Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(9)

Hermione angled her head and studied the smiling couples, the flirting misses with their coquettish smiles and the roguish gentlemen with their improper glances.

Pale pink roses littered the floor. He strode over, pulled her close and… She wrote the words upon her otherwise empty dance card. But for some doddering gentleman with a balding pate and florid cheeks, she’d still not managed to wrangle up a suitable gentleman, let alone a duke, for her research. All the other details to her story had fallen neatly into place, inspired by the opulent, lavish world of glittering Society.

Hermione sat back in her chair on a sigh. Still no duke, though. Not in an entire fortnight of attending balls and soirees and dinners. She’d sat a silent observer to the gentlemen and ladies about her. She’d found a young marquess with a dashing smile as well as a wicked earl with a hard glimmer in sapphire blue eyes.

She tapped the tip of her pencil upon her delicate card, distractedly. Perhaps she’d amend her story, pen a note to Mr. Werksman, and convince him there were not enough stories of wicked earls and sly marquesses, and that those gentlemen were vastly more enjoyable to young lady readers and…

Hermione dropped her pencil. Mr. Werksman wanted a duke. He’d been quite clear in his specific requirements for this particular project. Her heart pounded madly. She was running out of time, fast. Which certainly wasn’t helping the birth of this particular story. She dusted her damp palms together, detesting this sense of panic. She had written through the years for her love of the written word. In a world where she’d always been plain Hermione Rogers with slightly crooked teeth and a remarkably uncurved, rail thin frame, writing was the one thing that had felt extraordinary about her.

Most would consider her a bluestocking. She preferred to think of herself as an author, an observer of life. And she’d been successful.

Until Mr. Werksman and his blasted brooding duke.

Hermione stared absently out at the ballroom floor, into the sea of twirling lords and ladies. The orchestra concluded a lively country reel and the dancers erupted in a smattering of polite applause. The sounds of merriment came as if from a distance. Panic built steadily inside her chest. She’d been failed by so very many. Since Mama’s passing, Papa had failed her. Lord Cavendish who’d presented a fa?ade as an honorable gentleman. And now, for the first time in three years, words which were the one constant in her life now failed her.

Her aunt Agatha would say she was better served in finding an appropriate suitor to solve her family’s woes. Except all the gentlemen she’d ever known had proven themselves wholly unreliable.

The mere pittance Hermione received for her stories represented far more than monetary salvation. Mr. Werksman’s payments represented the sole control she had in life over anything. If there were no stories, there were no funds, and if there were no funds there was no control over her own destiny, no helping her siblings, no….She took a steadying breath. This isn’t what it was supposed to be. This pressure. Necessity now warred with her love of her craft.

Hermione looked out to the dance floor once more and froze; the sense of being watched pierced her troubled thoughts. With a frown, she quickly surveyed the crowded ballroom. “Don’t be a ninny,” she muttered. Her fantastical musings were a product of too many stories of too many vile characters, dashing heroes, and frustrated hopes. No one studied Hermione Rogers. Certainly not here in London and yet…

The pinprick of awareness coursed through her. She did another sweep of the ballroom. The dancers performing the intricate steps of the Danse Espagnuole parted. She sucked in a breath, frozen.

A gentleman stared at her over the rim of his champagne glass. With his tall, well-muscled frame he possessed the manner of beauty that made weak young ladies stammer and forget essential details such as their names and the importance of propriety. Hermione gave her head a clearing shake at the sheer implausibility of such a man as he studying such a woman as she. Oh, she was not being modest or self-deprecating. She knew what she was in terms of a beauty and had rather accepted such a truth—she’d never possess the grandeur of those blonde, sought after English beauties. Which was quite fine. She vastly preferred the idea of having the affections of a gentleman inspired by her mind. The dancers moved, cutting off her direct view of the stranger.

She reluctantly shifted her gaze away. Except… Unbidden, her stare wandered out across the ballroom. Her heart quickened. Even with the great space between them, his eyes pierced her.

Look away, Hermione. As much as she longed to honor the wise words at the edge of her conscience, she could no sooner tear her gaze away than she could cease putting stories to paper. No man had a right to be so coolly refined and in possession of such tousled, thick golden hair. The harsh, angular planes of his face and the aquiline nose bespoke power and strength. One such as him deserved a story. She scratched a handful of words upon her dance card. Oh, the stranger could never be a nefarious duke, but he could certainly be…

“Hermione!”

A startled shriek escaped her, earning curious stares from the lords and ladies around her. She hopped to her feet. “Aunt Agatha.” Her heart sank at the dandified fop accompanying her aunt, he in his orange pants and a canary yellow coat. Really, who said either of those colors went together? They didn’t.

Ever.

Not that she, attired in her too-ruffled yellow satin monstrosity, had any right to pass judgment on the attire of others. Yet, she’d had little say in the gowns selected by her aunt. She at least recognized the absolute silliness of such elaborate, blindingly bright fabric…even if the gentleman condescending her with his stare now could not recognize the same flaws in his garments.