Chapter 9
It felt like some inexplicable madness had taken hold of Sebastian.
Every instinct urged him to draw the woman before him into his arms and vow that she would never again know fear or want—that he would see to her every need, every comfort, for as long as he drew breath.
Sebastian almost lurched to his feet and walked away, but he mastered the impulse and only looked aside—from the kissable temptation of her mouth.
“Have you ever feared for your future, my lord?”
The quiet question pulled his gaze back to her.
“No,” he said slowly. “I have always been assured of my duties, my responsibilities, and my place in this world.”
Leaning against the swing’s rope, she tipped her face toward the night sky, a faint frown furrowing her brow.
“You worry for your future,” he observed.
Miss Winton stiffened, then glanced at him.
“A part of me does. It has been rather wonderful working for you, for in these weeks the burden I once carried feels lighter. But I cannot trust in it. How long am I to hold this position? Am I to remain a housekeeper for the rest of my life, never daring to want the family I once dreamed of? Will I see Lizzy and Vi again? And if I do, will they even wish to acknowledge me—when I am so far beneath their notice, a servant?”
Her voice trembled, though her chin lifted stubbornly. “These thoughts have haunted me of late… keeping me from sleep.”
He regarded her in silence for a long moment, his chest tightening with something perilously close to tenderness.
“I have not known you long, Maryann,” he said quietly, “but I have never met another woman who leaves such an impression. You are lovely—and more than that, you are possessed of strength, kindness, and fortitude. Should your sisters ever turn from you, it would be their loss, not yours.”
Sebastian watched her from the corner of his eye, her laughter soft and genuine. It wrapped around him like warm silk, and he found himself unwilling to break its spell.
“You are of incredible talent in the art of flattery, my lord,” she said, smiling.
He couldn’t help the quiet chuckle that escaped him. “All part of being a viscount. However, I assure you, all flattery directed to you is entirely sincere.”
The corners of her mouth lifted again, and he stored that smile away like something precious. She had no idea how seldom he encountered sincerity in London—or how refreshing her laughter sounded after years of hollow company.
Then, with that bright, curious look that always seemed to undo him, she asked, “Tell me, my lord, what else does a gentleman of the ton do when he is not perfecting his flattery?”
He leaned back on the swing, letting it sway lazily.
“We attend balls, drink too much, and pretend to enjoy dull conversation. We gamble, sometimes ruin ourselves, and occasionally duel to prove we are still men of consequence. Some take mistresses, others take to hunting—most of us simply take leave of our wits.” He glanced at her then, catching the faint wrinkle of her brow.
“But I have grown weary of such indulgences. I find greater pleasure in restoring what is neglected. Estates with age and character. There’s something satisfying in taking ruin and coaxing beauty from it again. ”
Her expression softened. The moonlight caught the sheen of her hair, the soft line of her throat as she turned to him. “You speak of it as though these old houses are alive,” she murmured.
“They are,” he said quietly. “Every cracked wall and worn stone tells of a life once lived within it. I suppose…” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I like the idea of giving such places purpose again.”
He wasn’t sure when her laughter faded or when the silence between them began to feel weighted with something else. She looked at him then—really looked—and the air thickened between them. Her gaze lingered a fraction too long, her lips parting slightly as though she might speak.
“Is that why you cried?” he asked gruffly. “Your fear of the future?”
“I…” She looked away, tucking a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. “I miss my sisters… my father… my mother.” Her voice softened to a tremor. “I miss my family, and I was overcome with the dreadful sense that I shall always be rootless—having no place or anyone to call home.”
Sebastian’s chest tightened. The soft wistfulness in her tone cleaved straight through him.
“My father was a good man,” she continued quietly.
“He never once seemed disappointed that he had daughters and no sons. He taught us all to fish, to ride, even to climb trees, and would laugh as though our muddy hems were a badge of honour. In the evenings, mama gathered us before the hearth. We’d take turns reading aloud from a book, then spend hours talking about the characters as if they were dear friends.
I have not known that kind of laughter since.
There was a time when our family was whole.
My mother and father still lived, and I knew neither fear nor worry.
The world then felt so certain, so safe.
But one by one, those certainties were taken away.
First our mother left us, then our father, and with his passing came the loss of everything familiar.
We were turned out of the home that had sheltered us all our lives—cast into the world, never to see it again.
And then, as if that were not punishment enough, we sisters were parted.
Never before had we been separated, and now I live with the constant ache of wondering—are they well?
Are they treated kindly? Will their futures be secure?
I torment myself with questions I cannot answer, wondering how I might protect them from afar, how I might ensure I do not fail them.
Life is so terribly unpredictable, and I find I do not like that truth.
Yet what can be done? I am but a single speck of sand in the vast ocean of existence, at the mercy of waves I cannot command. ”
Sebastian’s chest tightened as her voice trailed off. For a long moment, he said nothing, afraid that words might shatter the fragile honesty she’d laid bare. The faint moonlight caught the shimmer of her eyes, and something inside him gave way.
He had never known such loss, never faced uncertainty with the kind of courage she wore like armor. Yet here she was, a woman who had been stripped of everything, but still stood instead of crumbling underneath its weight.
Her voice wavered, then steadied. “I fear I might never be allowed to be part of Lizzy and Vi’s lives again—and the thought is unbearable. I cannot think of a way to mend what has broken.”
Bloody hell. Her words struck him harder than any blow he’d taken in his youth.
He’d been born to privilege, to a name that opened every door before he even knocked.
His future had been secured before he could speak.
His life had always been assured: duty, privilege, inheritance.
Even his wealth from investments was merely a supplement to what he would one day possess.
He argued for fairness in Parliament, yet the truth was plain—he had never truly understood what it meant to go without, to worry where the next day’s comfort would come from.
And the woman before him, looking so heartbreakingly lovely in the moonlight, possessed more fortitude than any statesman he’d ever met.
She reached for the decanter, and they shared the bottle in silence for a time, companionable and strangely easy.
Then, with a sudden impulsiveness, she pressed her feet into the earth and pushed off, the swing lifting her higher and higher with each graceful motion.
Her hair loosened, tumbling free in a cascade that caught the moonlight, and her laughter rang out—bright and unrestrained.
Sebastian’s mouth went dry. He had never seen a more breathtaking sight.
Maryann swung in companionable silence, the hush between them threaded with awareness.
She dragged her feet into the grass, slowing until the swing swayed gently before stilling.
When she tried to stand, her balance wavered.
Sebastian rose instinctively, but before he could reach her, she laughed—a soft, helpless sound—and stumbled again.
Realization struck. “Good God,” he muttered under his breath, “you’re tipsy.”
“I am not,” she declared, straightening with unsteady dignity. “Well… perhaps a little. Is this how it feels?”
When she swayed a third time, he moved quickly, catching her about the waist. Her laughter brushed against his throat as she looked up at him, her breath warm and scented faintly of whisky and summer night.
“Were you always this handsome,” she whispered, her voice husky, “or is it the moonlight?”
A startled laugh escaped Sebastian. “I should say it’s the whisky, not the moonlight, that makes me look so,” he murmured, his gaze caught helplessly by her parted lips.
She smiled dreamily. “Mmm. I dreamed about you once, my lord. It was… rather a wicked dream.”
Sebastian groaned softly. “You shouldn’t tell me that,” he said, his voice strained. “I should want to hear every detail but that would be taking advantage of your state.”
“Rubbish,” she said, then chuckled, pressing her hand against his chest. “I feel splendid. I was miserable and fearful, and then you came, and all of that simply drifted away. I think I deserve a reward.”
He huffed out a laugh. “If anyone deserves one, it’s I for cheering you up.”
“Next time,” she teased, hiccupping as a charming flush colored her cheeks.
“Next time? Do you plan to get tippled often?”
“Perhaps,” she whispered, her gaze softening, “especially if it leads to moments like this… with you.”
The air between them changed—quiet, charged, as if the night itself held its breath. Before he could answer, she rose onto her toes and pressed her mouth to his. Sebastian froze for the span of a heartbeat.
She shifted slightly and whispered against his lips, “This is my very first kiss… and I am glad it is with you.”
Every ounce of restraint shattered. Sebastian slid his hand to the back of her neck, the other at her waist drawing her closer as he returned the kiss—slow at first, coaxing her lips to part beneath his.
The moment she yielded, the world tilted.
Her mouth was warm and soft, her taste of whisky and wild summer night.
It was as if she had pulled him into some hidden place he had never known existed—a place of aching sweetness and hunger.
Her lips moved beneath his, tentative at first, then with growing confidence that undid him entirely.
His control, his composure, his sense of self—all of it was swallowed whole by the feel of her.
The kiss deepened, messy and breathless.
She clutched at his shoulders, her fingers curling into his hair.
He groaned, and the sound vibrated against her mouth.
He wanted her closer, needed her closer, until her body fit to his as if it had been made for him.
Her gasp only spurred him on, and he took her mouth again, the kiss turning fierce, consuming—everything he had not known he hungered for until now.
When at last they broke apart, both were trembling, the air between them sharp with need. Her lips were swollen, her hair a wild halo about her flushed face.
Maryann took a step back, pressing her hand to her mouth as though she could contain the heat of what had passed between them. “I… I shouldn’t have—”
“I’m not sorry,” he said hoarsely, his breath unsteady. “But you should go inside, before I forget every vow I made to you.”
She turned, her steps unsteady as she made for the house. When she stumbled again, he was at her side in an instant, catching her about the waist. “Careful,” he murmured.
Her laughter, soft and dazed, brushed against his throat. “I’m perfectly fine,” she whispered, but her words slurred ever so slightly.
“You are not,” he said.
When she swayed once more, he swept her easily into his arms. She made a faint sound of protest, then sighed and rested her head against his shoulder.
By the time he reached the terrace steps, her breathing had evened, her lashes lowering against her cheeks.
He glanced down at her sleeping face, a rueful smile curving his lips.
“You’ll be the ruin of me,” he murmured. “I’ll never forget the taste of you, even if I live another hundred years.”
The manor was still, the lamps dimmed. Sebastian carried her up the stairs, his tread soft against the carpeted steps.
He opened the door to her chamber where Sarah slept soundly, the candles still burning low.
Setting Maryann gently upon the bed, he carefully removed her boots, then drew the coverlet up over her.
For a moment, he simply stood there, looking down at her.
In the quiet glow of candlelight, he was struck by how much Sarah resembled her—the same chin, the same dark lashes, even the faint golden streaks in their brown hair.
His gut tightened. He recalled his mother’s words—her certainty that the child was not a sister but her daughter. He had dismissed the idea as cruel gossip, but now he wondered.
Why should it matter? He did not know. She was meant to be nothing more than a brief chapter in his life, a moment soon to pass once she found her footing and moved on. And yet, as he turned and quietly left her chamber, Sebastian knew with startling clarity that forgetting her would not be easy.