Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(98)

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

How much they’d not known about each other.

“But then I fell too ill to complete the image.”

The string-less violin in the painting.

“Elizabeth’s fever raged for days.” She drew in a slow breath and wrapped her arms about herself as though seeking warmth and comfort all at the same time, accustomed to relying on only herself for both. “Her fever climbed until she was no longer lucid.”

He ached to take her in his arms; to be that which she deserved, but he’d lost that right when he’d walked out of her life.

“She began to convulse, shake uncontrollably…” Tears filled her eyes, but she blinked them back. “And by the grace of God,” her words dripped with more bitterness than he ever remembered of her. “We both lived.” She ran her hands up and down her arms, despite the warmth of the room. “She was not the same afterward, and that was the last image I ever painted,” she added as though it were an afterthought.

He strained to hear those faint spoken words.

“The fever left her…” She met his gaze squarely, almost challengingly. “A child, at least in her mind.” Something dark flashed in her sapphire eyes.

Sebastian swallowed a ball of emotion. He thought of Emmaline; happy, wedded, with a family of her own. And then Hermione’s sister. That one unfair act of fate had transformed her family. It had been easy to be a brother to Emmaline, but if the circumstances had been reversed, would he have been the loyal, loving, devoted sibling Hermione had become these years? “I am so sorry,” he said even as the words left his mouth he realized how wholly inadequate they were for the great tragedy that had befallen the golden-haired angel described by Hermione.

Her shoulders lifted up and down in a little shrug. “As a child, I remember Mama and Papa’s sadness. Mama cried and cried, but I didn’t know why. I only knew Elizabeth was my sister. I knew she always had a smile and a laugh.” A wistful look stole across her face, driving back the earlier darkness. “Oh, that is certainly not to say Elizabeth doesn’t have bouts of temper. She does. The worst times can rival my younger sister and brother combined.”

How much sadness she’d known. With one unfortunate twist of fate, her family had been shattered and his brave, resilient Hermione had been trying to put the pieces back together since. He held a hand out. “Oh, Hermione,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

She firmed her jaw and met his gaze. “I don’t want your pity.”

“I don’t pity you.” Just the opposite. She had his admiration for her strength in the face of her family’s great struggles. It occurred to him how not unalike they’d been; elder siblings who’d taken on the mantle of responsibility by the sheer order of birthright. But how much greater the burden would be for a woman amidst a broken, shattered family.

“We were quite happy,” she said it almost as though she sought to convince herself to the truth of that.

“Then why did you never paint again?” he asked quietly. Why, if she’d truly been happy?

Hermione trailed her fingertips along the back of the mahogany arm chair. “Whenever I touched another brush or charcoal, I remembered the day we fell ill, and it just seemed such an ugly reminder of such a dark day.” She looked at him and shrugged. “Why would anyone ever want to remember that?”

Why, indeed.

Her expression grew pensive. “From our illness, I also learned that happiness was fleeting.” A needlelike pain stuck into his heart as he realized she spoke of their happiness together as well. He’d spent the past month thinking only of his own heart and his desiring for more, all the while failing to realize everything she’d endured. He was humbled by the depth of such self-centeredness. Why should she have confided in him?

“Then my mother died,” Hermione said, her words running together; words he ventured she’d never told anyone, until now. “My father loved her desperately and he fell into a deep despair. His…our,” she amended, “finances fell into disrepair.” Who had she shared this burden with? Who had been there to support Hermione through her great losses? Her brother and sister would have been mere babes. Pain knifed through him at just how alone she’d been. She continued on composed, even as each revelation threw his world into tumult. “And Elizabeth needed caring for.” She began to pace. “We let most of the servants go, but were forced to keep on her nursemaid. I use the mon…” She shook her head so hard she dislodged a single strand of dark hair. She brushed it back.

The money she earned as Mr. Michael Michaelmas went to care for her sister.

Ah God, he could not bear to think of the weight of the world the baronet had thrust upon Hermione’s diminutive but capable shoulders. She’d been forced to become a parent to her younger and elder siblings, relying on no one but herself. And he, in his unwillingness to listen and his abandonment, he was no better than her father. The thought ravaged his conscience. Nearly bringing him to his knees with the weight of his own shame.

Hermione folded her arms tighter about her waist and rocked forward. “I have lied to you,” she whispered.

It mattered not that she was Mr. Michaelmas. As his duchess, she could write all day, every day. “It doesn’t matter, Hermione. It—”