Chapter 8
Sebastian leaned back in his chair and exhaled heavily, allowing his gaze to sweep across the design before him.
His focus, however, had long since scattered.
He had been observing Miss Winton from the periphery of his days—how gently she guided Sarah’s small hand as she traced letters in the school primer, the calm patience with which she corrected her sums, the quiet confidence in her voice as she taught the child simple French phrases.
Miss Winton had a gift for instruction and a remarkable tenderness for the girl.
It was evident in every glance, every softly spoken encouragement.
It had been ten days since she’d tended his wounds in the library.
Ten days of calculated avoidance on his part, for fear of what might unravel if he allowed himself too near.
And God help him, he had come far too near.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tightening.
That night remained imprinted upon him like a brand—her hands on his skin, her breath feathering over his shoulder, the concern in her voice.
He had barely held on to his honor by a thread.
All he had wanted was to pull her against him, tilt her face up, and taste the softness of her mouth until she trembled in his arms.
It was damn intolerable.
He had sworn she would be safe under his roof. That promise gnawed at him, a blade twisting slowly in his gut each time desire surged unwelcome and hot beneath his skin.
Perhaps this blasted garden party at Hardwick Manor will set me to rights, he thought irritably. A dose of society and meeting potential brides should do much to smother this wretched desire.
A sound drifted through the open window—light, sweet laughter.
His head snapped up. Without thinking, he set aside the design he’d been studying for the conservatory and padded across the room to the wide windows.
Below, on the sloping lawn, Miss Winton ran with Sarah, her gown fluttering around her ankles as the child squealed in delight.
They darted between the hedges, playing some unidentifiable game involving sticks, and both were breathless with laughter.
He stared.
The sight was… arresting.
Miss Winton’s cheeks were flushed with color, her dark hair unbound and flying behind her like a banner.
She looked far younger than her years—unguarded, almost carefree.
It struck him that he had never seen her like this.
She had carried so much weight on her shoulders from the moment they met.
But here, now, she looked simply… happy.
And she was breathtaking.
He swallowed hard. This temptation was not abating. If anything, it was deepening into something far more dangerous. He could not touch this woman. Yet the way his body reacted at the mere sight of her…
Sebastian stepped back from the window, jaw tight.
He needed to be rid of this madness before he did something idiotic and irrevocable.
The night was hushed, the moon spilling its pale silver light across the gardens, bathing the hedges and walkways in a tranquil glow. A soft creaking broke the stillness—rhythmic, wistful. Sebastian paused, frowning slightly. He was about to turn back when a faint, broken sound reached him. A sob.
Curiosity, or perhaps something deeper, guided his steps across the dewy grass. He followed the sound until he rounded a hedge—and stopped short.
There, upon the swing he had built for Sarah, sat Miss Winton.
Her head was tipped back, eyes closed, the night breeze teasing loose tendrils of her hair.
Moonlight traced her face, and he saw the shimmer of tears upon her cheeks.
Another soft sob escaped her before she dashed the tears away, as though furious with herself for weeping.
He should have walked away. It was evident she had come outside seeking solitude. Yet something in her quiet despair rooted him to the spot. He watched as she drew a shuddering breath, squared her shoulders, and tried—valiantly—to master her emotions.
Sebastian lowered his gaze to the decanter in his hand. Whisky. He had planned to sit upon the wooden planks by the lake, drink, and watch the stars—something he often did when summer nights grew too warm for sleep.
A soft sniff drew his attention back to the swing. Miss Winton kicked her feet lightly, rising and falling with an almost wistful rhythm, her skirts fluttering with each motion. He hesitated, about to turn away and leave her to her solitude, when another quiet sob escaped her.
Perhaps a measure of company might drive away her melancholy.
He cleared his throat.
She startled, her shoes dragging through the grass as the swing slowed to a halt. A vivid flush climbed her cheeks as she turned her head toward him. For a moment she couldn’t seem to meet his gaze; then, quickly, she dashed her hands over her face and managed a small, tremulous smile.
“My lord,” she said, pushing a stray lock behind her ear. “I’d not heard your approach.”
“It is after midnight, Miss Winton,” he murmured, stepping into illumination from the pale moonlight.
“I’m aware of the hour. I wanted to see the moon,” she said wistfully. “Is it not beautiful?”
“It is lovely,” he murmured, wondering if he should ask about her tears.
“Are you enjoying the swing?”
“I… yes.” She sniffed, then smiled. “I’ve wanted to try it all day but thought I was far too old for such silliness.”
He moved toward the adjacent swing, settling onto it with ease. “Too old is usually reserved for crones,” he drawled.
She laughed softly.
A part of him tucked the sound away, hoarding it like something precious he wasn’t meant to have but couldn’t bear to lose. “Permit me to ask your age, Miss Winton. My mother alluded to it, but I am uncertain if it is accurate.”
“I am three-and-twenty. I shall turn four-and-twenty in October.”
“Then you have barely lived.” He glanced sideways at her, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I prescribe that you may swing whenever you wish. Day or night.”
Another small, surprised laugh escaped her, soft and breathy. “Is that so?”
“Quite,” Sebastian said, his tone deliberately lazy. “One of the great joys of living is indulging in what pleases the heart.”
Their eyes met in the quiet, silvery dark, the air between them humming with something that felt far too aware.
“Spoken like a man who has never been denied anything,” she murmured. “Life is rather different for ladies. A single step out of line and the world never lets you forget it.”
He arched a brow. “Then I suppose I should not ask you to share this decanter of whisky with me—to drown your sorrows in a most unladylike fashion?”
Her eyes widened, and the faintest smile tugged at her lips. “You noticed my tears.”
“I did,” he said softly, offering the decanter. “Whisky, Miss Winton?”
She hesitated, studying him with mock gravity. “Goodness, never say we are drinking directly from the bottle, my lord. The scandal of it!”
He grinned. “A delicious sort of scandal, perhaps.”
Taking the bottle, she tilted her chin. “Very well. If I am to be naughty, I may as well do it properly.”
She took a generous gulp—and immediately spluttered, coughing as her eyes watered. “Merciful heavens,” she gasped between breaths. “This is more likely to bring fresh tears than soothe old ones.”
Sebastian laughed, a low, rich sound that curled around her senses. “You were meant to sip, not drown yourself.”
She handed the decanter back with a glare that lacked any true venom. “You might have warned me.”
“I did not wish to spoil your courage,” he said, amusement dancing in his gaze. “Most ladies I know faint at the mere scent of whisky.”
She smiled despite herself. “Then you have not known many ladies worth your time, my lord.”
He took another slow sip, his eyes still on her over the rim of the bottle. “Perhaps not,” he said quietly.
He handed the decanter to her, and this time she took a more careful sip.
“It is rather absurd, is it not? For a lady to be seen upon a swing sharing a drink with a gentleman—it would draw such censure, as though fine liquor and pleasant company were acts of moral ruin. Society delights in preaching virtue, yet it is ever eager to condemn the smallest display of joy. I understand the need for propriety at times, but heavens, there are moments when I find its demands utterly laughable.”
“What have you wanted to do that has been denied you?”
She lifted a startled gaze to his. “I… I am uncertain.”
“Why?”
Miss Winton was silent for a few beats, then said, “Should I speak frankly, my lord?”
Sebastian smiled. “I would expect nothing less, Miss Winton.”
“My mother died when I was fourteen. She was the fabric that held our family together. After she was gone, it fell to me to manage the household and care for my sisters. I had some vague notion of marriage—of having a home of my own—but it always felt like a dream too distant to touch. I never dared to picture it clearly, for it seemed a luxury I could ill afford.”
Her lips curved faintly, though her tone softened with wistfulness.
“There were times I wished I had been born a man. How enviable it must be to ride through Hyde Park alone without reproach, to drink freely without whispers, to attend lectures at Oxford or travel abroad without a chaperone. A gentleman might climb mountains, build fortunes, even make ruinous mistakes, and yet society always forgives him. But a woman?” She gave a quiet, rueful laugh.
“A single misstep, even something as innocent as laughing too loudly or sitting upon a swing after dusk, can stain her name forever.”
Sebastian’s mouth curved faintly. “If it comforts you, Miss Winton, most men squander the freedoms you envy. We drink too much, gamble too often, and ruin our fortunes as easily as our reputations. The difference is that we are always forgiven. You, however—” his voice dropped lower, thoughtful “—you would have built an empire with half the liberties we waste.”
She laughed softly, the sound low and almost shy. “You credit me with far too much intelligence, my lord. I cannot imagine building an empire.”
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “No? I imagine you’d start with a small kingdom—one built on order, good sense, and a rather formidable stare.”
Her lips curved. “Then I daresay you would not last a day within it. You do not seem the sort of man who enjoys rules.”
“On the contrary,” he murmured, his gaze dipping to her mouth, “I obey them… when they are worth obeying.”