirts and ascended the long, never-ending staircase. Whyever did any home need so many stairs? She reached the top and strode down a long corridor, trailing her fingertips over the satin wallpaper. Gold sconces lined the walls. All her life, material comforts; her attire, furnishings, food, had all been a matter of necessity. There was none of the frivolous extravagance of the upper nobility.

“Can I help you, Your Grace?”

Hermione shrieked and spun around so quickly she lost her balance. She flung her arms wide to keep from toppling over.

The young maid slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear!” Tears filled her wide, brown eyes. “I nearly killed the new duchess.”

Hermione glanced around in search of this new duchess, belatedly realizing she was said person. At which point she also realized that the young woman had mistaken her momentary silence as a condemnation. “I assure you, it will take more than an awkward tumble to kill me,” she said in a weak attempt at humor.

The servant continued to sob into her hands.

She sighed, her husband’s flight momentarily forgotten as she patted the girl upon the shoulder. “I assure you….?”

“M-moira,” she said between noisy tears. “M-moira.”

“Well, then, I assure you, Moira,” she said in the same soothing tone she’d adopted with Elizabeth when she fell into one of her displays of temper since girlhood. “I’m quite well.”

“Y-you’re c-certain?” The girl asked, this time her tone far more steady.

Hermione smiled. “I’m very certain.”

“I’m your maid,” the girl blurted. She swiped at her cheeks. “Your lady’s maid,” she corrected. She squared her shoulders, a proud light reflected in her eyes. “I’ve just been appointed.” She paused. “If you don’t sack me for nearly killing you,” she mumbled.

“I’ve no intention of sacking you.” Hermione smiled again. She shared a kindred connection to this woman who felt so out of place in this great home. “Would you be able to guide me to…” My husband. “His Grace?” Which should suffice. After all, she couldn’t very well go saying to the servants, ‘oh, my husband is still displeased I trapped him into marriage and stormed off on our wedding day…do you happen to know where he is?’ “I find myself lost in this grand home.”

The girl nodded eagerly, clearly excited about having a charge she could help her new mistress with. Though, in secret, Hermione would be a good deal more pleased if young Moira could manage to drum up the duke, instead. “It is a splendid home,” the girl was saying, the words eerily echoing Papa’s from the morning breakfast. “Sweeping ceilings, beautiful carpets…” She continued to prattle on, peppering her description of Sebastian’s townhouse with the word ‘splendid.’

Neither Sebastian’s townhouse or her family’s cottage had thus far proven truly splendid. To Hermione, a splendid home was one in which a family was happy. A home where parents were strong, capable figures who didn’t break and shatter with great tragedy and instead knew love and laughter despite all life’s unfair challenges.

“I’ve never been there, of course, but I have…” The girl was saying as she paused outside an open door.

Hermione stepped into an indeed splendid bedchamber—and promptly collided with her husband.

A husband who was clearly taking great pains to avoid her. She searched for a hint of the charming, affable gentleman who’d kissed her until her toes curled—in a very good way. Looked for some sign of the man who’d inspired her story about a duke who was not at all nefarious. “Er, hullo, Sebastian.”

Cold, stony silence met her greeting.

Regret sat like a stone in her belly. This gentleman bore traces of the brooding, dark fellow readers supposedly clamored for. Mr. Werksman and all his silly readers had been very, very wrong. There was nothing preferable in these dark dukes. She missed her smiling, teasing duke.

He made to step around her.

And she registered the maids darting about her room, carrying items from her armoire to her trunk. Her lone, tattered trunk. She wrinkled her brow. “Are we going somewhere?” He’d not said anything of the like. Nor had she imagined he’d be eager to go on honeymoon with the woman who’d forced him into marriage.

“Leave.” For a moment she thought he spoke to her. But the harsh, guttural command sent the three young maids scurrying toward the door. They slipped around Sebastian and Hermione stepped out of the way, permitting them their well-deserved exit. They closed the door behind them, filing past her with a pitying look. She detested the pitying looks.