Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(96)

“Is that why you left?” She jerked her chin toward his white-knuckled grip upon Hermione’s page. “Because you disapproved of Hermione’s writing?” He lightened his hold upon the sheet. The little girl continued on a rush. “She really is quite remarkable and it would be unpardonable for you to ever stop such beautiful stories from being told.” A strand of hair toppled over her eye. She blew it back, the move so patently Hermione’s. “Hugh said you’d never allow it. Hermione’s writing,” she clarified.

Hugh was a miserable little bugger who needed a stern talking to. Then Addie’s words registered. “She writes,” he blurted, knowing he must appear a total lack-wit with his mouth agape.

Addie pointed her gaze skyward once again. “Well, yeeees,” she said once more with her exaggerated tone. “What do you think you’re reading?” His gaze fell to the words in Hermione’s hand and then back to the girl. What in hell…? Addie blinked. “You didn’t know?”

“I don’t…She didn’t…” He gave his head a slow shake and tried for words. How much more did he not know about his wife? “What does she write?”

Addie scooted forward and ignored his question. “You mustn’t tell her I’ve told you.” She squared her small shoulders and in the manner befitting a proud new papa and said, “She’s Mr. Michael Michaelmas.”

The air left him. And at last it all made sense—her dashing notes upon her empty dance card, sneaking about her hosts’ homes and ruffling through their desks in search of empty sheets. She was a writer. He recalled The Entrapped Earl and The Mad Marquess. She was a brilliant writer.

Hardly the quality of writing to rival Chaucer or Aristotle…

Sebastian swiped a palm across his mouth. She was the brilliant author whose work had captivated him enough to humble himself before his brother-in-law, all to read a copy of those expertly crafted words. And he’d disparaged her so. God he hated himself in that moment.

“You were to be her duke,” Addie said softly.

He was to be Hermione’s duke. And instead of fighting for a place in her heart, he’d walked away, like a sulking child to lick the wounds of his hurt pride and broken heart. Instead of talking to her and trying to set their uncertain union to rights, he’d run.

A true hero did not flee. Not in the way Sebastian had.

Addie wrinkled her nose. “Of course, Mr. Werksman and I told her no one wants an affable, charming type.” She continued prattling on.

“Mr. Werksman?” he asked, mind racing as he tried to put her words into some semblance of order.

“Her publisher,” Addie said as though it were the silliest thing in the world that he had no idea as to who the famed Mr. Werksman was. “Everyone knows all readers prefer their heroes dark and brooding.”

“Undoubtedly,” Sebastian said somberly.

Addie hopped to her feet. She tugged the forgotten page in his hand free and moved her blue eyes quickly over the words. “Do you know, I doubted Hermione? After she met you, she assured me that a charming, kind-hearted gentleman would be the perfect hero and I quite disagreed.” There was nothing charming or kind-hearted about him. He’d been nothing more than a petulant child. Shame twisted in his belly. Addie held the page up. “Then I read her latest work, and it is really quite brilliant. One of her best.” She yawned.

Desperately needing some solitude to put to his tumultuous thoughts to rights, he said quietly, “You should be on to bed.”

With a beleaguered sigh, she handed him the sheet. “Just like Hermione.” Addie skipped to the door and cast a suspicious look over her shoulder. “You shan’t tell her I told you.”

He marked an X upon his heart. “Your secret will remain with me.” And it would. He’d not break the girl’s confidence. Not to Hermione, anyway.

She smiled and hurried from the room.

Sebastian turned his attention to the neat stacks of sheets upon his desk eying them in stunned disbelief. Noisy footsteps sounded from outside his office, calling his attention away from Hermione’s work. Addie peeked her head around the door.

He looked at her quizzically. “Addie?”

“I think Hugh is wrong. I don’t think you’re a black-hearted bastard.” With that, she spun around and hurried from the room.

Yet, as he stared at the door she’d just disappeared behind, he had to admit, in this moment, it felt very much like the angry boy Hugh was indeed correct. I am a black-hearted bastard. Sebastian sat down.

And began to read.





C





hapter 26

The End.

Hermione sat back in Sebastian’s desk chair and stared at the two words; words she’d once considered more beautiful than any others. They signified accomplishment and the completion of a story she’d pulled from her heart to tell. Now, a wedded woman and jilted wife, she could admit there were words far more beautiful, but in the absence of those precious three, these lone two would have to suffice.

She stared at the neat stack of pages and with steady fingers tied the blue satin ribbon about the pile. She smoothed her hand over the top page. Her Charming Duke. It was done. She quickly and efficiently placed the hundreds of sheets within the leather folio and tied it closed.

For the pain of her broken marriage and all the lies that had brought her to this moment, she could say one thing of beauty had come from it. His story. No, their story. A pang struck her heart. Or rather, part of their story. The rest she’d re-written to be an ending she’d so desperately needed in her own life. The door opened. “It is finished,” she said, studying the title. “At last, I’ve…” She picked up her head. And the words died on her lips. She blinked several times. How many days had she spent wishing he’d return, hoping he’d return? Had dreamed it so many times that surely this was just another one of those wishful dreams.