Chapter 16
Maryann closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her breath trembling.
The quiet of her chamber pressed in, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel.
She crossed to the vanity and sat, staring at her reflection.
Her eyes were red, her cheeks blotched, her lips trembling despite her best effort to remain composed.
She pressed her hands to her face, wiping at the tears that slipped free.
Sebastian’s words echoed in her mind—his offer of a dowry, a home, comfort.
His mother’s voice followed, sharp and cruel, condemning her as if she were something shameful.
That was the moment she understood she would never belong in his world.
Not as a wife. Not as anything more than what she already was—a passing affection that duty and society would soon erase.
And yet she loved him. God help her, she loved him desperately.
She had known it that night beneath the stars, when she gave him her body and her heart followed helplessly after.
The ache in her chest grew unbearable. She wanted to accept his offer, to take the home, the security, the promise of peace.
But some small, stubborn part of her refused.
She would not live on his charity, not when what she truly wanted could not be given in coin or property.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the drawer of her small writing desk and withdrew a clean sheet of paper, the quill, and the bottle of ink. Her hands trembled as she dipped the nib, and a tear splashed onto the paper before she could write. She blotted it quickly and began:
Dearest Sebastian,
Thank you for your incredibly kind and generous offer.
However, I cannot accept a home and money when you have no obligation to me, as we are not family.
I have come to realize that the one thing I would dearly wish for from you is not wealth, nor protection, but your love and admiration. Only those would ever do.
I suspect you too have come to see that our attachment cannot last, that it has no hope of a future. I confess I am afraid to remain, for it will only lead to a heartbreak from which I might never recover. Sarah and I have gone, and we will never forget your kindness, nor your friendship.
Yours,
Maryann
Her tears blurred the words, but she did not stop until it was done.
Folding the letter carefully, she sealed it with wax and laid it upon the desk.
For a long while she sat there, staring at it, her heart breaking silently within her chest. Then she rose, crossed to Sarah’s bed, and brushed a lock of hair from her sister’s brow.
“We’ll be all right, my darling,” she whispered. “We’ll find a new beginning.”
She straightened, drew a steadying breath, and began to pack.
Sebastian drove the hammer down with sharp, precise blows, the sound echoing through the half-restored corridor.
He had been mending a section of the bannister railing on the third floor, one of the countless small tasks left to bring the manor fully back to its former glory.
Nails gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows, the scent of sawdust thick in the air.
He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, his shirt clinging to his skin, and set the hammer aside. For the hundredth time that morning, his thoughts drifted to her.
Maryann.
She had avoided him all of yesterday after his mother’s visit, and today had been no different. He’d knocked on her chamber door early that morning—no answer. When he’d gone down to breakfast, Maryann’s and Sarah’s absence had struck him harder than he cared to admit.
The quiet felt heavier without her gentle laughter, without the sound of her voice instructing Sarah or humming softly while she organized the household.
Even the air seemed emptier. He looked down the winding stairs and sighed, the weight in his chest nearly unbearable.
There had been pain in her eyes yesterday—pain that he had caused, though not intentionally.
He had wanted to remove it, to make her smile again, but he didn’t know how.
A sound alerted him. One of the footmen was walking up the stairs toward him, holding a folded letter sealed with wax.
“A message for you, my lord,” the man said, bowing slightly.
Sebastian frowned, wiping his hands on a rag before taking it. “From whom?”
“The elder Miss Winton, my lord. She said it was to be delivered this afternoon.”
Alexander frowned. “When did she gave it to you?”
“About six this morning, my lord.”
The footman retreated, and Sebastian turned the letter over in his hand. His stomach tightened at the sight of her delicate handwriting. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the paper and began to read.
With each line, the world around him fell away.
Thank you for your incredibly kind and generous offer…
I have come to realize that the one thing I would dearly wish for from you is your love and admiration…
Sarah and I have gone… we will never forget your kindness, nor your friendship.
The words blurred before his eyes.
“Gone?” he said, his voice hoarse. He read it again, disbelief clawing through his chest. Without another thought, he bolted from the corridor, going down the stairs two at a time to her bedchamber. He threw the door open. Empty. The bed neatly made. No trunk, no gown, no scent of lavender soap.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his pulse pounding.
He turned and sprinted for the stables. “Saddle my horse!” he barked, startling the stable lad, who dropped the brush he’d been holding.
“She could not have gone far,” Sebastian muttered, his chest rising and falling sharply. “She couldn’t.”
But before the order could be obeyed, he stopped. The world seemed to still around him—the hum of insects, the faint rustle of trees, the muted clatter of hooves in a nearby stall. Slowly, he lifted his head and stared up at the endless sweep of sky.
What was the point?
Chasing her would not alter her decision. She had left him with nothing but a folded letter and words that cut him open from within. The ache that spread through his chest was like a blade twisting deep, a raw, unfamiliar pain that burned and hollowed him all at once.
A single damn letter. That was all he was worth in the end.
He dragged a rough hand down his face and exhaled hard, the breath shaking from somewhere deep.
For a moment, he thought of the lake, of her laughter echoing in the summer air, of how the sun caught her hair and made her look almost otherworldly.
Those moments had felt like the beginning of something he hadn’t dared name, something beautiful, and real.
And now they were gone.
Maryann sat by the window of the small three-room cottage, the scent of woodsmoke and wild lavender filling the air.
Outside, the late summer breeze rustled through the hedges, carrying the faint sound of birdsong and distant laughter from the squire’s fields.
Sarah’s light hums came from the adjoining room, where she was likely drawing or reading by the hearth.
The cottage was modest—plain whitewashed walls, a sturdy wooden table, and a single threadbare rug—but it was home. Hers. Or near enough.
She had rented it from Squire Richardson only a few days after leaving Sebastian’s manor, and to her surprise, the squire had been kind to rent to her without the presence of a husband.
He had even offered her employment as governess to his twin six-year-old daughters, promising decent pay and comfortable quarters.
It had been an unexpected mercy and one she was deeply grateful for.
Still, gratitude did little to fill the empty ache inside her chest.
Each night, when she lay in bed listening to the wind sigh through the trees, her thoughts drifted back to him, Sebastian.
His laugh. His hands. The warmth of his breath against her neck.
She would turn her face into the pillow to smother her sobs, praying the ache in her heart would dull with time.
She wondered if he thought of her at all.
If he missed her. If he had already forgotten her.
Should I have accepted his offer? The question haunted her. The manor in Kent, the generous dowry—what woman would have refused such security? And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to live under the shadow of gratitude, to be his kept woman. She had wanted his love, not his pity or his money.
She pressed her palms to her eyes. “Fool,” she whispered. “Hopeless fool.”
A sudden knock startled her. She wiped at her cheeks quickly, forcing composure before rising and opening the door.
“Mr. Walker,” she said softly, blinking at the sight of him.
The young architect smiled, a bouquet of fresh wildflowers in his hands. “Miss Winton,” he said warmly. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
His smile was boyish, earnest, the sort that would have once made her blush in another life.
He had been working for Squire Richardson these past few weeks, helping with new stables and fencing.
She had encountered him several times in the village square and he always courteous, always quick to make her laugh.
“Thank you,” Maryann murmured, taking the flowers. “They are beautiful.”
“Not nearly as beautiful as their recipient,” he said, his voice lowering just slightly.
Maryann flushed. His flattery was gentle, innocent even, but it stirred something uneasy in her—a mixture of guilt and melancholy.
Mr. Walker had made his attentions clear in the past few days, always finding a reason to call, to bring her sketches of the new design, or books he thought she might like.
And she liked him. Truly, she did. He was good-natured and intelligent.
But he was not Sebastian. No one ever would be.
He looked expectant, but she would not invite him inside—it would not be proper, and she had no wish to do anything that might tarnish her reputation in this place that could very well be her home for years to come.
“Mrs. Richardson is hosting a ball in two weeks and has been so kind as to extend an invitation to me,” Mr. Walker said, smiling. “I was bold enough to request one for you as well.” He held out an envelope, his eyes bright with hope.
“A ball?” Maryann blinked, taking the card. “Goodness. I have never attended a ball before.”
“I am glad I shall experience my first with you, should you accept,” he said with gentle earnestness. “And I would also ask that you save the waltz for me.”
She smiled. “As long as you have no fear of trampled toes, Mr. Walker.”
He laughed, the sound easy and warm. After a few more pleasantries, he bowed and took his leave, his expression radiant with quiet anticipation.
Maryann closed the door, turned, and leaned back against it, her heart fluttering with a strange mix of emotion.
It would mean procuring a new gown, and despite herself, she felt a small thrill of anticipation.
Yet, deep down, she already knew there would be no excitement dancing in another man’s arms.
Mr. Walker was kind and thoughtful—everything a woman might wish for in a suitor—but she could not return his affection. She had already made subtle remarks to deter him, but it seemed he was determined to win her regard. She would have to turn him down gently, but firmly.
She crossed to the table, arranging the flowers he had brought. As she worked, her thoughts betrayed her, conjuring Sebastian’s image—the dark gleam of his hair, the rough timbre of his voice when he said her name, the searing heat of his mouth on hers.
Her breath hitched. You must forget him. You must.
A knock startled her from her reverie. She opened the door once more, surprised to find Mr. Walker standing there again.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, a little breathless. “I was hoping you might join me tomorrow afternoon. The squire’s family plans a picnic by the river, and I thought it might be pleasant company. Miss Sarah, of course, would be most welcome.”
Maryann hesitated. Her first instinct was to decline, but then she thought of her quiet evenings, the long hours spent beneath the stars, whispering silent prayers to forget the man who would not love her.
She smiled faintly. “That sounds lovely, Mr. Walker. Thank you.”
His relief was immediate, his grin wide and boyish. “Then it is settled. I shall call for you at two.”
When he left, Maryann stood in the doorway, fingers tightening around the frame. It should have felt good—being wanted, being seen again. But instead, her heart only felt heavier, as though every step she took away from Sebastian deepened the hollow he had left behind.