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

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.
    Her aunt cleared her throat. “Lord Whitmore, this is my niece, Miss Hermione Rogers.”
    He swept his arms wide and dropped a deep bow, so low she suspected the heavy amount of oil in his greased, tight red curls could send him toppling to the floor. Her lips twitched. Now, that would indeed be a delicious piece to any stor—“Ahem.” Lord Whitmore peered down the length of his nose at her.
    Hermione sank into a deep curtsy. “An honor, my lord.”
    “Of course it is.”
    She furrowed her brow at his cool, clipped tones. A hero this one would never be…in any story.
    “My niece is recently from the country.” Agatha pursed her lips, likely wishing she had more praise to sing of her niece than… she’s from the country . “Isn’t that right, Hermione.”
    “It is,” she answered automatically. Her aunt’s gaze narrowed. Hermione’s mind spun. But really, what did Aunt Agatha expect her to contribute to such a statement? “Er…that is…I am from the country.” There, that was a touch more elaborate.
    “I imagine you find London quite stimulating from the tedium and provincialness of the country.” He tugged at the lapels of his coat. “You know, the lack of stimulating discourse with the less intelligent, simple country dwellers.”
    At his arrogant supposition of those living outside his hallowed streets of London, Hermione narrowed her eyes. She far preferred the honest sincerity in the villagers of Surrey to the condescending lords and ladies who mocked with both their words and eyes. She schooled her features into an expressionless mask. “Oh, indeed. I imagine those country dwellers ,” from which she herself was one, “wouldn’t even have the intelligence enough to realize the word provincialness is in fact not a word.”
    Aunt Agatha’s eyebrows shot to her hairline.
    Lord Whitmore scratched his brow. Then, a sudden rush of color blazed across his cheeks. “W-well.” He jerked on the lapels of his coat once more, spun on his heel, and marched off.
    It really was such a shame when one possessed such a name as Whitmore and happened to be wholly witless. Another