Page 110 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

“I love you too,” she whispered, and a breathless laugh escaped her because the joy inside her had become too great to contain.

A fresh wave of whispers swept through the ballroom as the ton witnessed her happiness and the answering devotion in Sebastian’s smile.

Darcy no longer cared.

They danced before them all, before the speculation and curiosity, while candlelight shimmered across the polished floor and the orchestra carried the waltz around them. Soon, the world seemed to narrow to the space between their bodies, to his hand steady at her waist and her own resting upon his shoulder.

Scandal might follow them. Society might whisper. Yet Darcy neither faltered nor felt the slightest worry at the prospect. Sebastian’s hand remained steady at her waist, and his gaze never left hers. At last, she was no longer facing the world alone. She had been chosen openly and without shame.

More wondrous still, Darcy had chosen him in return.

Only a quarter of an hour had passed since Sebastian had led Darcy onto the floor and declared, without a single public word, that she mattered and would not be dismissed as beneath notice. Darcy still felt the tremor of that moment through her body. She had stood with Agatha and Lily, who had arrived moments earlier and listened with avid delight. At the same time, Elizabeth, still radiant with satisfaction, recounted Sebastian’s entrance and the manner in which he had claimed the waltz.

“He truly loves you,” Agatha declared, her eyes bright. “Rebecca will be quite put out. Her pleasure palace is becoming a matchmaking establishment. Five notorious rakes have entered her doors believing themselves invulnerable, and every one of them has emerged thoroughly brought to heel.”

Darcy had blushed, her happiness still fragile enough to feel miraculous. Then she felt Sebastian’s gaze kissing over her with the intimacy of a caress. She glanced up, and when their gazes met, Sebastian lifted his chin in a discreet summons before slipping from the room. Darcy remained with her friends for several more minutes, laughing and chatting. Then she quietly excused herself and slipped from the ballroom.

Sebastian waited in the hallway beyond. At her approach, he fell into step beside her, taking her gloved hand in his as they walked together down the corridor.

“My mother has withdrawn from the ballroom,” he said. Calm purpose lay beneath his tone. “I believe we shall find her in the library.”

Darcy looked at him, unease tightening her chest. “Does she expect us?”

“No,” he replied, but his thumb brushed reassuringly over her knuckles.

His warmth grounded her, though each step awakened a new tremor of apprehension. At the library door, Sebastian knocked softly. No answer came. He opened it and guided her inside. The room glowed with firelight and the mellow gold of shaded lamps. Dark shelves climbed toward the shadowed ceiling, their leather-bound volumes gleaming faintly.

At the far end, the Countess of Raine sat at a grand pianoforte, her fingers moving over the ivory keys with graceful precision. Firelight touched the silver threaded through her dark hair and softened the proud lines of her face until her beauty seemed almost unbearably vulnerable.

For one fleeting moment Darcy wished they might retreat. The music was exquisite and private, the melody filled with an aching restraint that felt like grief given voice. Sebastian did not interrupt. He led Darcy forward in silence. She sat upon a sofa, while he settled opposite, his posture outwardly easy, his attention wholly fixed upon his mother.

There was no indifference in his regard, only tenderness and the sorrow of a man who could not ease his mother’s pain without sacrificing the woman he loved. The knowledge tightened Darcy’s throat. She blinked against sudden tears, understanding at last not merely that this choice had cost him, but precisely what he had risked in making it.

Sebastian loved his mother. He had not chosen Darcy because that love had diminished, nor because his mother’s pain no longer mattered. He had chosen Darcy while carrying the full weight of both truths, and the quiet courage of it humbled her. The countess must have known they were present. Though she did not turn, her spine had stiffened, and one note faltered beneath her fingers before the melody continued.

At last the final chord lingered in the warm air, delicate and trembling, until silence reclaimed the room. The countess rose and faced them. Sebastian stood immediately. Darcy followed, smoothing hands that would not cease trembling over her gown before sinking into a graceful curtsy.

“Mother,” Sebastian said quietly, “forgive me for intruding upon your peace. I know this is not a meeting you would have chosen, and I know you may be angry with me for bringing it about without your consent.” He paused, his expression grave. “But I have allowed fear of causing you further pain to govern my actions for too long, and in doing so, I have caused pain of another kind. I love you, Mother. I love Darcy as well. I cannot continue pretending that one affection must exist at the expense of the other.”

His hand tightened gently around Darcy’s.

“I ask nothing of you today except that you meet the woman herself, rather than the history attached to her name.” His voice softened. “Please allow me to present Miss Darcy Whitley.”

The countess regarded Darcy without speaking. Anger no longer sharpened her face. The stillness that remained was worse, because Darcy could see the exhaustion beneath it and the pain pride alone kept from spilling free. Every speech she had rehearsed deserted her. Before her stood a woman whose life had been altered by choices she had not made, choices society excused in powerful men while their wives were expected to endure the betrayal with grace.

“My lady,” Darcy began. Her voice caught, but she did not look away. “I am deeply sorry for what you suffered because of my mother and the late earl. I know these words cannot lessen that pain or restore the trust they destroyed, and I would never insult you by offering excuses for either of them. Their choices wounded you grievously. That wrong belongs to them, but my sorrow for your pain is entirely my own.”

A low, bitter sound escaped the countess, more wounded than contemptuous.

Darcy held her gaze. “I have no right to ask forgiveness on another person’s behalf, nor would I ask you to forget. I ask only that you believe I would never knowingly inflict such suffering upon another woman. Had it been within my power to spare you what happened, I would have done so without hesitation.”

Silence settled once more. Then Sebastian spoke. “I cannot ask you to forgive Father,” he said evenly. “Nor can I ask you to forgive Mary Whitley.”

His mother remained motionless, though her fingers curled against the folds of her gown.

“I cannot command you to understand why I love Darcy. Love has little regard for reason or convenience. It arrived without invitation and overturned every certainty I possessed.” Sebastian reached for Darcy’s hand and laced their fingers together. “But I owe you honesty. I intend to court Miss Whitley openly before society, and when she permits it, I intend to make her my wife.”

The countess closed her eyes as though the words had struck somewhere tender.