Chapter 2
Maryann gasped, turned sharply and then forgot how to breathe.
A gentleman leaned with careless ease against the panelled wall, scarcely a breath away, his arms folded over his chest, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something decidedly more dangerous. She had not heard a single footfall, and now here he stood, entirely too close.
Maryann took a hesitant step backward. He was tall and lithe, his frame striking in the understated elegance of dark trousers and a silver waistcoat that gleamed softly in the lamplight.
His chestnut hair, shot through with hints of darker blond, was tousled, in clear need of a trim, and yet the effect suited him far too well.
His features were refined, his mouth sculpted with a sensual curve meant to unsettle. And it did.
Those eyes—green, sharp, and glittering with amusement—watched her as though she were the day’s entertainment.
She knew at once who he must be. The earl’s son. The man who held his father’s courtesy title—Viscount Ranford.
Maryann was mortified to have been caught in this position.
“I beg your pardon,” she said softly, pressing a trembling hand to her racing heart. “I… I did not hear your approach.”
“Clearly.” His tone was unhurried, his gaze slipping down her figure and returning without apology. “I presume you are part of the grave matter mentioned in my mother’s most dramatic letter. Whatever would she say to know of this breach in decorum?”
Maryann drew a quiet breath, straightening her spine. “I was not eavesdropping, my lord.”
“I stood behind you for nearly two minutes,” he replied, completely unconvinced, the devilish gleam in his eyes deepening. “I counted. The boldness was impressive.”
She flushed. “It is not the mark of a gentleman to compel a lady to confess her faults.”
One brow lifted in lazy amusement. “Ah. This is either a gentle reprimand or an attempt to civilize me. Which is it? Though I hardly think you are in any position to admonish me, given your own conduct, hmm?”
Before she could formulate a reply, the low rustle of movement behind her signaled that someone—either the earl or countess—was preparing to step out into the corridor. It would be a greater disaster if the earl or the countess saw her.
“Excuse me,” Maryann whispered. She swept past him quickly, clutching the edges of her gown, and hurried down the hall.
She did not know what possessed her to glance back, but when she did, she found him following, his long strides deceptively unhurried, his expression unreadable and faintly amused.
Maryann stopped and turned to face him. “Are you following me?”
His gaze lit with humor. “I see you are still quite naive in the ways of the world.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is instinct. When a lady runs, a gentleman of my sort is expected to give chase. Was that not your intention?”
She made a small, incredulous sound. “A gentleman of your sort? What does that mean, and it was most certainly not my intention!”
He did not answer, but the tilt of his head and the gleam in his eye suggested he relished the provocation.
Maryann’s heart pounded. She could not bear for the countess to find her loitering in the hall with her son, much less imagine she had been caught listening at doors. Without another word, she turned into the nearest room, closed the door firmly, and slid the latch into place with a decisive snick.
Only then did she draw a breath.
Something in Lord Ranford’s expression had warned her he would have followed.
And she needed at least a minute alone, in silence, before she would feel ready to face anything.
She leaned back against the door, closed her eyes, and tried to think—tried to envision a way out for herself and Sarah, some means of escape that did not involve abject humiliation or utter dependence.
A sudden, soft scratching reached her ears. Her eyes flew open in time to see the viscount slipping through the open window.
“My lord!” she gasped, utterly stunned. “I cannot conceive that you would—”
“What, never climbed through a window before?” he drawled, unrepentant.
“Alas, the things I do when I’m intrigued, and my mother’s sharp tongue and glowering glare are absent.
” He cast a glance around the room, then back at her.
“And you have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, but I’ve yet to be introduced. ”
Maryann felt almost disposed of rational thoughts. He was outrageous.
“I am Miss Maryann Winton, my lord,” she replied as evenly as she could manage, though the warmth rising in her cheeks rather gave her away.
His expression shifted.
For the briefest moment, disappointment crossed his face. His body stilled, his amusement dimmed. “Miss Winton,” he said. “I see.”
She frowned. “You know of me, my lord?”
A rueful half-smile curved his mouth. “No.”
“I… you seemed disappointed.”
“I merely thought you might be someone on the list.”
She blinked. “List? What list?”
He waved a hand as if brushing it all away. “A mistaken assumption. I followed you for the wrong reasons. Please do not read too much into this, and I apologize for any inconvenience.”
The devilish man vanished, replaced by a polished, proper lord. It was astonishing how quickly the transformation occurred.
“I would be most obliged,” she said carefully, “if you did not mention that I… I…”
“You were eavesdropping?” he supplied, a glimmer of amusement returning to his eyes.
Maryann flushed. The memory of the countess’s voice, so cold and cutting, echoed in her mind. She could not bear the idea of being sent away before her sisters had even been welcomed.
“I would owe you a favor, my lord,” she said, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze, even as her composure strained beneath the weight of it.
He took a step toward her, unhurried yet deliberate, and the quiet force of him stole the air from her lungs.
“A word of advice, Miss Winton,” he said. “One ought never to place oneself in another’s debt. Favors are rarely repaid in the manner one expects.”
“And yet,” she replied, steadying her voice, “you strike me as precisely the sort of gentleman who enjoys being owed, my lord. Fortunately, I am well aware of what I can offer and what lies within my ability. If it does not meet someone’s expectations, that is no concern of mine.”
Something in his gaze sharpened. “How fascinating that you’ve discerned so much of my character in such a brief encounter. Tell me, are you always this perceptive?”
“I am not in the habit of speaking to strangers behind closed doors,” she said quietly. “Nervousness makes my tongue loose.”
The viscount’s smirk faded. Something flickered behind his eyes, not amusement, but something more serious.
“My mother means well, Miss Winton,” he said, his voice tempered now. “It’s concern for your sisters that guides her decisions.”
Maryann stiffened. Her hands curled into the folds of her gown. “Then you heard everything.”
“Yes.”
Her throat felt tight. She swallowed, though it did little to ease the burning behind her ribs. “I see.”
“Is the child yours, Miss Winton?”
She lifted her chin. “Sarah is my sister.”
He studied her in silence, his gaze lingering not with boldness, but with something she could not name. Not lechery. Not pity. Something colder. Calculation. As though he were weighing what to make of her and where, exactly, she might fit into whatever plans circled in his mind.
“If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said, “I shall return to my sisters and await Lord Hardwick’s summons.”
Still, he said nothing, merely watched her, eyes sharp beneath lashes too thick for decency. The air between them tightened. Just as she turned to go, his voice stopped her.
“You are… interesting,” he said at last.
Maryann tipped her head, wary. “Interesting is not always a compliment.”
“With me, it is,” he replied. There was no jest in his voice.
How insufferably arrogant. And yet, despite herself, a flicker of humor welled up inside her.
Without granting him another word, Maryann turned and slipped into the corridor, her steps swift and composed.
She re-entered the drawing room with her shoulders straight, her expression carefully schooled into serenity, as though nothing inside her had unraveled at all.
Her sisters were seated in a loose circle near the hearth, a battered deck of cards spread between them.
They had found a pack, no doubt tucked away in some side drawer, and were now engaged in a cheerful, if slightly chaotic, game of whist. Elizabeth and Vivian were attempting to teach Sarah the rules of, laughingly.
Vi was explaining something in a low, patient voice while Elizabeth laughed at one of Sarah’s attempts, soft and unguarded.
Sarah grinned back, delighted by their attention.
A pang of affection, raw and sharp, bloomed in Maryann’s chest. She could not bear to let them see the fear in her eyes.
She crossed to the tall window and rested her forehead against the cool pane.
The glass chilled her skin, a welcome contrast to the heat climbing up her neck.
Outside, the light had softened into twilight, casting a golden wash over the manicured lawns and faraway hedgerows.
She closed her eyes.
A woman in this world without protection—without a father, a brother, or a name guarded by male influence—was not simply vulnerable.
She was prey, for she had no connections or reputation.
A harsh sound left her. Reputation was a fragile thread, easily snapped.
Once broken, it could never be mended. She had learned that lesson when she was barely eighteen.
There had been a young man, Nathan, the eldest son of a respected gentleman with ties to a baron’s family. He had courted her in Dorset with proper attentions and smiling eyes, and she had dared to believe in a future, her own household and family. She had pinned secret dreams to his name.
But then came the whispers. The rumors that Sir Percival Winton, a widower, kept an illegitimate child beneath his roof.
The young man stopped calling. In his place came a series of propositions.
Not offers. Propositions. Lewd, disgusting suggestions dressed in polite language and condescension.
Promises of comfort in exchange for her dignity.
She had refused them all. And one by one, the doors had closed.
Maryann opened her eyes, still fixed on the darkening grounds. The sky was streaked with rose and grey, and yet the beauty of it did nothing to soften the dread that clawed at her chest. She could not go back to Dorset. She would not. But she did not know how to go forward either.
Behind her, Sarah let out a delighted laugh. Elizabeth praised her clever play. Vivian dealt another round. Vi and Lizzy would be safe here. That was all that mattered.
Maryann only had to find a way to save Sarah and herself.
Dear God, she thought, gripping the window frame. How do I provide for her and keep her safe?