Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 6) by Christi Caldwell Read Free Book Online Page A

King Louis XIV chair.
    She gasped and captured her foot in one hand. “Bloody hell,” she muttered and hopped up and down on her uninjured leg. Tears smarted behind her eyes. She glared at the offending piece of furniture. “Blasted dark.” Most of her stories featured darkened rooms and clandestine meetings, yet with her toes smarting she could now admit there was nothing at all romantic about the inky night.
    She continued to rub her toes through the thin fabric of her yellow satin slippers. She lowered her leg and her foot became entangled in the layers upon layers of ruffles. “Bloody hell,” she cursed again and sprawled backward into the now-convenient King Louis XIV chair. A strand of hair escaped the neat coiffure arranged by the maid sent round by Aunt Agatha. She folded her arms across her chest and blew back the lock. The recalcitrant piece fell right back across her brow.
    Yes, indeed there was nothing in the least romantic about stolen moments away from the crush of activity of the ballroom. However, she shoved herself back to her feet. There was a good deal to be said for enjoying the blessed solitude so one might have a moment with her own thoughts.
    The half-moon bathed the room in a soft white glow, and Hermione glanced about, appreciating the elegant space. The rich, mahogany Chippendale sideboard and great mahogany desk were a perfect match to the masculine deep gold and chestnut red hues of the Aubusson carpet.
    Her lips pulled wistfully. She could fit all the bedrooms of her family’s country estate into this grand office. Hermione studied the room with a writer’s eyes. She’d yet to meet a brooding duke for her story, but she would imagine this dark, forbidding space would be just the kind of office kept by the gentleman of her story. She walked the perimeter of the room and trailed her fingers along the gold silk wallpaper, onward to the white marble fireplace mantle, the one flash of light in an otherwise dark sanctuary.
    Hermione rested her palms along the cool, hard edge and stared down into the empty hearth, feeling like an interloper in a world to which she didn’t belong. Nor a world in which she cared to belong. She had little desire for the grand opulence of life wedded to a lofty, gentleman rich as Croesus. She merely needed a gentleman who’d just enough coin to spare her family from father’s mismanaged accounts, overlook Elizabeth’s scandalous condition, oh, and welcome a bookish wife who penned stories for payment. She sighed. Yet, there it was. She couldn’t change her circumstances, let alone herself. Nor did she want to. That fictional gentleman would have to accept her and those she loved without question. Yes, a very tall order indeed.
    She cast a glance over her shoulder, eying the slightly ajar door. Nor did she intend to let Aunt Agatha arrange a match between her and some foul, lecherous, condescending nobleman. It was a young lady’s lot in life to make the most advantageous match for the benefit of increasing the family’s coffers and improving the lineage, but she had too much self-respect and sense of self-worth to ever dare settle for any of the gentlemen her aunt had presented thus far. She was content to be the provincial miss as Lord Whitmore had earlier charged, living in the country, writing her stories, and caring for her siblings. The glittering world of London Society held little appeal for her.
    She tightened her grip on the mantle. However, as the eldest marriageable sister, she had an obligation to Hugh and Adeline…and Elizabeth. With the charge given her by Aunt Agatha and Papa, to make a match, she would ultimately be looking after her brother and sisters in the most essential ways.
    Filled with a restive energy, she shoved away from the hearth. She detested the idea of being reduced to a…a— fortune hunter , making a match with her family’s circumstances in mind and not much more. It fed her resolve to one day write that great piece Mr.