Shaking off the inexplicable thoughts, she finished her bath, rinsed her hair well and dried herself with one of the manor’s plush, thick towels. She dressed in a well-worn blue gown, the fabric softened from repeated wear. Her hair, still damp, was brushed for several minutes and then left loose to tumble over her shoulders and cascade to her hips in glistening waves. It was a touch scandalous, wearing it so unbound, but she smiled as there was no one in this house too high-nosed or superior to judge her for it.
Maryann drifted toward the window, the hem of her gown brushing softly against the floorboards. Drawing aside the heavy drape, she glanced out into the golden hush of early morning. Mist still clung to the earth in wisps, but the land beyond the manor stretched wide and sun-dappled, revealing rolling fields and the dark ribbon of the woods beyond.
A solitary figure emerged in the distance—rider and stallion in perfect harmony, cutting across the meadow with a grace that caught her breath. The man sat tall and confident in the saddle, moving as though the beast beneath him were an extension of his own body.
She knew it was the viscount.
As he neared, his profile grew clearer: the windswept hair, the proud angle of his jaw, the easy strength in his posture. Maryann pressed her palm to the cool pane of glass, an odd achestirring low in her chest. Not painful… merely persistent. A quiet uncoiling, like the first tendrils of ivy seeking sunlight.
What was this feeling? Curiosity, yes—but not the idle kind one felt for an acquaintance. It was something deeper. She wished to know him not merely as her benefactor, or the viscount who had rescued her from disgrace, but as a man.
Who was Lord Ranford when he was not shouldering duty and responsibility?
She had seen glimpses of gentleness—in how he spoke to Sarah, in how he never once addressed Maryann with the hauteur so common to men of his rank. He treated her as an equal, as someone whose presence in his home was welcome, not tolerated. She had seen him hunched over parchment with ruler in hand, drawing clean architectural lines with an intensity that suggested the work was more than a pastime—it was a passion.
Yet beneath that calm, capable exterior, she sensed something more, something turbulent and hidden. What made him smile in solitude? What foods did he secretly prefer? What thoughts stole his rest at night, when the house lay still and shadows crept across the walls? What hopes did he have of the future? Did he have dreams beyond the earldom?
Would she ever know?
The awareness that she wanted to know all this frightened her. For what purpose did such hunger serve? A viscount and a woman like her, with no connections, beauty, or wealth, could they ever be friends? How could she dare imagine there might be more between them, when necessity had forced her into service beneath his roof, and he was a viscount destined to inherit a wealthy and esteemed earldom.
Maryann’s fingers curled slightly against the windowpane, her breath misting faintly on the glass.
What foolishness,she told herself. And yet… the ache in her chest did not fade.
CHAPTER 8
Sebastian leaned back in his chair and exhaled heavily, allowing his gaze to sweep across the design before him. His focus, however, had long since scattered. He had been observing Miss Winton from the periphery of his days—how gently she guided Sarah’s small hand as she traced letters in the school primer, the calm patience with which she corrected her sums, the quiet confidence in her voice as she taught the child simple French phrases. Miss Winton had a gift for instruction and a remarkable tenderness for the girl. It was evident in every glance, every softly spoken encouragement.
It had been ten days since she’d tended his wounds in the library. Ten days of calculated avoidance on his part, for fear of what might unravel if he allowed himself too near. And God help him, hehadcome far too near. He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tightening. That night remained imprinted upon him like a brand—her hands on his skin, her breath feathering over his shoulder, the concern in her voice. He had barely held on to his honor by a thread. All he had wanted was to pull her against him, tilt her face up, and taste the softness of her mouth until she trembled in his arms.
It was damn intolerable.
He had sworn she would be safe under his roof. That promise gnawed at him, a blade twisting slowly in his gut each time desire surged unwelcome and hot beneath his skin.
Perhaps this blasted garden party at Hardwick Manor will set me to rights,he thought irritably.A dose of society and meeting potential brides should do much to smother this wretched desire.
A sound drifted through the open window—light, sweet laughter. His head snapped up. Without thinking, he set aside the design he’d been studying for the conservatory and padded across the room to the wide windows. Below, on the sloping lawn, Miss Winton ran with Sarah, her gown fluttering around her ankles as the child squealed in delight. They darted between the hedges, playing some unidentifiable game involving sticks, and both were breathless with laughter.
He stared.
The sight was… arresting.
Miss Winton’s cheeks were flushed with color, her dark hair unbound and flying behind her like a banner. She looked far younger than her years—unguarded, almost carefree. It struck him that he had never seen her like this. She had carried so much weight on her shoulders from the moment they met. But here, now, she looked simply…happy.
And she was breathtaking.
He swallowed hard. This temptation was not abating. If anything, it was deepening into something far more dangerous. He could not touch this woman. Yet the way his body reacted at the mere sight of her…
Sebastian stepped back from the window, jaw tight.
He needed to be rid of this madness before he did something idiotic and irrevocable.
The night was hushed,the moon spilling its pale silver light across the gardens, bathing the hedges and walkways in a tranquil glow. A soft creaking broke the stillness—rhythmic, wistful. Sebastian paused, frowning slightly. He was about to turn back when a faint, broken sound reached him. A sob.
Curiosity, or perhaps something deeper, guided his steps across the dewy grass. He followed the sound until he rounded a hedge—and stopped short.
There, upon the swing he had built for Sarah, sat Miss Winton. Her head was tipped back, eyes closed, the night breeze teasing loose tendrils of her hair. Moonlight traced her face, and he saw the shimmer of tears upon her cheeks. Another soft sob escaped her before she dashed the tears away, as though furious with herself for weeping.
