Page 9 of Scandalous Desires on a Summer Morning
His Lordship and I will gladly sponsor Miss Elizabeth and Miss Vivian. However, it is quite impossible for you to remain with your…youngest sister.
The memory of those words never failed to tighten something deep in Maryann’s chest. A week had passed since she’d left her sisters behind in Hertfordshire under the care of Lord and Lady Hardwick. Or more accurately, under the scrutinizing gaze of the countess, who had made her opinions of Maryann’s “usefulness” plainly known. Vivian and Elizabeth had wept during their farewells. Only Sarah had remained silent, her small hand clenched tightly in Maryann’s as if she feared letting go. The confusion in her wide eyes had nearly undone her.
Maryann had taken lodgings in a modest house on the edge of Bloomsbury, offered by a kindly widow who, upon glimpsing a young lady traveling alone with a child, had taken pity and named a fair rate. A few hours earlier, Maryann had left Sarah sleeping in their shared room—curled on a narrow but clean cot, her thumb nestled near her mouth, dark lashes resting like whispers against pale cheeks.
The sight had brought comfort, along with a significant amount of guilt.
She had chosen to care for Sarah, though her father had made no provision for the child. How could she have left her behind? The very thought turned her stomach.
“… Do you understand your duties, Miss Winton?”
The clipped voice snapped her back to the present.
Maryann blinked, drew a steadying breath, and turned toward the speaker. She lowered her gaze with respectful composure to the man seated behind the broad mahogany desk—the Earl of Mayfield.
“Yes, my lord,” she said calmly, willing her voice not to betray the trembling resolve beneath it.
He inclined his head. “You will sleep in the adjoining room and be available whenever my mother rings for you. You are not to engage in idle conversation unless invited. You will read to her when requested, accompany her on her outings, and tend to her comfort and needs. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Your wages will be one pound a month.”
A hollow pit opened in her belly, but Maryann managed to keep her composure. “Forgive me, Lord Mayfield,” she said gently. “But the Lady Hardwick had informed me the position would offer three pounds a month with an increase after a year.”
Lord Mayfield’s eyes chilled. “I am aware of what the countess promised. But she also informed me of your situation.”
Maryann’s back stiffened.
“A woman in your… circumstances ought to be grateful for respectable employment,” he added, as though he had just granted her a personal favor of unspeakable generosity.
“One pound is the offer. If it doesn't suit, I’m sure there are other posts available for women in your position. In Seven Dials or Covent Garden.”
The implication stung, but she schooled her expression into calm neutrality and dipped her head. “Thank you, my lord. I accept.”
“You are excused.”
Maryann turned, her spine rigid, and walked toward the door. Her fingers had just closed around the handle when his voice halted her once more.
“I do have another offer… should you wish to earn more.”
Hope stirred only to wither the moment she turned and caught the salacious gleam in his eyes. She had seen that look before. The squire in Dorset had worn it when he’d pressed her against the stable wall, whispering false kindness wrapped around crude promises. The steward at her cousin’s estate had offered something similar when she’d begged for another week of shelter—always with that same expression of expectation, of entitlement.
Ownership and lust.
“No,” she said softly, her voice stripped of inflection.
Mayfield raised a brow. “You haven’t even heard the terms. The arrangement would see you in a modest townhouse, with your own carriage and a generous monthly allowance.”
“The position as your mother’s paid companion will suffice, my lord.”
She opened the door and stepped through before he could utter another word, before her pride could falter beneath the weight of what he offered. The corridor blurred as tears gathered, stinging her eyes, but she dashed them away with the back of her glove. She would not cry. She would not allow herself the luxury of weakness. Maryann would remain steady for her sisters, who looked to her as their compass. She might possess neither beauty, fortune, nor standing in society, but she still had her dignity. And for Sarah’s sake, she would endure. She would find a way to survive.
The airinside one of London’s more discreet and decadent pleasure clubs was heavy with perfume, candle smoke, and the low thrum of desire. Velvet drapes muffled the music from below, cloaking the room in hush and heat. The faint chime of crystal and the soft, wet rhythm from beneath him made an oddly delicate counterpoint to the otherwise charged stillness. Sebastian lounged in a high-backed chair, one leg extended, the other bent at ease.
A courtesan knelt between his thighs, her silken hair spilling like dark ribbon across his lap as her mouth moved expertly along the length of his cock. Her lips glided with practiced elegance, her tongue slow and coaxing. She was skilled—infamously so. Her every motion promised pleasure, and he felt the pressure, the heat building steadily.
He should have been in bliss. But instead, his gaze drifted toward the low-burning candelabra, unfocused. There had been a time when encounters like this had offered him a kind of reprieve. A balm for the restlessness and boredom he never admitted but silently acknowledged. But not anymore. Now, even pleasure felt mechanical. Dull.
