Chapter 6
Precisely a week after arriving in Hertfordshire with the viscount, Maryann could finally breathe within the manor without inhaling a cloud of dust. A small army of workers had been hired from the village, and they had spent hours scrubbing, sweeping, and restoring the neglected residence to order.
She had engaged a cook who now resided on the premises, along with a scullery maid to assist her.
To her surprise, the viscount declared he did not need a valet, and he deliberately travelled without one, though he insisted she retain a lady’s maid for her own use.
Maryann, long accustomed to managing her own toilette, had declined the offer.
Still, she had appointed a quiet, capable maid to tend to the linens and maintain the cleanliness of the two occupied chambers, as well as the library and the drawing room.
The library had proven to be a revelation.
Maryann had dusted each book herself, climbing the tall ladders to reach the uppermost shelves.
Now, each evening, she sought refuge there, reading by lamplight while her thoughts strayed to Vi and Lizzy.
She had never been parted from her sisters for so long.
It had been a fortnight since she’d last seen them, and Maryann missed them fiercely.
They were scarcely an hour’s ride away, and she often found herself tempted to borrow the viscount’s stallion and call upon them.
Only the imagined frost of the countess’s disapproval stayed her hand.
With a quiet sigh, she closed her book and shifted upright on the chaise longue, only to jolt at the sudden shattering crash that echoed from somewhere above.
Maryann lowered the book to the small table, hurried from the library and up the stairs, her bare feet hardly making a sound.
She reached her bedchamber and gently pushed the door open.
The room was dimly lit by the low flicker of the hearth’s dying embers, but she could make out the small form of her sister nestled beneath the coverlet.
A soft smile touched Maryann’s lips at the sight of Sarah, her thumb tucked beneath her chin, and atop her head—stretched like lazy sentries—lay the mother cat and her four kittens, curled together in a contented heap on the pillow.
Relief loosened the tightness in Maryann’s chest. A loud sound jarred her and she suppressed her gasp.
She drew the door closed with care and turned, her brows drawn.
Her gaze flicked upward toward the shadowed landing of the third floor.
That was where the viscount spent most of his days.
In truth, she had scarcely seen him over the past week, save for a few brief words exchanged at breakfast and, once or twice, at dinner.
He was devoted—utterly possessed, it seemed—by his restoration efforts.
That crash had not sounded like a mere shifting of materials or a toppled paint tin.
Another loud thud shattered the silence.
Maryann started, her hand flying to her throat.
That was certainly more than a misplaced tool.
She hesitated. She was in her night rail and robe, her hair unbound—hardly attired to confront a gentleman, least of all the one she was so acutely aware of and striving desperately not to be.
Lifting her hem to keep from tripping, Maryann darted up the stairs.
But the sharp note of irritation followed by unmistakably muttered oaths, low and crudely spoken, guided her to a half-open door.
She paused, cheeks aflame at the unrepentant masculine grumbling within.
Then, before her sense of propriety could catch up with her, she pushed it open wider and stepped inside.
The chamber was in utter disarray. Dust cloaked nearly every surface. A large plank of wood had fallen across what appeared to be a worktable, splintering the edge of a cabinet beneath it.
“My lord,” she cried, startled by the sight of him sprawled inelegantly on the floor amid an array of overturned tools, parchment rolls, and what looked suspiciously like shards of shattered glass. “What on earth is happening?”
He twisted his head and looked up, clearly not expecting company, and froze. So did she. Maryann stared, mortified, at the state of the room… and of the man within it. His hair was tousled, brows drawn in what could only be described as sheer irritation.
“It’s nothing,” he said tersely. “You may return to your chamber, Miss Winton.”
She nodded, murmuring a quiet, “Yes, of course,” and began to withdraw until he shifted, rising into a sitting position with a grimace.
Her eyes widened. A dark stain was blooming across the back of his white shirt—fresh, red, and unmistakably blood.
“You’re bleeding,” she gasped, and without thinking, she stepped over the threshold and into the chaos.
“Stay back,” he barked, his voice sharp with command. “A mirror broke. The shards are scattered. You’ll cut yourself.”
“You are hurt,” she returned, alarmed, her voice softer but no less insistent. “I cannot leave you like this.”
“I will live,” he said dryly, though the tautness in his jaw and the faint tremor in his hand betrayed him.
“I have no doubt you will,” she said tartly, gathering her skirts and stepping with care toward him, “but if you bleed to death out of sheer stubbornness, it shan’t be for lack of warning.”
He huffed what might have been a laugh or a grunt of pain.
“Come downstairs with me,” she said firmly. “To the library. I can tend the wound there.”
His gaze clashed with hers—dark, unreadable, laced with something she could not name. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he planted his palms against the dusty floor and pushed to his feet with the grace of a man used to commanding his limbs even when pain hindered him.
“Very well,” he said dryly. “But I must warn you, Miss Winton, this is hardly the most dignified moment of my life. Do not be alarmed if I weep upon your shoulder from the agony.”
“Since you are in such a jesting mood, my lord, I daresay your pain is not as dire as you claim, and you shall not suffer unduly from my ministrations.”
His low chuckle followed, rich and unguarded, and it rippled down her spine like a physical caress.
Maryann turned, leading him carefully down the stairs, one hand braced lightly on the rail, her mind whirring with concern and an entirely unwelcome awareness of him.
She moved swiftly, the hem of her robe brushing the stairs as she descended.
In the library, she set about gathering what she needed—her small satchel that contained odds and ends she never traveled without, a basin from the kitchen, and a jug of warm water from the hearth in the kitchen.
She added several clean strips of linen she’d set aside earlier for mending, and after a moment’s hesitation, reached for the half-full decanter of brandy resting on the sideboard. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm as she returned. It was silly, but Maryann felt this seemed intimate. And dangerous.
Lord Ranford was seated on the chaise by the hearth, his head tipped toward the ceiling.
“You’ll need to remove your shirt,” she said gently, setting her supplies on a small table nearby.
His brows lifted faintly, but he said nothing.
With slow, practiced movements, he tugged at the buttons, removed the shirt, and set it aside.
Maryann’s breath caught. She had not meant to stare, but his body, bronzed by sun and marked by lean strength drew her eyes.
Corded muscle shifted beneath his skin, and scars, some faint and old, some recent, lined his back.
She quickly looked away, focusing instead on the injury. And then her stomach lurched.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Three thick shards of glass protruded at different angles from his back—one just below his shoulder blade, another near his rib, and a third embedded shallowly at his lower back. Blood welled faintly at each site, trailing down in sluggish rivulets.
“There are three pieces,” she said, her voice tight. “Two are deeply embedded. One is… not so bad.”
He grunted in response. “I thought as much when I landed on the damn thing.”
“What happened?”
“I was trying to shift one of the cabinets. Didn’t realize a cracked cheval mirror had been tucked behind it.”
Maryann lit several more candles and brought them close, setting them around the chaise until the library was bathed in a golden glow. The flames danced along the spines of books, casting flickering shadows, but her focus remained entirely on him.
“This will hurt,” she warned softly.
“I’ve endured worse,” he replied, his voice a low rumble, though his fingers tightened on the edge of the chaise.
With deliberate care, she took a pair of tweezers from her satchel and leaned close.
She used a small magnifying lens to inspect each wound.
Her hands trembled, but she steeled herself.
One by one, she removed the shards. The first came free with little resistance, though he hissed through his teeth.
The second was more stubborn, and she had to steady his shoulder as she worked.
The third made him swear softly under his breath, and her breath quickened as she eased it from his flesh. Blood welled anew.
“I think that’s all of them,” she said, bending closer with the lens. “Nothing remains… but I shall clean the wounds thoroughly.”
She poured brandy into a bowl, soaked a strip of linen, and wrung it gently. “This may sting.”
“I’m prepared.”
The moment the cloth touched his back, he flinched, and she winced for him.
Gently, she dabbed at each cut, wiping away blood and grit, then folded another linen and pressed it over the deepest wound to staunch the bleeding.
He remained silent, only the occasional shift of his shoulders betraying his discomfort.
Maryann felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest. When the last of the brandy-soaked cloths had been used, she began to bind the wounds with clean linen strips.
Then, as she straightened and moved to return the basin to the side table, something caught her eye. She halted, her breath catching.
“Goodness,” she whispered, stepping closer. “There is one here too.”
Sebastian followed her gaze. “Yes.”
“How in heaven’s name did you manage shards to both your chest and back?” she asked, frowning with genuine alarm.
He gave a short, rueful laugh. “By falling twice.”
Her eyes widened. “Twice?”
His dark green eyes gleamed with amusement, and a touch of something more elusive, richer. “I tried to right the cabinet after it fell,” he said, his mouth twitching. “It overbalanced again. Took me with it a second time.”
She swallowed and knelt before him so she could see the injury properly. It was near his ribs. A sliver of glass protruded, glinting faintly in the candlelight. She reached for her tools, then braced her arm against his thigh for balance—
And froze.
The sensation startled her. Beneath her fingertips, his muscles tensed, warm and firm through his trousers.
She became acutely aware of the quiet intimacy between them, the stillness of the room, the steady heat of his body, and the clean, earthy scent of him that filled the air.
Not soap. Not cologne. Just… the viscount.
Her gaze flicked up and met his. He was already watching her.
Something was unsettling in his expression.
Not overtly improper, not entirely chaste.
He wasn’t leering, nor was there any coarse invitation in his stare.
But there was heat there, coiled and resting beneath the surface, cloaked in civility.
A look that was, in itself, a contradiction.
Civilized restraint and something else—wicked, knowing, and far too unreadable.
Another sensation, warm and unsettling, unfurled low in her belly, a pulsing heat that made her breath catch. It was unfamiliar, unnerving, and yet she did not recoil from it. Her hand trembled slightly, and she pressed her palm to her middle as if she might quiet the fluttering within.
Oh God. What is this?