Chapter 10
Maryann paced before the hearth like a caged creature. Her bare feet whispered against the carpet as she pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. The memory of the night before replayed again and again—relentless, humiliating, and inescapably glorious.
“Oh, good heavens,” she muttered, groaning aloud. “What have I done?”
It had been she who had kissed him. She, not he, had leaned up, brazen as any wanton, and pressed her lips to his. And worse—far worse—she had enjoyed it.
Her stomach twisted at the recollection.
She could still taste the faint smoke and whisky on his tongue, still feel the solid strength of his body, the wild, dangerous pleasure that had surged through her when his arms went around her.
She had fallen asleep in his arms like some besotted fool, and he—dear Lord—he had carried her to her chamber.
Maryann had only a hazy, half-waking impression of him slipping from her chamber before the deep, irresistible pull of sleep claimed her completely.
She buried her face in her hands and groaned again.
It was well past nine. Sarah had already gone below stairs with one of the maids for her breakfast, leaving Maryann with the silence of her own mortification.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror—her hair disheveled from restless sleep, her cheeks still tinged pink.
She looked every inch the wanton she accused herself of being.
“What must he think of me?” she whispered. “A wanton?
The word made her wince. She, who had once prided herself on her composure, her restraint, her good sense—had thrown herself into a gentleman’s arms and kissed him as though she had been starved for it.
Maryann pressed a hand to her middle, where a strange fluttering lingered.
The thought of facing him again made her want to flee the manor entirely.
Yet she was not a coward, and she could not hide forever.
Taking a steadying breath, she squared her shoulders and marched to her wardrobe.
She chose her most respectable gown—a dove-grey muslin that did nothing for her complexion but suggested seriousness of character—and dressed with brisk efficiency.
Her hands trembled only twice while fastening her bodice, which she considered a triumph.
When her hair was neatly arranged, she stood before the mirror again.
Her reflection appeared calm, proper, almost serene.
A deception, of course, but one she would cling to like armor.
“Very well,” she told herself. “You made an unspeakable fool of yourself. You will face the consequences with dignity. And afterward… afterward, you shall find a way to forget him and this wicked impact he has on my senses.”
Her stomach flipped at the mere idea. Forget Viscount Ranford.
The thought was laughable. He was kind, thoughtful, and unbearably handsome—everything she might have wished for in a husband.
If her circumstances had not been so reduced, she might have allowed herself the folly of daydreaming what it would be like to be his wife.
Maryann descended the stairs, one gloved hand gripping the banister as though it could lend her courage.
The manor was unusually quiet. She heard the faint clink of cutlery from the dining room, the distant chatter of servants.
She walked along the hallway until she came to his study.
Maryann paused outside the door, her heart thudding a frantic rhythm. Then she rapped lightly.
“Come in,” the viscount said.
She quickly entered before she could lose her nerve.
The scent of ink and polished wood greeted her first, then the low, masculine hum of conversation.
Sebastian was standing behind his desk, a rolled parchment in hand, while another man—a tall, fair-haired gentleman pointed to several drawings spread before them.
Sebastian looked up, and her composure nearly fled.
He was devastatingly handsome in the morning light—his dark hair a little disheveled, his cravat loosened at the throat, his white shirt rolled to reveal strong, sun-browned forearms. There was a smudge of graphite near his wrist, and his expression held that intense concentration that made her pulse skip.
If the devil himself had conspired to test her self-control, he could not have arranged a crueler sight.
“Ah, Miss Winton,” Sebastian said, his tone measured, polite, yet his brilliant green eyes gleamed with something devilish. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, my lord,” she replied, her voice an octave too high.
The fair-haired gentleman turned, his pleasant face breaking into a courteous smile. His eyes were the clear grey of a winter sky, and though he lacked Sebastian’s dark magnetism, he was handsome in a gentler way.
“Miss Winton,” Sebastian said, gesturing toward him, “allow me to introduce Mr. Walker. He is the architect overseeing the restoration of the conservatory.”
Mr. Walker gave a graceful bow. “A pleasure, Miss Winton.”
She curtsied. “Likewise, sir. Forgive me for interrupting your work.”
“I was just showing Lord Ranford the final plans,” Mr. Walker said, gathering the sketches. “We’ve made some progress on the glasswork design.”
“I look forward to seeing it,” she said automatically, though she had no idea what she was saying.
Sebastian’s gaze flickered to her, unreadable, and her palms dampened in her gloves.
“If you will excuse us, Mr. Walker,” she said quickly, “I—ah—wished to speak privately with his lordship.”
“Of course.” The architect collected his drawings, bowed again, and exited the room, leaving behind the faint scent of parchment and ink.
The door closed. Silence fell. Maryann clasped her hands tightly before her.
The sight of Sebastian leaning lazily against the edge of the desk did nothing to help her composure.
His cravat hung undone, his dark hair a little mussed.
The faintest shadow of a smile curved his mouth, as if he knew exactly how flustered she was.
She took a deep breath and blurted, “I am so terribly sorry, my lord, for taking advantage of you.”
He blinked, his brows lifting slightly. “Advantage?”
“Yes!” She took a few steps closer, mortified by the heat in her cheeks. “It was dreadful behavior on my part, and I cannot think what possessed me. I was… I was a libertine!”
Sebastian straightened, his mouth twitching. “A libertine?”
“Yes,” she repeated, gesturing helplessly. “To have acted like a scoundrel is beyond the pale. I assure you it will not happen again.”
He regarded her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth curving upward in the slowest, most dangerous smile she had ever seen.
“I see,” he murmured. “You believe you took advantage of me.”
Her pulse fluttered wildly. “I fail to see the humor in this, my lord. This is a matter that demands your seriousness.”
“I’m attempting to,” he said dryly, “but you are making it rather difficult.”
She glared at him, which only seemed to deepen his amusement. “I meant what I said. I am sorry, my lord.”
He tilted his head, his gaze dark and steady. “If you must know, Miss Winton, I am rather grateful for the experience.”
Maryann’s breath caught. “Grateful?”
“Yes,” he said softly. “It is not every evening a man finds himself kissed senseless under the moonlight by a beautiful woman.”
Her mouth fell open. “You are teasing me!”
“Would you prefer I feigned regret?”
“Yes,” she said indignantly. “That would be the gentlemanly thing to do.”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound that rippled down her spine. “Forgive me, but I’ve never been particularly skilled at pretending indifference.”
“Then you must learn,” she retorted, though her voice lacked conviction. The glint in his eyes, the easy confidence in his stance all made her pulse trip faster. How wretched!
He leaned one hip against the desk, arms folding with lazy ease.
“I must confess, it was hardly a proper kiss. Your mouth isn’t even swollen, and there are no love bites marring that delicate throat.
I daresay we both displayed remarkable restraint—though we were clearly eager to keep kissing until…
well, propriety prevents me from finishing that thought. Unless, of course, you wish me to.”
Her lips parted. “You are intolerable.”
He smiled, eyes glinting. “Fortunately, I’m charming enough to make it forgivable.”
Maryann pressed a hand to her temple, half in frustration, half in self-preservation. His smile, his scent, the way sunlight gleamed across his forearms, it was all too much.
“I only came to thank you,” she said, though her voice trembled slightly. “For the fine company you provided last night. Your kindness was… most unexpected, but deeply appreciated.”
“You may cry on my shoulder whenever you wish,” he said softly.
Her throat tightened. “It is best we work hard to maintain proprieties between us, my lord. That way…”
That way I will not fall in love with you and lead my heart down the bitter path of pain and unfulfilled longing, she finished silently, unwilling to give breath to such foolishness.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I shall see to Sarah’s lessons.” She turned, intent on fleeing before her cheeks betrayed her completely.
“Miss Winton.”
His voice, quiet but unyielding, stopped her mid-step.
She turned halfway, refusing to meet his gaze. “Yes, my lord?”
He studied her for what felt like an eternity, then said quietly, “There is nothing to forgive. A single kiss will not change anything between us. There is no need to overthink it—I promise you that.”
Her breath caught. For one wild, dangerous instant, she almost believed him. She only curtsied and murmured, “Good day, my lord,” before fleeing the room.
Once in the corridor, Maryann pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Her heart raced wildly, her pulse a traitorous flutter beneath her skin.
The air still carried his scent—clean soap and something darkly masculine that clung to her senses.
She drew a deep breath, but it did little to steady her.
Relief, confusion, and something far more perilous tangled within her.
One thing, however, she knew beyond doubt: she had not imagined the heat in his eyes. No, the viscount was not indifferent. He had not kissed her out of pity or gallantry. He had wanted her—truly wanted her. And that knowledge frightened her far more than any scandal or impropriety ever could.