Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(88)

Addie reached for Hermione’s most recently completed page.

She intercepted the girl’s efforts. “It is still drying, my dear.”

Her sister let out a little huff of annoyance. “Very well.”

She couldn’t afford any more delays. In a surprisingly magnanimous gesture, Mr. Werksman had granted her a fortnight to complete her latest story, which she suspected had to do more with the sample piece he’d read rather than any real kindness on his part. He would not, however, be tolerant of any further delays.

Addie folded her small arms behind her back and leaned over to read the pages. Hermione held her breath, filled with an almost dreaded anticipation of her reaction.

Hugh flung himself into a nearby sofa. He swung his legs furiously back and forth. “Duchesses don’t write stories,” he said, with all the world-weary wisdom of a stern-faced papa.

She frowned. “I do.” Her brother grunted, letting her know just what he thought of a duchess who wrote. She studied the angry little boy, forced to acknowledge the truth of his words. Duchesses didn’t write. But then, she really wasn’t much of a duchess anyway. Rather, an Unexpected Duchess as the papers had originally begun writing of her. And that had been the most kind of their vitriolic posts about Hermione Fitzhugh, the Duchess of Mallen.

Plain fortune-hunter. A somewhat clever play upon the pairing of words, if she were being wholly objective. Title-grasping wallflower. Though, she would have gladly welcomed title-grasping miss; the other made her sound like a horrid vine-y plant. For all polite Society was wrong about, in terms of truths and gossip—in this regard, they’d proven unerringly accurate. She sighed. Then it wouldn’t require the intelligence of all the collected ancient Greek philosophers to surmise the duke’s moving out—on his wedding night, no less—certainly did not hint at a happy union.

“Hmm,” Addie murmured, pulling Hermione back from her musings.

“What is it?” She involuntarily clenched the muscles of her stomach as she awaited her sister’s criticism.

A slow smile formed on Addie’s lips. “Oh, Hermione, it is just splendid.”

“Truly?” Her heart kicked a funny little, quite pleased rhythm. “Do you think so?” This was a good deal better than her sister’s earlier disappointment with her initial attempt. Or, rather initial attempts.

“Oh, it is!” Addie spun away and threw her arms wide. “I feel his love now. He is once again charming.”

“Silly drivel,” Hugh muttered from his seat. The two ladies frowned at him. He glowered. “What? It is.”

Addie planted her hands on her hips and glared. “Someday you’re going to fall in love, Hugh Rogers, and I’m going to laugh and laugh and remind you of just how miserable you were this moment.”

“I won’t.” He recoiled. “I would never do anything as foolish as become Papa.” He shot a glance at Hermione. “Or Hermione.”

Her heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”

Hugh slashed the air with a hand. “He came calling on you. Made you believe he cared.”

“He married her.” Ever romantic Addie, still unjaded by life defended the absent duke.

Hugh snorted. “And he left. He didn’t want anything more of her than Lord Cavendish wanted of—”

“Hugh!” Hermione said sternly, interrupting his shameful flow of words.

The anger went out of his taut frame and a contrite expression settled over his face. Then fire flared in his eyes. “He doesn’t love you.”

She knew he was merely a boy; a hurting, angry, wounded little boy, yet his words burned like vinegar tossed upon an open wound.

Addie gasped. “That is a horrid thing to say. Who could not love Hermione?” She suspected Addie’s was more a rhetorical question than anything else, and appreciated the devoted girl’s support.

“The duke,” Hugh said with an almost gleeful spite. “That is who.”

Hermione flinched.

Addie flew across the room. “Don’t you say that!” She stuck her angry fingers out like small little daggers and lunged for Hugh. “Don’t you ever say that!”

Hermione raced to interject herself between her sister’s outraged fury and her hostile brother. She caught Addie about the forearm and forced her to a stop. “Shh, it does not matter,” she lied.

Addie studied her a moment. “It does,” she said softly.

Hermione released Addie’s arm and returned to Sebastian’s desk, which she’d claimed as her own. She clasped her hands tightly together and made a show of studying the pages to keep from having to form a reply. In this, the young girl was correct—it did matter. A familiar pain pulled at her heart.

She didn’t care about the unkind words written of her in the papers. Words that, for her actions at Lady Brookfield’s she was wholly deserving of. But she did care that Sebastian did not love her. Hermione drew in a slow, shuddery breath. The excruciating pain of loving one who never could or ever would love you was hardly the romantic piece she’d imagined within her stories. It was ugly. And cruel. And harsh. The kind of agony that robbed you of sleep, and had you crying until your eyes were puffy and swollen and you were empty of the useless salty drops.

Hermione touched her fingers to the edge of her most recently completed page. There should be some sense of joy at the completion of this story that had nearly gone untold. So why am I empty?