Page 29 of Scandalous Desires on a Summer Morning
And yet—today, he had spoken to his mother with ice in his voice. All for Maryann Winton. Sebastian exhaled a harsh breath, his grip tightening on the reins. Why in God’s name did he feel so protective of her? He could almost convince himself that sending her to his townhouse in London would be prudent.He could install her as housekeeper there, ensure her comfort and Sarah’s security, while giving himself distance to regain control of his thoughts. But the very notion of her being away—out of his sight, beyond his protection—unnerved him in ways he did not care to examine.
Damn it. It wasn’t only desire that plagued him, though the memory of her lips haunted his every waking thought. He wanted more than pleasure from her. He wanted to talk to her, to understand her, to see her laugh again, and it infuriated him.
He wanted… a connection.
And yet, to what end? He could not marry her. His mother would have an apoplexy at the mere suggestion, and society would shred her reputation to ribbons. Viscount Ranford was not expected to marry a woman without fortune or name, however virtuous or kind she might be.
He knew the rules. He had lived by the ones that suited his lifestyle. And still, something inside him resisted. Because Maryann Winton made him feel—something deep, ungoverned, and real. Sebastian let out a low groan, running a hand through his hair.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his voice rough with frustration. The hunger in his chest remained, stubborn and relentless. Something inside him could not let go of Miss Winton. The ache in his chest that warned him he was already far too deep to retreat.
CHAPTER 12
The morning was warm, the lake still and dappled with sunlight. The air carried the sweet scent of wildflowers drifting from the banks, and a few butterflies hovered lazily above the rippling surface. Maryann dipped the oars into the water, her strokes steady and unhurried, guiding the small boat toward the heart of the lake.
Sarah sat opposite her, clutching a fishing rod that seemed far too large for her small hands.
“Remember what I told you,” Maryann said gently. “Patience is the key to fishing. We must wait for the fish to come to us.”
Sarah frowned, her tiny nose wrinkling. “But it is dreadfully boring, Maryann.”
A soft laugh escaped her sister. “It only feels that way now. The waiting makes the catch far more satisfying. Our father always said fishing teaches one the virtue of calm.”
Sarah’s brow smoothed, her voice quiet and thoughtful. “I can do it. Papa must miss us.”
The ache that always came when their father was mentioned tugged at Maryann’s heart, but she smiled through it. “I believe he does, my love.”
A dimple appeared in Sarah’s cheek, her small smile brightening the morning, and Maryann felt an answering warmth rise within her. In the three weeks they had been at the viscount’s manor, Sarah had begun to flourish. The hollowness in her cheeks had softened; her laughter came easily now. She devoured her meals, adored her lessons, and spoke French phrases with surprising confidence.
Watching her, Maryann felt an almost painful swell of love. She wanted to keep her sister safe forever—to shield her from the cruelty of a world that would one day judge her for being born outside the bounds of legitimacy. She wanted to carve out a future for her, one filled with kindness and belonging, even if she herself had to remain on the margins to make it so.
They were not far from the bank when a familiar baritone carried across the water. “Perhaps I might be of some assistance in instructing Miss Sarah.”
Maryann’s heart lurched. She whipped her head around, nearly dropping her oar. Viscount Ranford stood on the grassy embankment, his tall form bathed in sunlight, his dark brown hair wind-ruffled, his riding coat unbuttoned. He looked strikingly masculine and out of place against the serene lake, like a painting come to life.
For one startled moment, she could not hide her delight, and she smiled, so very pleased to see him. But awareness rushed through her, and she schooled her expression into polite composure.
“Ah,” he said with quiet amusement, “too late. I already saw it.”
Maryann scowled, which only made him laugh.
“Come now,” he teased lightly, beckoning her closer with an elegant crook of his finger. “I shan’t bite.”
“Of that I am not entirely certain, my lord,” she returned tartly, but she guided the oars anyway, rowing toward him until the boat’s side brushed the grassy edge.
He stepped down lightly, boots sinking slightly into the earth before he climbed into the boat with easy grace. The vessel rocked beneath his weight, and she caught her breath as balance eluded her for a moment. His hand shot out, steadying her elbow.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice warm and near her ear.
She withdrew her arm quickly, unnerved by how her pulse quickened. “Thank you.”
He smiled faintly, then crouched before Sarah. “Now then, young lady, allow me to see your technique.”
Sarah grinned and lifted her rod proudly. “I am trying to be patient, my lord, but there are no fish.”
“Ah, that is because you must learn the secret,” he said, settling beside her. “It isn’t patience alone that wins the fish. It is knowing how to tempt them.”
Maryann sat quietly, watching as Sebastian guided Sarah’s small hands, his tone gentle and teasing. He explained how to move the line with small flicks of the wrist, how to feel the weight of the water through the rod. Sarah was utterly enthralled, hanging on his every word.
