Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) Read Online Free PDF

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 façade 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