Page 34 of Scandalous Desires on a Summer Morning
He spread the second blanket beside her and lowered himself to the ground, one knee drawn up as he leaned an elbow upon it. The night was warm, yet the breeze that passed through the trees carried a whisper of coolness.
“This,” he said quietly, gazing up at the glittering sky, “is what I love about the countryside. You can see the stars. In London, the sky is hidden beneath smoke and lamplight. Here, it feels… endless.”
He took a drink of sherry, then handed her the glass. She accepted it, the faint brush of her fingers against his stirring a memory he had no business holding.
She took a generous swallow and hummed softly, her lips curving. “That is very fine.”
“From my father’s cellar,” he said, his tone wry. “I daresay he’d be scandalized to know how carelessly I share his best vintages.”
Maryann laughed, a soft, throaty sound that seemed to ripple through the quiet night.
She tilted her head back to the heavens, eyes luminous. “I often watched the stars in Dorset,” she said softly. “Sometimes I wonder if there truly is a heaven, if God looks down kindly upon us after all. And if that heaven exists…” Her voice faltered, her throat working. “If my parents are there together.”
Her voice was so gentle, so full of aching belief, it made his chest tighten.
“Have you ever wondered about this?”
“No,” he said, his tone thoughtful rather than flippant. “I’ve been content to dance through life without dwelling on what comes after death. Do I believe in God?” He paused, eyes fixed on the stars. “I’ve never given it much thought. Yet I cannot bring myself to believe that we exist by accident, without purpose or design. There must be intent behind creation. And if there is a God, then yes—I daresay I should rather like to meet Him one day.”
“I would like to meet Him too,” she said with a soft smile, tilting her head back to study the heavens. “What would you ask Him?”
“God?” he asked, glancing at her.
She took a slow sip of her sherry, her lips curving faintly. “Yes, God.”
Sebastian’s answering smile was wry. “I’d ask why He thought it necessary to make men so damnably weak where women are concerned.”
She laughed, the sound low and musical. “Perhaps He has a woman of His own and thought it a kindness to share the torment.”
“Of courseyouwould call it a kindness.”
“I do,” she teased, her eyes gleaming. “And now you have made me curious. Tell me of this weakness, my lord.”
Her voice dipped, husky with playful challenge, her lashes sweeping upward as she looked at him through the soft glow of the firelight. The sight struck him square in the chest. She had no notion how dangerous she looked just then—eyes bright with mischief, mouth slightly curved, and that teasing curiosity that made him want to confess everything he should keep buried.
Sebastian swirled the sherry in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. “Weakness,” he murmured, the word tasting half like mockery, half confession. “It starts innocently enough. You notice her smile—think it merely pleasant. But then you find you cannot sleep without that smile haunting your dreams. You wake, and she’s the first thought that steals into your mind before you’ve even drawn breath.”
He took a slow sip. “You work through the day trying to forget her. Yet every nail you hammer into a beam, every pane of glass fitted into the conservatory, you wonder—would she like this? Would she smile if she saw it? You start noticing flowers you never gave a damn about before, wondering which might brighten her day. It’s madness, really. A man could lose himself entirely to such thoughts.”
A rough breath escaped him. “And when she walks into a room—hell, the world bloody shifts. You stop thinking clearly. You forget your duties, your sense. You start doing foolish things, like standing at your window at night just to see theflicker of her candlelight. You tell yourself it’s nothing, a passing fancy, but each day it burrows deeper until you’re left wondering what sort of man you’ve become.”
He gave a low, humorless laugh. “If that isn’t weakness, I don’t know what is.”
Maryann was silent beside him.
“That sounds less like weakness,” she whispered, “and more like devotion.”
Sebastian’s mouth curved, though there was no mirth in it. “Call it devotion if you wish. I call it torment. The sort a sensible man should never suffer.”
She lifted her gaze to him, hesitant. “And are you suffering now, my lord?”
For a long, fragile moment, he said nothing. Only the fire crackled between them, and the scent of wild jasmine drifted in the night air. Then his eyes met hers—unguarded, dark with truth.
He studied her profile, the candlelit sheen of moonlight brushing against her cheek, the way the blanket framed her shoulders. She looked ethereal—too good, too pure for the darker thoughts that haunted his mind. Yet he could not look away.
“Every hour since you entered my life,” he said quietly.
“Ah…so it is me who inspires this weakness,” Maryann said, her tone soft yet daring as she lifted her sherry once more. The warmth of the liquor spread through her, loosening the tight coil in her chest, making her limbs languid and her thoughts dangerously free.
