Chapter 11
The morning sunlight gilded the rolling lawns of Hardwick Manor, laying soft gold across the expanse of trimmed hedges and marble fountains.
Sebastian guided his stallion through the sweeping gravel drive, the rhythmic fall of hooves muffled by the hush of early summer air.
A lark trilled somewhere in the distance, its song echoing faintly across the green.
He had received his mother’s note two days ago, reminding him of her garden fête.
The invitation had been phrased as a request, though they both knew Lady Hardwick rarely requested anything she truly wished to see done.
He sighed and adjusted his gloves. It had been years since he’d attended one of her entertainments, and the thought of enduring the stifling pleasantries and simpering smiles of debutantes filled him with a weariness that no brandy could remedy.
Still, she was his mother, and despite their differences, she rarely asked much of him. And he had always indulged his mother.
If he were being truthful, the notion of attending alone suddenly seemed less agreeable.
He found himself wishing—quite irrationally—that he had invited Miss Winton and Sarah to accompany him.
Maryann would have enjoyed attending; the air was fresh, the roses in full bloom.
He could almost imagine Sarah racing across the lawns, her laughter ringing like bells.
And Maryann… well, she would have found some quiet corner to observe it all, her soft smile half-curious, half-delighted, especially if she saw her sisters.
His jaw tightened as he recalled the last few days.
She had been avoiding him, deliberately so.
He could hardly blame her after the kiss they’d shared, though it had haunted him every waking hour since.
The memory of her mouth, soft and trembling against his, yet ravenous, still burned.
By God, it had taken every ounce of control not to drag her back into his arms, to tear away every barrier between them and bury himself in the soft, molten heat he knew would undo him completely. The thought alone made his muscles tighten with wanting.
He raked a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “This is not what I should be thinking about now.”
He spotted movement in the distance. A cluster of ladies strolled the grounds, parasols tilted gracefully against the sun.
Among them, two young women caught his attention—Miss Elizabeth and Miss Vivian Winton.
Both were dressed fashionably, laughing at some jest shared among the ladies.
His chest warmed at the sight. They looked well.
Better than well, actually. It seemed his mother had taken a liking to them, which surprised him.
He wondered if they thought about Maryann.
It was now three weeks since they last saw her and little Sarah.
He swung down from his horse, handing the reins to a waiting stable lad before crossing the expanse of green.
“Sebastian!”
His mother’s voice floated toward him—refined, commanding, yet tinged with unmistakable pleasure.
Lady Hardwick descended from the terrace steps leading to the gardens with practiced grace, her ivory muslin gown rustling faintly, a picture of serene authority amid the fluttering colors of her guests.
“Mother.” He smiled, taking her gloved hand and kissing her cheek. “You are radiant as ever.”
She arched a brow. “Flattery so early in the day? My, you must want something.”
“I want peace,” he said smoothly. “And since you insist upon hosting every eligible lady within twenty miles, I came to suffer for your happiness.”
Her eyes narrowed, though amusement flickered in their depths. “Wretched boy. You know very well I am delighted to see you. I half-expected you would find some excuse to avoid this gathering.”
He smiled, surveying the bustling garden. “It appears I was right to worry. You’ve gathered half of the ton’s unmarried daughters here.”
She gave a dismissive wave. “Nonsense. You exaggerate. There are only fourteen ladies here, with their chaperones. Though…”—her voice softened—“four of them are the young women I mentioned in my letter. You should take care to speak with each. They are accomplished, well-bred, and suitable.”
He inclined his head. “If it pleases you, Mother.”
“Good.” She beamed. “I shall have the footmen fetch you a plate. There’s champagne by the oak and enough pastries to tempt a saint.”
As she swept away to greet another guest, Sebastian took a long breath and glanced about.
The garden was a tapestry of color and movement—ladies in gauzy muslins and pastel silks, a few gentlemen in light coats and gleaming boots, laughter mingling with the tinkling strains of a harp set near the fountain.
He caught sight of Elizabeth and Vivian again.
They were playing battledore and shuttlecock with a few other ladies, their bright ribbons fluttering in the breeze.
Elizabeth’s graceful poise contrasted sharply with Vivian’s spirited enthusiasm, though both appeared carefree. A pang of something—relief, perhaps—coursed through him. Whatever Maryann’s fears had been about her sisters’ treatment under his mother’s care, they seemed unfounded.
A flash of pink caught his eye—Lady Eugenia Carroway, one of the names from his mother’s list. She approached with practiced ease, her dark curls arranged artfully beneath a bonnet trimmed with silk roses.
“Viscount Ranford,” she greeted sweetly, curtsying. “What a pleasure. Lady Hardwick was lamenting that you might not come.”
He bowed slightly. “And deprive my mother of that joy? Impossible.”
She giggled, fluttering her fan. “You are precisely as charming as I was told.”
“That sounds like a dangerous accusation,” he murmured, offering his arm. “Will you walk with me, Lady Eugenia?”
She accepted, and together they strolled toward the rose garden.
The conversation flowed easily enough—talk of London’s latest scandals, the fashions from Paris, and a ball she had attended in Mayfair.
She was lovely, poised, everything his mother could want for him.
Yet after ten minutes, he could hardly recall a single thing she had said.
His mind drifted instead to the image of Maryann’s laughter, soft and genuine, and the intent way she concentrated when doing a task.
After escorting Lady Eugenia to the refreshment table, he found himself cornered by Lady Annabelle and Miss Cordelia Pratt.
Both were striking in their way—Annabelle fair and confident, Cordelia dark-haired and reserved.
They engaged him in polite discussion about art, architecture, and the weather.
When Lady Annabelle asked about his current project, he brightened slightly.
“I’m overseeing restorations at my Hertfordshire estate,” he said.
“The manor is in dreadful shape, but it will be magnificent again soon.”
“How industrious,” Lady Annabelle purred. “A man of refinement and labor. Quite rare in our circles.”
He gave a dry smile. “A necessary diversion. It keeps my hands busy and my mind from idleness.”
“Then perhaps we shall see it when it is completed,” Lady Cordelia offered shyly.
“I should be honored,” he said with an incline of his head, though the words felt oddly hollow.
He conversed with the ladies, and then enjoyed a round of pall-mall with the gentlemen—winning, though he hardly paid attention—and joined a small group of ladies afterward for tea and idle talk of novels and poetry.
Everywhere he turned, he was met with smiles, soft laughter, and admiration.
And yet, none of it stirred him. His mother, watching from across the lawn, lifted her brows meaningfully.
He offered her a faint smile of reassurance, but she needn’t have worried.
He would play his part, though his heart was far from it.
As the sun began to dip low, painting the horizon with streaks of amber and rose, Sebastian excused himself from another round of polite conversation and wandered toward the edge of the garden.
In the distance, he saw Vivian perched on a bench, Elizabeth beside her, listening as one of the young men animatedly spoke.
Maryann should have been here.
He could almost hear her laugh, see her turn of head, the soft way she frowned when in thought.
The memory was maddeningly vivid. He exhaled sharply and rubbed a hand over his jaw.
Another reason he had left the manor and attended the party was to distract himself, to drown the ache she stirred in him.
But it was useless. Her absence filled every moment, every idle breath.
The scent of roses and sun-warmed grass followed him, mingling with the faint memory of whisky and the taste of Maryann’s lips.
Sebastian moved away from the main party and found his mother near the rose arbour, surrounded by a cluster of ladies vying for her attention. When she spotted him, she excused herself with an indulgent smile and came forward.
“Sebastian,” she said warmly, though her sharp eyes missed nothing. “It did not seem as if you enjoyed speaking with the ladies.”
He bent and kissed her cheek. “I suffered for your happiness, Mother. Am I not a good son? I will admit that they were all pleasant, charming, and intelligent.”
Her lips twitched, torn between annoyance and delight. He smiled faintly, but his gaze was already drifting across the lawns, searching until he found two familiar figures in the distance. “Elizabeth and Vivian look well,” he said. “You have done much for them.”
“They are lovely girls,” she replied. “Quick learners and possessed of pleasing manners. I daresay they shall make splendid matches when the time comes. In fact,” she added with a note of satisfaction, “young Baron Richardson has already shown interest in courting Elizabeth.”
Sebastian inclined his head. “I am glad to hear it. Their sister misses them, Mother. I wish to arrange a visit between them.”