Every ounce of restraint shattered. Sebastian slid his hand to the back of her neck, the other at her waist drawing her closer as he returned the kiss—slow at first, coaxing her lips to part beneath his. The moment she yielded, the world tilted. Her mouth was warm and soft, her taste of whisky and wild summer night.
It was as if she had pulled him into some hidden place he had never known existed—a place of aching sweetness and hunger. Her lips moved beneath his, tentative at first, then with growing confidence that undid him entirely. His control, his composure, his sense of self—all of it was swallowed whole by the feel of her.
The kiss deepened, messy and breathless. She clutched at his shoulders, her fingers curling into his hair. He groaned, and thesound vibrated against her mouth. He wanted her closer, needed her closer, until her body fit to his as if it had been made for him. Her gasp only spurred him on, and he took her mouth again, the kiss turning fierce, consuming—everything he had not known he hungered for until now.
When at last they broke apart, both were trembling, the air between them sharp with need. Her lips were swollen, her hair a wild halo about her flushed face.
Maryann took a step back, pressing her hand to her mouth as though she could contain the heat of what had passed between them. “I… I shouldn’t have—”
“I’m not sorry,” he said hoarsely, his breath unsteady. “But you should go inside, before I forget every vow I made to you.”
She turned, her steps unsteady as she made for the house. When she stumbled again, he was at her side in an instant, catching her about the waist. “Careful,” he murmured.
Her laughter, soft and dazed, brushed against his throat. “I’m perfectly fine,” she whispered, but her words slurred ever so slightly.
“You are not,” he said.
When she swayed once more, he swept her easily into his arms. She made a faint sound of protest, then sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. By the time he reached the terrace steps, her breathing had evened, her lashes lowering against her cheeks. He glanced down at her sleeping face, a rueful smile curving his lips.
“You’ll be the ruin of me,” he murmured. “I’ll never forget the taste of you, even if I live another hundred years.”
The manor was still, the lamps dimmed. Sebastian carried her up the stairs, his tread soft against the carpeted steps. He opened the door to her chamber where Sarah slept soundly, the candles still burning low. Setting Maryann gently upon the bed, he carefully removed her boots, then drew the coverlet up overher. For a moment, he simply stood there, looking down at her. In the quiet glow of candlelight, he was struck by how much Sarah resembled her—the same chin, the same dark lashes, even the faint golden streaks in their brown hair.
His gut tightened. He recalled his mother’s words—her certainty that the child was not a sister but her daughter. He had dismissed the idea as cruel gossip, but now he wondered.
Why should it matter? He did not know. She was meant to be nothing more than a brief chapter in his life, a moment soon to pass once she found her footing and moved on. And yet, as he turned and quietly left her chamber, Sebastian knew with startling clarity that forgetting her would not be easy.
CHAPTER 10
Maryann paced before the hearth like a caged creature. Her bare feet whispered against the carpet as she pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. The memory of the night before replayed again and again—relentless, humiliating, and inescapablyglorious.
“Oh, good heavens,” she muttered, groaning aloud. “What have I done?”
It had beenshewho had kissed him.She, not he, had leaned up, brazen as any wanton, and pressed her lips to his. And worse—far worse—she hadenjoyedit.
Her stomach twisted at the recollection. She could still taste the faint smoke and whisky on his tongue, still feel the solid strength of his body, the wild, dangerous pleasure that had surged through her when his arms went around her. She had fallen asleep in his arms like some besotted fool, and he—dear Lord—he had carried her to her chamber. Maryann had only a hazy, half-waking impression of him slipping from her chamber before the deep, irresistible pull of sleep claimed her completely.
She buried her face in her hands and groaned again.
It was well past nine. Sarah had already gone below stairs with one of the maids for her breakfast, leaving Maryann with the silence of her own mortification. She stared at her reflection in the mirror—her hair disheveled from restless sleep, her cheeks still tinged pink. She looked every inch the wanton she accused herself of being.
“What must he think of me?” she whispered. “A wanton?
The word made her wince. She, who had once prided herself on her composure, her restraint, hergood sense—had thrown herself into a gentleman’s arms and kissed him as though she had been starved for it.
Maryann pressed a hand to her middle, where a strange fluttering lingered. The thought of facing him again made her want to flee the manor entirely. Yet she was not a coward, and she could not hide forever. Taking a steadying breath, she squared her shoulders and marched to her wardrobe. She chose her most respectable gown—a dove-grey muslin that did nothing for her complexion but suggested seriousness of character—and dressed with brisk efficiency. Her hands trembled only twice while fastening her bodice, which she considered a triumph. When her hair was neatly arranged, she stood before the mirror again. Her reflection appeared calm, proper, almost serene.
A deception, of course, but one she would cling to like armor.
“Very well,” she told herself. “You made an unspeakable fool of yourself. You will face the consequences with dignity. And afterward… afterward, you shall find a way to forget him and this wicked impact he has on my senses.”
Her stomach flipped at the mere idea. Forget Viscount Ranford. The thought was laughable. He was kind, thoughtful, and unbearably handsome—everything she might have wished for in a husband. If her circumstances had not been so reduced, she might have allowed herself the folly of daydreaming what it would be like to be his wife.
Maryann descended the stairs, one gloved hand gripping the banister as though it could lend her courage. The manor was unusually quiet. She heard the faintclinkof cutlery from the dining room, the distant chatter of servants. She walked along the hallway until she came to his study. Maryann paused outside the door, her heart thudding a frantic rhythm. Then she rapped lightly.
“Come in,” the viscount said.
She quickly entered before she could lose her nerve. The scent of ink and polished wood greeted her first, then the low, masculine hum of conversation. Sebastian was standing behind his desk, a rolled parchment in hand, while another man—a tall, fair-haired gentleman pointed to several drawings spread before them.
