CHAPTER 3
Sebastian inhaled deeply, trapping the sweet scent of sun-ripened peaches and soft roses in his lungs. The drawing room still carried traces of Miss Winton. Her quick wit, the way she had met him volley for volley without flinching, had been… oddly rousing. Most women flustered or simpered when confronted with his brand of insolence. She had done neither. Instead, she had challenged him—quietly, directly, and without artifice.
Sebastian dragged his fingers through his hair. There had been a pull in his chest, faint but undeniable. A tug toward her. Toward more conversation. More of whatever elusive quality she possessed that had snagged his interest so easily. For years now, he had drifted through society with the listless ease of a man unimpressed by anything or anyone. The pleasures that had once filled his days—drink, cards, women, nights at his club—had lost their sheen. It was all rather vapid now. Predictable. Achingly dull.
But something about Miss Winton had inexplicably pierced his boredom.
He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew the folded list his mother had pressed into his hand a week prior, just before he departed for the manor he was diligently restoring—one of the few pursuits that still brought him genuine contentment. The parchment crackled as he opened it.
My dearest Sebastian,
As you will be near Hardwick for some time, I have taken the liberty of assembling a list of young ladies who would make suitable wives for a man of your station. All come from excellent families, possess sound accomplishments, and most importantly, unmarred reputations. Each has been raised with the dignity and discretion expected of a future countess. I will invite them down for a small garden party so you may form your own impressions without the suffocating scrutiny of London society.
— Lady Eugenia Carroway, daughter of the Earl of Denshire; fluent in French and known for her delicate pianoforte playing.
— Lady Annabelle Templeton, niece to the Marquess of Edgevale; modest, well-read, and the toast of this season.
— Lady Cordelia Pratt, granddaughter of the Duke of Wexcombe, praised for her needlework and charitable endeavors.
— Miss Margaret Hewitt, daughter of Viscount Langdon; tall, graceful, and well-regarded in Bath for her elegant manners
— Lady Theodosia Barrington, sister to the Earl of Louth; clever, with a steady temperament and a pleasing voice.
— Lady Honoria Lynley, daughter of the late Marquess of Ellesmere; accomplished horsewoman with refined taste and quiet charm.
You are, of course, under no obligation to decide quickly. But as you approach your thirtieth year, I trust you understand the importance of making a wise and timely match. One cannot leave these matters entirely to chance.
With affectionate hope,
Your mother
All well connected. All pristine. All polished within an inch of their lives. His mother intended to invite these young ladies to Hardwick Manor. The idea, of course, was that he might meet them far from the clamor and sharp-eyed scrutiny of theton, where every glance would be analyzed, and every word weighed. In London, scandal sheet writers lurked behind fans and ferns, eager to peddle breathless tales of his courtships. At Hardwick,there would be privacy. And perhaps, if all went as she hoped, he might be persuaded to choose one to make his viscountess.
Sebastian folded the paper and slipped it back into his pocket, the earlier flicker of captivation still lingering like the ghost of a touch. For a moment—just a fleeting instant—he had assumed Miss Winton was one of the ladies on the list. That she had arrived ahead of her invitation, perhaps bold or mischievous. And his first instinct had beenyes. This lady was interesting. He would very much like to know her.
It had taken only moments to learn that she was not on the list. And yet, even knowing that, the impression of her lingered in his senses. She was not beautiful in the polished, practiced way expected of society’s daughters. Her gown had been worn, her hair was simply styled, and her posture was elegant. Her eyes—startlingly blue—held the kind of beauty that unsettled, and her figure was all soft, lush curves no gentleman ought to notice.
Yet what lingered most in his mind was the fright behind her gaze, as though she bore a mountain no one else could see, and the way her mouth had curved into a smile that tried, and failed, to hide it. She was appealing in a way that struck deep and unexpected, almost unwelcome. He had not come here to feel anything, least of all this restless curiosity.
And then there was the matter of her eavesdropping.
Most ladies of thetonwould sooner faint than risk being discovered at a door, listening in. But Miss Winton had done so without shame or explanation, even when caught. She had stood her ground. Unapologetic. Curious. Defiant. And not a single tremble in her voice.
Sebastian smiled. He doubted any of the young ladies named would have dared such a thing. And that, perhaps, was precisely the point. Shaking his head and ruthlessly casting Miss Winton from his thoughts, Sebastian left the room and strode downthe corridor. He entered his father’s private library, where the scent of aged leather and lingering pipe smoke wrapped around him like an old memory. The air was thick with tension and disapproval.
He closed the door with a softclickbehind him and found his mother already seated in one of the high-backed chairs, her posture rigid. His father stood near the hearth, one hand braced on the mantel, the other rubbing at his temple in quiet frustration.
“Well,” Sebastian drawled, crossing to the sideboard. He poured brandy into a glass and lifted it toward his father. “You look as though you could use this.”
The earl took the drink with a grunt of thanks but offered no reply.
Sebastian took another and offered it to his mother.
She met his gaze with a look sharp enough to draw blood. “Don’t waste your charm on me. I’m hardly so easily softened by a grin and a splash of brandy.”
He chuckled and took a sip from her glass instead, then poured a third for himself. “I’m wounded, Mother. I left my restoration project, sixteen rooms of crumbling grandeur finally beginning to take shape, because you insisted I come. I was perfectly content where I was, only to be chastised now for being attentive.”
“My letter did not say you had to come immediately,” she replied, voice clipped and cool.
