Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(91)

She cleared her throat and gestured to the leather sofa at the center of the room. “Would you care to sit?”

He inclined his head and claimed a spot upon the leather sofa her brother had occupied a short while ago.

Hermione forced her legs to move. She claimed the mahogany scroll armchair opposite him. “I am afraid His Grace is not here, my lord.” Her stomach tightened with a familiar humiliation.

“I am aware of that,” he murmured. Those five words gave little indication to his thoughts on that particular detail.

Of course, he was aware. One would have to be buried under the cobbled roads of a London street to not know the scandalous Duchess of Mallen. She braced for the pitying glint in his eyes; pity, which never came and for that, she would be eternally grateful.

He beat a hand against his thigh. “Mallen and I have been friends since Eton.”

Her heart sped up. “You’ve known Sebastian since he was a boy?” How could she know so much about Sebastian and yet so little?

“I have.”

A thousand and one questions sprung to her lips and she had to firm them into a tight line to keep from asking about her husband. He would have been a serious type of boy who likely hid his grin and practiced a ducal frown in front of a bevel mirror. A smile played on her lips.

He spoke quietly. “He knew early on his responsibilities as a duke and took them quite seriously. His father, the duke, died unexpectedly some years ago and Mallen stepped into the role with great ease.”

How very much alike they’d been. He had taken over the care of his sister and mother with the passing of his father, much the way she’d seen to her own brother and sisters. Yet, their experiences had, in other ways, been so vastly different. “I imagine he did,” she said more to herself. Where Hermione had bumbled along, doing the very best she could to help Elizabeth, Addie, and Hugh, he’d likely guided his family effortlessly without the same missteps she herself had made. But then, how very different the world was for a woman.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” Lord Waxham leaned forward in his seat. “I’ve been unclear.”

“Hermione,” she automatically corrected. She detested all reminders of the title she’d stolen. Unclear was a good deal better than untruthful.

“I’ve known Mallen since he was a mere boy. I’ve witnessed his calm and resilience in the face of great loss.” He gave her a pointed look. “But I’ve never known him to be the brooding, dark fellow he’s become.”

The muscles of her stomach contracted. Hermione quite hated the brooding dukes. And she quite hated herself for having transformed Sebastian into that sort of gentleman. She lowered her gaze to her yellow skirts. Her throat worked. “I am sure you’ve read the gossip columns, my lord,” she said, her voice hollow. He knew what kind of woman she was, and more, knew she’d trapped his best friend into a loveless marriage.

“You do not strike me as a fortune-hunter,” he said with a candidness that brought her head up.

And yet, that is what she was. Shame burned like acid inside her stomach. “What am I to say to that?” She could not so humble herself and admit to Sebastian’s closest friend she’d indeed trapped her husband. It was enough Society already suspected.

“I want to see him happy.”

“So do I,” she murmured softly. Unable to meet his perceptive stare, she shifted her gaze to a point beyond his shoulder. Except she’d robbed him of any chance of a deserved happiness.

“I do not presume to believe you know the circumstances surrounding my marriage to my wife, Sophie, the Countess of Waxham?”

Sophie Winters, the woman Sebastian had cared for. She gave a curt shake of her head. “I am merely a baronet’s daughter from Surrey who came to London but once.” And who would now forever remain.

“I’ve learned from my own experiences that there is always more to one’s circumstances.”

In this case, there was a good deal more. There was Elizabeth. And Hugh. And Addie. She said nothing.

“Do you love him?”

She should be outraged by the boldness of that question, but she welcomed honesty in a world ruled by gossip and falsities. “I do,” she said softly. “I made a mistake, my lord.” What a feeble explanation for the wrong she’d done. “A horrible, unpardonable mistake.” Hermione drew in a slow breath thinking of her fractured family and gave her head a sad little shake. “And what is most reprehensible,” she squarely met his gaze, holding her palms up, “is that I cannot, in all honesty and in good conscience, say I’d not make that same choice again.”

A stretch of silence fell between them. Her words lingered and danced about, a damning confession from her to this stranger. At last, he climbed to his feet and sketched another bow. “Hermione, I wish you every happiness.” Had he heard the words she’d just confessed?

She stood and followed his swift, determined stride to the front of the room.

He spun back around. “I trust what drove your actions were honorable. I’ve known Mallen enough to know though stubborn, he is reasonable enough to listen and hear the truth.”

Hermione searched his face. “How can you possibly know that, my lord?” How, when her own husband did not?

He inclined his head. “A lady eager for the role of duchess would not remove herself from polite Society. A title-grasping miss would flaunt that title about ton events. Yet, how many balls have you attended, Hermione? Soirees? Dinner parties? Operas?” Her silence served as her answer. “No, a woman so hungry for that coveted title would not shut herself away in her husband’s office.” With a final bow, he took his leave.