By the time the stew was bubbling over the fire and the bread was tucked into the oven, she was flour-smudged and winded but oddly satisfied.
She might not be a trained cook, and she certainly wasn’t the polished housekeeper the viscount expected, but she would notbe turned away. Not when she had so much to prove… and so much to lose.
From the corner by the hearth came the faintest mewl. Maryann glanced over at Sarah, curled beside the kittens, her lashes already lowering with sleep.
Her heart clenched with fierce affection. No matter what came next, she would make this work.
Shehadto.
Sebastian steppedinto the dining room and paused, his brows lifting slightly. The long table, usually bare and forgotten, had been transformed with quiet elegance. A white linen cloth covered its surface, and at its center sat a modest vase of fresh blooms—wildflowers, most likely gathered from the garden. The place settings were simple yet carefully arranged, with polished cutlery.
The scent of warm stew hung in the air, mingled with the aroma of fresh bread. He noted thick slices laid out on a wooden tray, glistening with butter and a touch of honey. His gaze swept the room and landed on Miss Winton, who was leaning over to place a serviette with precise care.
He cleared his throat.
She jerked upright, nearly upsetting the pitcher beside her. One hand flew to her chest. “Oh!” she gasped, laughing softly. “You startled me.”
Sebastian smiled faintly as he approached the table. A few damp tendrils of hair clung to her forehead, and though her expression was composed, there were shadows beneath her eyes that spoke of fatigue. Her belly gave a small, unmistakable rumble. She flushed and looked away.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from his. “Join me.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh no, I could not. I daresay housekeepers do not dine with their lords.”
He inclined his head. “There is no need for formality between us, Miss Winton. I see no sense in eating alone when a meal has been so thoughtfully prepared. Sit. Eat.”
She hesitated, then gave a small nod and lowered herself into the seat. He took his place at the head of the table.
“Where is Sarah?” he asked, reaching for the ladle.
Miss Winton offered a faint smile. “She had a few slices of bread and warm milk. She was exhausted and went to sleep not long ago.”
He stilled. When they had arrived, he’d immediately gone to inspect the deliveries that had arrived in his absence—materials for the manor restoration, left out in the stables. He had not seen them since. Bloody hell. That was thoughtless of him.
“Where is she sleeping?” he asked, frowning.
“In my room,” she said lightly, “below stairs.”
His hand froze around the handle of the spoon. “Below stairs?”
She blinked at the change in his tone. “Yes, my lord. I assumed that was expected.”
His chest tightened, an ache blooming there he hadn’t anticipated. “I did not intend for you to lodge in the servants’ quarters,” he said. “Forgive me. The error was mine. I did not help you settle but left to tend to my matters with no thought at all for your comfort or Sarah’s.”
Miss Winton gave him a startled look, confusion flickering in her eyes. “Then… where are we to sleep, my lord?”
“In the guest chambers, upstairs,” he replied.
Her lips parted in surprise, but no words followed. For a moment, she merely stared at him, blinking as though uncertainwhether he jested. Her features softened, and she said, “Thank you, my lord.”
It was that glimpse of pride in her eyes, fierce and unbending, that had compelled him to offer her employment rather than mere shelter. There had been something in her bearing—in the quiet way she stood, chin lifted against the disapproval of the world—that told him she would accept help only if it came with dignity. No charity. No pity.
Sebastian ladled another generous portion of stew onto his plate and brought the first spoonful to his mouth. He cleared his throat, a motion that masked the involuntary jolt of his body as his taste buds recoiled.Dear God. The stew was an assault. Salt burned the back of his throat, the beef might well have been boiled leather, and there was such a prodigious amount of onion that his eyes threatened to water. A strange bitterness lingered on his tongue, and he had not the faintest notion what might have caused it.
Still, years of card tables, bluffing hardened gamblers, and smiling while losing five thousand pounds in a single round had honed his composure to perfection. He set his spoon down, lifted his gaze, and found Miss Winton watching him with the anxious stillness of a gambler awaiting the turn of a final card. Her breath seemed caught, her eyes wide with nervous hope.
“How is it, my lord?” she asked softly.
He gave her what he hoped was a warm smile. “Delightful.”
