Page 16 of Scandalous Desires on a Summer Morning
She flushed, pleasure lighting her tired features, and quickly looked away as if needing to hide her expression. Sebastian reached for a slice of the bread next—drizzled with honey and softened with a generous pat of butter. He took a bite and nearly groaned in gratitude when it melted on his tongue. The bread was warm and sweet, an unexpected mercy. If the stew was a battlefield, the bread was its saving grace. He lifted his glass and took a long swallow of water to clear his throat.
Sebastian watched, mildly arrested, as Miss Winton ladled a portion of stew onto her plate with far more confidence than the dish deserved. A warning hovered on his tongue—perhaps he ought to intervene. Yet a niggling doubt restrained him. What if this was precisely the sort of fare she was accustomed to? What if this coarse concoction, with its aggressive saltiness and unidentifiable bitterness, were a familiar taste?
She took a generous mouthful. Chewed. Froze.
Her eyes widened with unmistakable alarm. She looked to him, then to his plate, then back again. Sebastian bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, but failed miserably. A low chuckle escaped him as she valiantly swallowed, then hastily reached for her water and took several sips, her eyes watering slightly.
“That wasawful,” she burst out, then grinned sheepishly. “Truly awful.”
“It was,” he agreed, “but I confess I wasn’t certain whether that was simply the standard you enjoyed.”
She laughed, and for a moment, he could only stare. Her face was illuminated in a manner he had never seen before, her cheeks dimpled, her eyes bright with unguarded joy. Even his mother, with all her exacting standards, would be forced to admit that Miss Winton looked positively radiant just then. He found himself wondering if she had much occasion to laugh. It did not seem the sort of thing she did often. And then came the most outrageous thought—he rather wished to be the one to make her laugh. Often.
“I am terribly sorry, my lord,” she said with a bright, self-deprecating smile. “I ought to have confessed. I am no cook. I can manage a household, order supplies, and see to the servants well enough, but I fear I am quite hopeless in other respects. And I daresay your lordship needs a proper staff.”
Sebastian leaned back in his chair, picking up another slice of bread. “The house is still under renovation. It shall be a few months before it is fit for proper residence.”
Her brows lifted. “And you oversee the restorations personally?”
He nodded. “Most of it, yes. However, I employ craftsmen from the village—masons, carpenters, the like. I find satisfaction in returning a structure to its former glory.”
Miss Winton tilted her head thoughtfully. “Then perhaps it might be prudent to hire staff who needn’t live in. Local women who could cook and clean during the day and return home at dusk. That way, your renovations remain undisturbed.”
He considered that. “A fair suggestion. I’ll leave it in your capable hands. I was swimming in dust earlier, so anything would be an improvement. Still, I suppose we’ll need a few to live in as well. Most of the remaining work is confined to the conservatory and the third floor.”
She gave a small, pleased nod. “Very well. I shall make inquiries tomorrow.”
Their eyes met across the table, and a quiet smile passed between them, uncomplicated and warm. They each reached for another slice of bread, eating companionably in silence. When they were finished, she rose, collecting their plates with efficient grace, and turned toward the narrow servants’ staircase. Sebastian watched her go, noting the gentle sway of her steps and the soft melody she hummed under her breath. Their exchange had been pleasant, unmarred by the usual tangle of attraction and restraint. And just perhaps… just perhaps, it would not be so very difficult to live with Miss Winton under the same roof after all.
CHAPTER 6
Precisely a week after arriving in Hertfordshire with the viscount, Maryann could finally breathe within the manor without inhaling a cloud of dust. A small army of workers had been hired from the village, and they had spent hours scrubbing, sweeping, and restoring the neglected residence to order. She had engaged a cook who now resided on the premises, along with a scullery maid to assist her.
To her surprise, the viscount declared he did not need a valet, and he deliberately travelled without one, though he insisted she retain a lady’s maid for her own use. Maryann, long accustomed to managing her own toilette, had declined the offer. Still, she had appointed a quiet, capable maid to tend to the linens and maintain the cleanliness of the two occupied chambers, as well as the library and the drawing room.
The library had proven to be a revelation. Maryann had dusted each book herself, climbing the tall ladders to reach the uppermost shelves. Now, each evening, she sought refuge there, reading by lamplight while her thoughts strayed to Vi and Lizzy. She had never been parted from her sisters for so long. It had been a fortnight since she’d last seen them, and Maryann missedthem fiercely. They were scarcely an hour’s ride away, and she often found herself tempted to borrow the viscount’s stallion and call upon them. Only the imagined frost of the countess’s disapproval stayed her hand.
With a quiet sigh, she closed her book and shifted upright on the chaise longue, only to jolt at the sudden shattering crash that echoed from somewhere above. Maryann lowered the book to the small table, hurried from the library and up the stairs, her bare feet hardly making a sound. She reached her bedchamber and gently pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit by the low flicker of the hearth’s dying embers, but she could make out the small form of her sister nestled beneath the coverlet. A soft smile touched Maryann’s lips at the sight of Sarah, her thumb tucked beneath her chin, and atop her head—stretched like lazy sentries—lay the mother cat and her four kittens, curled together in a contented heap on the pillow.
Relief loosened the tightness in Maryann’s chest. A loud sound jarred her and she suppressed her gasp. She drew the door closed with care and turned, her brows drawn. Her gaze flicked upward toward the shadowed landing of the third floor. That was where the viscount spent most of his days. In truth, she had scarcely seen him over the past week, save for a few brief words exchanged at breakfast and, once or twice, at dinner. He was devoted—utterly possessed, it seemed—by his restoration efforts.
That crash had not sounded like a mere shifting of materials or a toppled paint tin. Another loudthudshattered the silence. Maryann started, her hand flying to her throat. That was certainly more than a misplaced tool. She hesitated. She was in her night rail and robe, her hair unbound—hardly attired to confront a gentleman, least of all the one she was so acutely aware of and striving desperately not to be.
Lifting her hem to keep from tripping, Maryann darted up the stairs. But the sharp note of irritation followed by unmistakably muttered oaths, low and crudely spoken, guided her to a half-open door. She paused, cheeks aflame at the unrepentant masculine grumbling within. Then, before her sense of propriety could catch up with her, she pushed it open wider and stepped inside.
The chamber was in utter disarray. Dust cloaked nearly every surface. A large plank of wood had fallen across what appeared to be a worktable, splintering the edge of a cabinet beneath it.
“My lord,” she cried, startled by the sight of him sprawled inelegantly on the floor amid an array of overturned tools, parchment rolls, and what looked suspiciously like shards of shattered glass. “What on earth is happening?”
He twisted his head and looked up, clearly not expecting company, and froze. So did she. Maryann stared, mortified, at the state of the room… and of the man within it. His hair was tousled, brows drawn in what could only be described as sheer irritation.
“It’s nothing,” he said tersely. “You may return to your chamber, Miss Winton.”
She nodded, murmuring a quiet, “Yes, of course,” and began to withdraw until he shifted, rising into a sitting position with a grimace.
Her eyes widened. A dark stain was blooming across the back of his white shirt—fresh, red, and unmistakably blood.
“You’re bleeding,” she gasped, and without thinking, she stepped over the threshold and into the chaos.
