Chapter 15
The days that followed unfurled like a dream Sebastian could not quite believe he was living.
Each morning bled into night with laughter, warmth, and the kind of intimacy he had once scoffed at.
Maryann and Sarah filled the manor with life, sunlight and music where once there had been only silence.
He and Maryann rode together, swam in the lake until the sun burned their shoulders, shared wine in the evenings, and tangled themselves in passion that left him breathless and yearning for more.
It was dangerous, how easily she fit into his world… how utterly he wanted her to stay.
Now, in the golden haze of afternoon, they were racing their horses down the lane, laughter carried on the summer wind.
Her hair, once pinned neatly, now tumbled wildly down her back.
She wore boy’s trousers and a loose white shirt that billowed as she rode, and Sebastian thought she had never looked more beautiful—free, flushed, alive.
She slowed her mount as they reached the crest of the hill, breathless and grinning.
“Admit it,” she called, “you let me win!”
He laughed, pulling his horse alongside hers. “I value my pride too much for that. You bested me fair and square.”
They walked their horses along the path, the sound of hooves soft against the earth. For a long moment, he only watched the wind teasing strands of her hair, the sunlight gilding her face.
Then his expression sobered. “There is something I must speak with you about,” he said quietly.
Her smile faltered, though curiosity glimmered in her eyes. “What is it?”
He drew in a breath. “The night under the stars… I had meant to discuss this then, but I was distracted.”
Her lips curved faintly.
He looked away, a half-smile tugging at his mouth before fading. “A few days ago, I noticed you collected your wages. You bought Sarah new boots, ribbons, and dresses, yet nothing for yourself. Your gowns are worn, Maryann. You should not deny yourself so much.”
A flush rose to her cheeks. “My clothes are fine,” she said. “I would rather save what I can for our future.”
He nodded slowly. “Then allow me to help secure it. I have a manor in Kent—seven rooms, fully restored, with a lake that teems with fish. It is peaceful, beautiful… yours, if you will accept it. And I would see you provided for with a dowry of ten thousand pounds.”
Maryann’s hands tightened on the reins. She stared at him, eyes wide and shimmering. “You… would give me a house?” she whispered. “And money?”
“Yes.” His tone was gentle but firm. “You and Sarah deserve stability. Safety.”
She shook her head, voice trembling as tears welled in her eyes. “Though I am poor, though I have no connections, I will not be your mistress. I will not be a kept woman.”
Her words struck him like a blow, quiet but devastating.
“Maryann…” he began, his voice rough with emotion.
“That was never my intention. The same care my mother shows Elizabeth and Vivian—their dowries, their seasons, their chance at a future—should have been yours as well. They will marry well, I’ve no doubt of it, and I wanted to do the same for you. You deserve that.”
Her lashes trembled, and she shook her head faintly. “This gift… it is too much.” She drew in a steadying breath before meeting his gaze. “Tell me truthfully, would you have offered it if we were not lovers?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I made this decision before that night we became lovers. It has nothing to do with what passed between us.”
She studied him for a long, searching moment, as though she might see the truth written somewhere behind his eyes. “Sebastian,” she whispered, “you say you offer these gifts as a dowry?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I will also call upon a few good friends to invite you to events for the season.”
“Then… do you feel no pain at the thought of me marrying another man?”
The words sliced through him, sharp and unexpected. His chest tightened, and for a fleeting, terrible instant, he could not breathe. But years of control—of duty and restraint—held him still. He masked the turmoil in his heart behind a calm he did not feel.
“No,” he said at last, his tone even, distant.
Her lips parted slightly, and she looked away, a soft, broken “Oh,” escaping her.
The sound of it hollowed him out. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and the grind of carriage wheels echoed down the drive, breaking the uneasy silence that had fallen between them. Sebastian’s brows drew together in a frown. He turned his head toward the sound, disbelief cutting through his thoughts.
“That’s my mother’s carriage,” he said grimly.
Maryann followed his gaze, her expression tightening. “Your mother?”
“Yes,” he muttered. “She has never visited before as the dust from the renovation offends her sensibilities. Ride with me to welcome her.”
They trotted down the lane, the wind carrying the scent of grass and summer blossoms. When they reached the courtyard, the countess was already descending, her gloved hand resting lightly on the footman’s arm. She was a vision of polished hauteur, her gown a flawless sweep of pale blue silk.
Her gaze landed on Maryann first—cold, appraising. Maryann dismounted and dipped into a graceful curtsy.
“My lady,” she said softly.
The countess’s chin lifted a fraction. “Miss Winton,” she returned, her tone clipped. Then she turned to her son, eyes sharp with expectation. “Sebastian. I would speak with you privately.”
His jaw tightened, but he inclined his head. “Of course, Mother.”
Maryann gave him a fleeting glance before turning away toward the house.
He escorted his mother inside. Her gaze swept over the grand hall, lingering on the polished marble floors, the gleaming bannisters, and the elegantly curved staircase.
After a pause, she inclined her head with a faint air of approval.
“It is rather impressive,” she said, her tone cool yet begrudgingly admiring.
In the drawing room, Sebastian faced his mother across the gleaming mahogany table. The countess stood with her back to him, examining the floral arrangement on the mantelpiece as though it personally offended her.
“I will not insult your intelligence with pleasantries,” she said at last, turning to him. “Why is Miss Winton here—and why, pray, did you ride up together looking far too close?”
Sebastian’s expression hardened. “She is my friend.”
His mother’s laugh was brittle. “Your friend? Do not insult me. You mean your mistress. Of course, she would try to latch on to you—how else might she claw her way out of her situation? A desperate woman always finds her mark.”
“Enough.” His voice cut through the air like a whip. “You have no notion of Miss Winton’s character, Mother, and I find myself deeply disappointed in you. You judge her for something she is not—because you assume she is Sarah’s mother, when in truth, they are sisters.”
The countess’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot know that for certain.”
“Yes,” he said coldly, “I can.”
For a long, taut moment, she studied him, and then her eyes widened with dawning horror. “Good heavens. The only way you could know that…” She drew in a sharp breath. “Sebastian, tell me you have not been intimate with this woman.”
He leveled an indifferent stare at the countess. “I will not have this conversation with you.”
His mother’s tone rose, sharp with outrage. “Then tell me why she is here! If she is not your mistress, why keep her under your roof? Why invite scandal upon our family name?”
“She is here because I hired her,” he said evenly. “As my housekeeper. To provide for her and her sister, as you should have done after you gave your word to protect them.”
The silence that followed was glacial. The countess stared at him, color rising to her cheeks. “You dare lecture me on charity?”
“I dare,” he said quietly, his tone edged with restrained fury, “because I am at a loss that my own mother cannot show compassion where it is most needed.”
She recoiled as if struck, eyes flashing with both hurt and disbelief.
“Compassion?” she echoed sharply. “I saw the way you looked at her when she walked into the house. Your gaze was—tender. I have never seen you look at a woman like that. Do not insult my intelligence by claiming she is not your mistress!”
He gave a short, mirthless laugh, the sound brittle in the tense air. “And even if she were,” he said coldly, “what business is it of yours?”
Her eyes widened in shock. “How outrageous! Think of the scandal—think of the shame it would bring to this family!”
“Mother,” he cut in sharply, his voice hardening to steel, “if there is any scandal, it will be of your own making. Miss Winton has done nothing to deserve your disdain. She is a fine lady—more fine than most who call themselves so. Any gentleman would be fortunate to call her his wife. She is kind, selfless, warm, and genuine in a world where few are.”
The countess stared at him, aghast. “Do not tell me you are entertaining any nonsensical thoughts of marrying her. I will not have her in our family.”
“You should be ashamed, Mother,” he said quietly, his tone glacial. “Ashamed of this ridiculous prejudice, especially when it is unfounded.”
“Society will not see it as unfounded!” she hissed, her composure fracturing.
“They will think what they have always thought—that she bore a child out of wedlock. Such things never stay buried in the countryside. One day, people will whisper, and it will reach London, and when it does, the taint of it will spread—to me, to you, to the family name.” She drew a sharp breath.
“It is your duty to prevent such disgrace.”
Tired of the foolish argument, Sebastian straightened and said curtly, “You may rest easy, Mother. I have no intention of marrying the elder Miss Winton. Your concerns, as always, are misplaced.”
She studied him for a long moment, searching his face for any sign of deception. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her—for the moment.
“See that it remains so,” she said coldly. “For your own sake, Sebastian.”
His mother whirled around and said, “I am returning to Hardwick Manor.”
He scoffed and said, “You travelled an hour to merely lecture me on Miss Winton?”
“Yes,” she clipped and she opened the door and walked out, slamming it close behind her.
Sebastian thought it was damned outrageous. He strode after his mother, anger simmering in his chest, and pulled open the door—just in time to see Maryann crossing the hall, her posture rigid, her chin lifted in trembling pride.
“Maryann,” he called.
She froze, turning toward him. In the muted light from the windows, he saw the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, the way her mouth quivered as she fought for composure. She had heard his mother’s cruel words—every single one.
“Maryann—”
“Forgive me, my lord,” she said quickly, her voice soft but steady. “I have some urgent matters to tend to. Please allow me a little time before… before we speak.”
Sebastian stared at her, helpless to form a single word that might make her stay. After a pause, he inclined his head slowly.
Without another glance, she turned and hurried up the staircase, her skirts whispering against the steps. He remained where he was, watching her retreat, feeling the hollow ache settle deep inside his chest.
For the first time, the thought struck him with cruel clarity—their fragile, stolen affair might have just come to its inevitable, irrevocable end.