Chapter 5
The morning was sun-warmed and quiet, the kind of stillness one only found in the countryside, where the world felt suspended in a breath between birdsong and breeze.
Maryann’s worn boots brushed against the trimmed grass as she crossed the gentle rise beyond the east lawn, the hem of her faded muslin gown catching the dew clinging to the blades.
She exhaled slowly, savoring the rare sensation of peace.
The journey from London had been, to her surprise, both pleasant and free of anxiety.
When she had fled the earl’s residence in panic and dread, Maryann never imagined she would encounter Viscount Ranford on those very streets.
Only divine providence could have placed him there at such a moment when she had needed help most.
Even more astonishing was how swiftly her fear had ebbed the instant she recognized him.
Somehow, instinctively, she had known he would not let harm befall her.
Even now, the mere thought of the Earl of Mayfield made her stomach twist. She had done her best to forget the way his hand had grazed her arm, how his voice had dipped with mock tenderness as he offered her a life in exchange for sexual obedience.
Lifting her face to the golden rays of the sun, she smiled faintly. He had done more than spirit her away from London—he had extended a lifeline, offering her a respectable path forward when she had feared there were none left to take.
She and Sarah had traveled in the viscount’s expansive carriage, a luxurious conveyance lined in velvet and fitted with polished glass panes that caught the light as it rolled smoothly over the rutted roads.
It was nothing like the cramped, jostling mail coaches she had previously endured.
Lord Ranford had ridden his black stallion the entire way, seated astride with the effortless elegance of a man born to the saddle.
He had not spoken to her once during the journey, not even during their brief pauses at inns. She had been grateful. What could she have possibly said? How did one properly thank a man for delivering them from ruin?
Even now, a tremor of uncertainty stirred within her.
Maryann could not say with any confidence that she would prove an able housekeeper.
While she was well-versed in the duties of household management—capable of organizing staff, planning menus, and overseeing provisions—it had never been on such a grand scale.
Her father’s estate had been modest: a seven-bedroom manor staffed by a cook, a housekeeper, two footmen, a scullery maid, a valet, and a lady’s maid. In contrast, a viscount’s residence was considerably larger, requiring a full rotation of servants and far more exacting expectations.
“I shall do my best not to disappoint him,” she murmured, her fingers curling into fists.
A breeze stirred the trees overhead, and Maryann inhaled deeply.
She tilted her head and gazed out across the manor’s broad lawn.
The estate possessed a quiet beauty, although it was clear that the place had suffered from years of disuse.
Crumbling garden borders, unpruned roses, gravel paths swallowed by creeping weeds—it was all faded grandeur, forgotten but not beyond repair.
The manor house itself loomed behind her, a grand sixteen-room manor that was, at present, barely functioning.
When the viscount had said the household was managed with “spare staff,” she had imagined a few servants.
What he had meant, apparently, was no staff at all.
No maids or footmen, or butler, had been seen since their arrival a few hours earlier.
A surly man came by once to tend the stables.
And there was no cook. She had given the first floor a cursory inspection.
The place was beautiful, yes, but it was also completely unkept.
The drawing room hadn’t been aired in weeks.
The linen closets were in disarray. Dust coated nearly everything that didn’t move.
She was deciding how to broach the topic of needing more staff when a sudden splash drew her attention.
Startled, Maryann turned her head sharply and froze.
Beyond the hedgerow and just below the slope, the lake shimmered like glass in the mid-evening light.
And in the center of it, half-submerged in water and sunlight, was the viscount.
Swimming.
With only his trousers on.
Maryann’s breath caught. He moved through the water with effortless grace, strong arms slicing through the surface in long, steady strokes.
He was all lean muscle and unapologetic freedom, the kind of man who had never once considered how improper it was to swim bare-chested where anyone might come across him.
Maryann’s cheeks heated furiously. She dropped her gaze and took an instinctive step back, her heart thudding far too fast. The man was outrageous.
She had assumed, foolishly, that the viscount would act with a sense of decorum, but clearly, the privileges of bachelorhood had long since spoiled him.
She would make herself scarce. Maryann had no wish to explain what she was doing traipsing across the grounds, nor did she want to be caught staring like some wide-eyed ninny.
Still flushed, Maryann quickened her steps back toward the house, trying to ignore the image now burned into her mind: water gliding over sun-warmed skin, dark hair slicked back, with sleek and rippling muscles to haunt a woman’s peace.
She entered through the servants’ entrance into the kitchens.
The space was cavernous, with soot-streaked walls and iron pots dangling from hooks that hadn’t been dusted in what looked like years.
A wide hearth yawned dark and cold at one end, and an enormous oak table stretched the length of the room.
Maryann’s boots echoed against the stone floor as she stepped inside, taking stock.
Her belly rumbled, reminding her that everyone must be famished.
She was charged with making supper for a viscount. Maryann glanced about and clenched her jaw. She recalled his lordship’s remark that he needed a housekeeper and a cook. Did he mean for her to fill both positions?
“Wretched man,” she muttered under her breath, wiping her hands on the apron she’d found hanging behind the pantry door. “Where, I ask, does he imagine I would have learned to cook anything beyond porridge and toast?”
Maryann wrinkled her nose and smiled. She would try.
True, she’d helped the cook back in Dorset toward the end, when funds had run so low even the scullery maid had been let go.
But that had consisted of peeling potatoes, shallots, and stoking the fire until her face glowed red from the heat.
She could manage a stew if it didn’t require anything overly ambitious.
And bread. She had watched bread being made many times before and had often assisted their cook in the process.
She examined the larder and the icebox, blinking in surprise. They were well-stocked, if a little disorganized. There were several cuts of beef and lamb, a jug of milk, a slab of butter, some carrots and potatoes, and a few parsnips that looked like they were thinking about shriveling. It would do.
“Maryann!”
She turned just in time to see Sarah barrel into the kitchen, her cheeks pink from the brisk air and her hair tumbling from its ribbon. Her hands were cupped together, and something wriggled within them.
“I found a kitten!”
Maryann’s brows lifted. “A kitten?”
She crouched beside her sister and gently peeked into her hands. A scrawny little thing, mostly fur and blinking eyes, mewled faintly up at her. Its paws were comically oversized for its tiny body. “Oh, darling, we can’t just take babies from their mothers.”
“I didn’t!” Sarah declared proudly. “I brought the mama too. She’s sleeping now with three other kittens. She was tired.”
A laugh escaped Maryann’s lips. “Of course she is.”
She pressed a kiss to Sarah’s forehead. “You may set them in that old basket by the hearth. We’ll find some rags for bedding.”
Sarah skipped away, humming with triumph.
Maryann straightened and rolled up her sleeves. She set the kettle to boil, rummaged for flour and yeast, and began the slow, messy business of making bread dough. Her movements were hesitant at first, but she soon found her rhythm. Her hands, though unused to this work, remembered enough.
By the time the stew was bubbling over the fire and the bread was tucked into the oven, she was flour-smudged and winded but oddly satisfied.
She might not be a trained cook, and she certainly wasn’t the polished housekeeper the viscount expected, but she would not be turned away. Not when she had so much to prove… and so much to lose.
From the corner by the hearth came the faintest mewl. Maryann glanced over at Sarah, curled beside the kittens, her lashes already lowering with sleep.
Her heart clenched with fierce affection. No matter what came next, she would make this work.
She had to.
Sebastian stepped into the dining room and paused, his brows lifting slightly.
The long table, usually bare and forgotten, had been transformed with quiet elegance.
A white linen cloth covered its surface, and at its center sat a modest vase of fresh blooms—wildflowers, most likely gathered from the garden.
The place settings were simple yet carefully arranged, with polished cutlery.
The scent of warm stew hung in the air, mingled with the aroma of fresh bread. He noted thick slices laid out on a wooden tray, glistening with butter and a touch of honey. His gaze swept the room and landed on Miss Winton, who was leaning over to place a serviette with precise care.
He cleared his throat.
She jerked upright, nearly upsetting the pitcher beside her. One hand flew to her chest. “Oh!” she gasped, laughing softly. “You startled me.”