Chapter 13
The moonlight painted his chamber in muted silver.
From his window, Sebastian watched the figure stretched across a blanket on the lawn below—Maryann, gazing up at the stars.
The hour was late, nearing ten, and yet she lingered beneath the balmy summer night as though the world itself were holding its breath for her.
A muscle worked in his jaw as he looked at her.
It had been a week since that afternoon on the lake, and every day since had tested his restraint.
Every look, every brush of her hand, every sound of her laughter was a slow undoing.
Desire had become his constant companion, thrumming through his veins with maddening persistence.
He spent more time with her than sense permitted.
A few days past, he had found her and Sarah at an impromptu picnic and had been drawn to them like a moth to flame.
Two mornings later, he discovered that Maryann could not ride and had insisted on teaching her.
Astride the saddle, pressed close to him, her laughter had rung through the fields like music, and her delighted flush had nearly driven him to ruin.
He could still feel the warmth of her against his chest, the faint tremor of her breath as he guided her hands on the reins.
Sebastian swore softly under his breath. This was madness—beautiful, dangerous madness. Every passing hour deepened his hunger for her, until even the air between them seemed charged with forbidden promise.
No more.
He had made his decision that morning. It was the only sensible course.
Maryann would be sent to one of his estates in Kent—a small, well-kept property he had restored last year.
She would be provided with every comfort, given charge of the house there, and far removed from the temptation that plagued him here.
He would ensure her future was secure. It was the most honorable thing to do…
though honor felt like a bitter word on his tongue tonight.
He watched her sit up, her hair tumbling free from its pins, gleaming like dark silk in the moonlight.
Her face was lifted toward the heavens, her expression soft and far away, as though she were speaking to the stars themselves.
He wondered—foolishly—what she was wishing for.
Did she dream of her sisters? Of safety?
Of freedom? Or something altogether more dangerous?
Sebastian dragged a hand through his hair, forcing himself to turn from the window.
Enough.
If he remained there another moment, he would stride across the lawns, haul her into his arms, and damn the consequences. And that, he thought grimly, would not do at all.
He would set her free before he lost himself entirely.
And yet… the thought of the manor without her laughter echoing through its halls hollowed something inside him.
He looked back at her through the glass. Her gown, a pale muslin, shimmered faintly in the moonlight, and her hair fell like a dark ribbon over her shoulders.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.
He would tell her tomorrow. End this torment before it grows into something neither of them can control.
Why not now? That way, she would not spend another night worrying about her future.
Sebastian hesitated only a moment before striding from his room.
He fetched two blankets from the linen closet, soft and thick enough to fend off the night chill, then stopped by the library for a decanter of sherry and two glasses.
If reason had any hold left on him, it was slipping fast. He told himself it was courtesy—she should not be left to freeze on the grass—but deep down, he knew the truth. He wanted to be near her.
Once outside, he made his way over the lawns, the grass damp beneath his boots, the air alive with the quiet song of crickets. Maryann looked up when he approached, surprise flickering across her face before softening into a smile.
“I thought you might be cold,” he said, offering one of the blankets.
Her smile deepened, and she drew it around her shoulders. “Thank you, Sebastian.”
He spread the second blanket beside her and lowered himself to the ground, one knee drawn up as he leaned an elbow upon it. The night was warm, yet the breeze that passed through the trees carried a whisper of coolness.
“This,” he said quietly, gazing up at the glittering sky, “is what I love about the countryside. You can see the stars. In London, the sky is hidden beneath smoke and lamplight. Here, it feels… endless.”
He took a drink of sherry, then handed her the glass. She accepted it, the faint brush of her fingers against his stirring a memory he had no business holding.
She took a generous swallow and hummed softly, her lips curving. “That is very fine.”
“From my father’s cellar,” he said, his tone wry. “I daresay he’d be scandalized to know how carelessly I share his best vintages.”
Maryann laughed, a soft, throaty sound that seemed to ripple through the quiet night.
She tilted her head back to the heavens, eyes luminous.
“I often watched the stars in Dorset,” she said softly.
“Sometimes I wonder if there truly is a heaven, if God looks down kindly upon us after all. And if that heaven exists…” Her voice faltered, her throat working. “If my parents are there together.”
Her voice was so gentle, so full of aching belief, it made his chest tighten.
“Have you ever wondered about this?”
“No,” he said, his tone thoughtful rather than flippant.
“I’ve been content to dance through life without dwelling on what comes after death.
Do I believe in God?” He paused, eyes fixed on the stars.
“I’ve never given it much thought. Yet I cannot bring myself to believe that we exist by accident, without purpose or design.
There must be intent behind creation. And if there is a God, then yes—I daresay I should rather like to meet Him one day. ”
“I would like to meet Him too,” she said with a soft smile, tilting her head back to study the heavens. “What would you ask Him?”
“God?” he asked, glancing at her.
She took a slow sip of her sherry, her lips curving faintly. “Yes, God.”
Sebastian’s answering smile was wry. “I’d ask why He thought it necessary to make men so damnably weak where women are concerned.”
She laughed, the sound low and musical. “Perhaps He has a woman of His own and thought it a kindness to share the torment.”
“Of course you would call it a kindness.”
“I do,” she teased, her eyes gleaming. “And now you have made me curious. Tell me of this weakness, my lord.”
Her voice dipped, husky with playful challenge, her lashes sweeping upward as she looked at him through the soft glow of the firelight.
The sight struck him square in the chest. She had no notion how dangerous she looked just then—eyes bright with mischief, mouth slightly curved, and that teasing curiosity that made him want to confess everything he should keep buried.
Sebastian swirled the sherry in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight.
“Weakness,” he murmured, the word tasting half like mockery, half confession.
“It starts innocently enough. You notice her smile—think it merely pleasant. But then you find you cannot sleep without that smile haunting your dreams. You wake, and she’s the first thought that steals into your mind before you’ve even drawn breath. ”
He took a slow sip. “You work through the day trying to forget her. Yet every nail you hammer into a beam, every pane of glass fitted into the conservatory, you wonder—would she like this? Would she smile if she saw it? You start noticing flowers you never gave a damn about before, wondering which might brighten her day. It’s madness, really.
A man could lose himself entirely to such thoughts. ”
A rough breath escaped him. “And when she walks into a room—hell, the world bloody shifts. You stop thinking clearly. You forget your duties, your sense. You start doing foolish things, like standing at your window at night just to see the flicker of her candlelight. You tell yourself it’s nothing, a passing fancy, but each day it burrows deeper until you’re left wondering what sort of man you’ve become. ”
He gave a low, humorless laugh. “If that isn’t weakness, I don’t know what is.”
Maryann was silent beside him.
“That sounds less like weakness,” she whispered, “and more like devotion.”
Sebastian’s mouth curved, though there was no mirth in it. “Call it devotion if you wish. I call it torment. The sort a sensible man should never suffer.”
She lifted her gaze to him, hesitant. “And are you suffering now, my lord?”
For a long, fragile moment, he said nothing. Only the fire crackled between them, and the scent of wild jasmine drifted in the night air. Then his eyes met hers—unguarded, dark with truth.
He studied her profile, the candlelit sheen of moonlight brushing against her cheek, the way the blanket framed her shoulders. She looked ethereal—too good, too pure for the darker thoughts that haunted his mind. Yet he could not look away.
“Every hour since you entered my life,” he said quietly.
“Ah… so it is me who inspires this weakness,” Maryann said, her tone soft yet daring as she lifted her sherry once more. The warmth of the liquor spread through her, loosening the tight coil in her chest, making her limbs languid and her thoughts dangerously free.
Sebastian didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes—dark, intense, edged with something primal—spoke volumes. The air between them thickened, alive with the hum of everything unspoken. The night itself seemed to hold its breath.
Maryann could feel her pulse fluttering wildly, could feel the pull in her belly and the delicious heat unfurling low within her. His gaze caressed her skin like a touch—slow, deliberate, undoing her.
“Miss Winton—”