Scandalous Desires on a Summer Morning (Seasons of Love #2)

Chapter 1

Hardwick Manor

The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive as the Hardwick estate loomed into view—stately in its symmetry, its ivy-clad stone facade cloaked in the quiet dignity of wealth.

Miss Maryann Winton stared out the window, her heart thudding with quiet dread.

The grandiosity of the house seemed to press its weight upon her chest, a reminder that this was not her home and, likely, never would be.

Still, it was a blessing to have been summoned by the Countess of Hardwick.

Maryann had been at her wits’ end, desperate for a way to provide for her three younger sisters.

A small, warm hand slipped into hers. Maryann looked down to find Sarah, just five years old, gazing up at her.

The child’s dark blue gaze, so like her own, shimmered with anxiety.

When a soft growl rumbled from Sarah’s belly, Maryann reached into her reticule and withdrew the last sliver of hardened biscuit.

Crumbling and dry, it was hardly a meal, but the child took it eagerly.

Across from them, Elizabeth—Lizzy, as they all fondly called her—adjusted her bonnet with restless fingers, the pale pink ribbon fluttering against her golden curls. Beside her sat Vivian, silent as ever, clutching her sketchbook as though it were a shield.

“I’m terribly nervous,” Elizabeth whispered. “What if Lady Hardwick turns us away?”

“Why would you say that?” Vi gasped, her arms tightening protectively around the sketchbook. “Would a good friend of mama’s truly treat us callously?”

Sarah’s lower lip began to tremble. Maryann removed her bonnet and offered her sisters a smile she did not feel.

“Mama indeed used to speak often of her dear friend. Do you remember, Lizzy? And papa would tease her about her far loftier connections than his,” she said gently.

“Mama was always a good judge of character, and I daresay Lady Hardwick will prove to be as mama said. There is no reason to fret. Her ladyship replied to my letter herself and invited us all to visit. That is very positive.”

“Visit,” Elizabeth echoed faintly. “But… we came with everything we owned. What if she expects us only to stay a few days? What would we do then? This is ghastly!”

Maryann’s stomach twisted. Still, she lifted her chin. “Have I ever lied to you?”

Her sisters chorused, “No.”

“Then trust me when I say all will be well. I will ensure it; I will not rest until I do.”

She nearly wept as she said it—for it was a promise she had no right to make.

Swallowing with difficulty, Maryann took a deep breath and ran her palm down her faded green muslin gown.

It was modest, serviceable, and wholly unremarkable.

Elizabeth’s gown, trimmed with a bit of lace, was finer.

Vivian’s cloak had been freshly lined by kind neighbors just before they were forced to leave Dorset.

Evicted.

From the only home they had ever known. Maryann’s hands curled tightly in her lap.

She had never imagined their lives could unravel so swiftly.

Their father, Sir Percival Winton, Baronet, had passed unexpectedly, leaving behind no dowries, no protections—only debts and daughters.

The title had gone to a distant cousin who wasted no time in making his claim.

Newly married, his wife had not the slightest interest in housing three gently bred young women with no fortune between them.

And so they had been cast out.

Now, they traveled not to family, but to the uncertain guardianship of a countess they had never met, on the strength of a half-remembered friendship with their late mother.

The long gravelled drive to Hardwick Manor seemed to stretch on forever, flanked by tall, ancient elms whose summer leaves whispered above the carriage like gossiping women.

Rolling fields spread to either side, manicured to perfection, giving way to rich green lawns.

To the left, Maryann caught a glimpse of a shimmering lake beyond the treeline, its glassy surface glinting beneath the afternoon sun.

And beyond it all—rising proud and imposing atop a gentle rise—stood the manor itself.

A breathtaking sprawl of stone and shadow.

The facade was dignified and stern, its architecture stunning.

Ivy crept along its walls like time itself, softening the rigid lines of chimneys and rows of mullioned windows that gleamed gold in the waning light.

It was not merely grand—it was formidable, as though it had stood for centuries judging all who dared approach.

Maryann’s breath caught. She could feel it already—that silent, suffocating weight of expectation and a feeling as if she did not belong here.

The carriage came to a halt in the forecourt, where gravel crunched beneath the wheels and scattered.

The steps were knocked down, and one by one they alighted, each of her sisters falling silent, awe stealing their words.

“Lift your chins,” she murmured. “We shall walk forward as though we belong.”

She smiled as her sisters obeyed. Together, they stepped toward the grand stone steps that led to the house. The wind tugged at her bonnet ribbons like an impatient child urging her to turn back. Maryann resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.

The great front door opened with solemn ceremony, and a butler ushered them inside.

They passed through carved double doors into a vast entrance hall floored in gleaming marble and flanked by panels of burnished oak.

The ceilings soared above them, etched with coffered designs, and a crystal chandelier caught the last light of day like a shower of diamonds overhead.

They were ushered into an intimate drawing room, which was warm and inviting despite the grandeur.

Evening sunlight spilled in through tall windows overlooking the gardens, gilding the rosewood furniture and the soft green carpet underfoot.

A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting amber light across the room.

It felt warm and inviting. Still, Maryann could not dislodge the tight knot twisting in her belly and the fear invading her chest.

Moments later, a servant entered with a wheeled tea trolley, its trays laden with sandwiches and small pastries. The scent was heavenly. Maryann blushed when her belly gave an audible protest. The housekeeper merely smiled and served them tea before leaving.

Sarah bounced in place with anticipation, her eyes locked on the silver tray of cakes and tarts a maid had just brought in. But she waited dutifully until Maryann placed a few tarts and a slice of pound cake on her plate.

“This is delicious,” she declared around a mouthful of cake.

“Sarah,” Maryann said gently, “do not speak while eating.”

Her sisters grinned. Vi and Lizzy eagerly served themselves from the tray.

“It is indeed wonderful,” Vi said with a sigh of contentment after tasting a lemon tart.

They ate, and Maryann said nothing when her sisters devoured the food quickly, almost desperately. She had no heart to remind them of ladylike behavior when they had not eaten a proper meal in days.

Vi sighed, repleted, before she stood and walked over to one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows. “Have you ever seen a manor or an estate ground so lovely?”

Maryann could only shake her head. No, she had not.

“Are we truly meant to live here?” Elizabeth asked, her voice hushed with wonder.

“I hope so,” Maryann murmured, folding her hands as she sat carefully on the edge of a sofa near the tall window that overlooked the green expanse beyond. It felt like another world, far removed from their lives and experiences.

The door opened. A woman entered with quiet, regal authority. Her dark yellow gown was flawlessly tailored, the diamond brooch at her throat winking in the firelight. She walked as one born to command, her spine straight, her chin high, her gaze cool and assessing as it swept the room.

Maryann knew at once who she was.

“The Misses Winton, I presume,” said the Countess of Hardwick, her voice crisp, her eyes narrowing as they landed on Sarah.

“I am Miss Maryann Winton, my lady,” Maryann said, rising to her feet and curtsying. “These are my sisters: Miss Elizabeth, Miss Vivian, and Miss Sarah.”

Vi and Lizzy dipped into graceful curtsies, offering polite greetings to the countess.

Sarah, painfully shy, said nothing at all. Instead, she pressed her face into the folds of Maryann’s gown, her small hands clutching the fabric as if to vanish inside it.

“Miss Sarah is your sister?” Lady Hardwick asked, her tone clipped, the glance she cast at Maryann full of censure.

Maryann’s belly tightened, but her face remained composed. “Yes, my lady.”

A tight smile touched the countess’s lips, though it did little to soften the steel in her gaze. “I am quite aware your mother, a dear friend, passed nine years ago, and your father never remarried.”

“My lady,” Maryann said quickly, “please, may we speak of this privately?”

Thankfully, Sarah was too young to understand the pointed insinuation.

“There is nothing to discuss privately,” the countess replied coolly. “The earl will see you soon. I shall send for more refreshments.”

With that, she turned on her heel and departed.

Elizabeth exhaled shakily. “I do not believe Lady Hardwick is pleased to see us.”

“Let us not worry,” Maryann said, though her heart pounded fiercely.

“How can you not worry?” Vi cried. “I am fit to faint!”

She smiled at her sisters to reassure them, even as her stomach twisted with unease. “When I wrote to the countess and spoke of visiting, boldly invoking her past friendship with mama and the promise mama once said had been made, Lady Hardwick might have refused us altogether. But she did not.”