Sebastian inclined his head. “I am glad to hear it. Their sister misses them, Mother. I wish to arrange a visit between them.”
His mother gasped. “You have been in contact with the eldest Miss Winton?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
Her expression hardened. “Sebastian, no. We do not require such a connection. The stain upon her reputation is not something we should invite into our circle. A scandal, ifrenewed, could tarnish the very progress the younger girls are making.”
He looked at her for a long moment, something cold and sharp stirring within him. “I expected more kindness from you,” he said quietly. “Miss Winton has been nothing but selfless and dignified. You speak as though she were ruined and her reputation tattered. She is neither.”
His mother blinked, clearly shocked by his tone. “Good heavens,” she whispered, her hand clutching at her pearls. “Have you taken her as your mistress then? That would at least explain your… zeal in her defense.” Her voice lowered in scandalized disbelief. “I suspected there was more between you. I saw the way she looked at you when you visited last.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “You are mistaken,” he said, uncaring that his voice came out low and hard. “But if she did look at me, perhaps it was with gratitude.”
The countess stared at him, speechless for once. He bowed stiffly, turned on his heel, and walked away before he said something truly unforgivable. He crossed the manicured lawns toward Maryann’s sisters. When they noticed his approach, both young ladies rose quickly and dipped graceful curtsies.
“My lord,” Elizabeth said softly, her tone polite yet a touch uncertain.
He smiled. “You both look well. I hope you are settling comfortably here at Hardwick.”
“Yes, my lord,” Elizabeth replied, glancing at her sister. “The countess has been most gracious.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He hesitated, then said quietly, “Your eldest sister, Miss Winton, misses you both very much.”
At that, they exchanged an uneasy glance. Vivian’s fingers twisted in her skirts, and for a moment she seemed unable to meet his gaze.
Finally, she said, “We miss her too… and little Sarah. But the countess said we mustn’t speak of them anymore. That we mustn’t even think of them because if anyone were to see us together, it could… ruin our prospects.”
Sebastian stilled. The tightness in his chest spread to his throat. “Ruin your prospects?” he repeated, the words low, incredulous.
Elizabeth looked stricken but nodded faintly. “Her ladyship said it would be best for everyone if we… forgot such connections. We have been trying but it is hard.”
“Nonsense,” he said sharply. “The world is already cruel enough without sisters turning their backs on one another. You owe no loyalty to gossip or ambition. If you love your sister, then you must never think of her in such a way.”
Both girls blinked at him, as if startled by his vehemence.
Vivian’s chin quivered. “We do love her,” she whispered. “And Sarah. We pray for them every night.”
“Then hold fast to that,” he said, his tone softening. “When you see her again you’ll be glad you kept her in your heart.”
He left them then, his stride taut with restrained anger. The notion that anyone, especially his mother, would teach those young girls to sever their affection for their sister was abhorrent.
He found his mother beneath a silk awning, her fan fluttering lazily as she smiled at another matron. “Mother,” he said, his voice clipped. “A word, if you please.”
Her smile faltered at his tone, but she inclined her head and stepped aside with him. “What is it, Sebastian?”
He kept his voice low. “I’ve just spoken with Miss Winton’s sisters. You told them not to think of her, not to speak her name, not even to acknowledge her should they meet in society. Did you truly say that?”
Irritation filled her expression. “You must see it is for their own good. Their future depends upon being received favorably.Association with their eldest sister—after all that has been whispered about her—would only harm them.”
“I expected more kindness from you,” he said, “Miss Winton has done nothing but protect those girls, sacrificing her own comfort for their sake. She has done nothing wrong for you to hold her in such reproach.”
His mother stared at him, astonished. Her fan stilled. “You forget yourself.”
“Do I?” he said quietly. “I believe it is you who have forgotten decency and compassion.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned from her and strode away, his jaw clenched and his pulse hammering. The garden party faded behind him into meaningless chatter and laughter. He called for his horse and began the ride back toward the manor, the steady rhythm of hooves the only sound breaking the heavy silence of his thoughts. Hell, he had never truly argued with his mother before. Even when she badgered him to take a wife—to settle, to secure the lineage, to stop “living like a rake with a title and too much freedom”—he had always borne it with patience. He indulged her whims out of affection, and because he knew she was not entirely wrong.
A man of his rank had obligations. His life had been mapped out since birth: marry well, produce heirs, safeguard the Ranford estates and their centuries-old reputation. His father often said that titles were not earned by merit but preserved through discipline and duty. Every decision he made, every coin invested, every alliance forged was expected to strengthen their family’s standing among England’s nobility.
