Page 3 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

The three younger girls glanced at the eldest. At her small nod, they followed her to the nearest sofa and sat, hands neatly folded. Their carriage and composure spoke of training in the proprieties expected of ladies of quality, though fortune had clearly run thin.

Sebastian remained standing, one hand lightly upon the back of a chair, the other at his side. “You have claimed kinship with me,” he said, courteous but cool. “You will now oblige me by explaining precisely who you are.”

The eldest clasped her hands in her lap. The way her fingers twisted together told Sebastian all he needed to know about her nerves.

She cleared her throat delicately. “I am Miss Darcy Whitley.”

“That much, Miss Whitley, I have managed to ascertain,” he returned, inclining his head. “What I do not know is why you appeared upon my doorstep at such an hour and claimed to be my family. Courtesy ought to compel me to wait until morning. Curiosity, however, has never been a particularly courteous impulse. Why are you here?”

Her lips parted, breath catching as though the speech she rehearsed had deserted her at the moment of need. She drew a steadying breath. “I… I…”

He lifted a brow. “Surely you have not come so far only to let your wits and courage desert you now, Miss Whitley?”

A pretty flush rose along her cheekbones; before she could answer, one of the girls blurted, high and breathless, “We are your sisters, my lord. Your family!”

CHAPTER 2

Sebastian stilled, his very breath suspended. Then a chill struck clean through his chest like a poison-tipped dagger. “I beg your pardon. What did you say?”

Silence tightened the room as the girls stared at him, rigid with fright. The only sounds were the soft tick of the mantel clock and the whisper of rain against the windows. Then he noted their gazes. Two of the girls had eyes a deep, arresting blue, his very shade, and the small cleft in the youngest girl’s chin echoed his father’s.

Shock hammered through him. He took one step forward and halted. Across from him, Miss Whitley rose, her fingers twining so tightly her knuckles blanched.

“Your father—” she began.

“No.” The denial cut across her words like a heated blade. Anger and disbelief surged through him, swift and scalding. “My father would never have betrayed my mother, or our family, in such a fashion. Certainly not for years, Miss Whitley.”

Sympathy and something he could not name gleamed in her gaze. “He did, my lord. I am afraid it is true.”

A rough laugh escaped Sebastian. He had never taken a married woman to his bed, nor would he take as a mistress or lover any woman bound to another man by marriage, betrothal, or attachment. He had learned those honorable guidance and principles at his father’s knee, and now this woman would have him believe these girls were his father’s illegitimate issue. Had the honor his father preached been a falsehood?

“How old are you?” His voice dropped low. “And your sisters?”

“I am three-and-twenty,” Miss Whitley said, scarcely above a whisper. “Emelia is sixteen, Jane is thirteen, and Sarah is eleven.”

His breath came sharp and painful. Three-and-twenty, and the youngest only eleven. This was not evidence of a single lapse; it was evidence of another life. Was his father a bigamist, or was their mother a kept mistress?

Four illegitimate children.

Sebastian’s stomach turned. Thank God, his mother and younger sister had been settled in Bath for the past fortnight. Even a whisper of this would devastate his mother and shatter his sister.) Many men of fortune and rank kept mistresses; yet his parents, by every account, had loved one another deeply, respected one another’s sensibilities, and guarded their vows. To think otherwise set his teeth on edge.

A hollowness opened beneath Sebastian’s ribs. Had he known his father at all, the man he had admired above all others, whose counsel he still carried into the Lords whenever he rose to speak on relief, trade, and the duties of a nobleman toward those in his care? The voice he had tried to emulate in committee rooms and in the chamber might be the voice of a hypocrite. The thought struck like cold iron, and he gripped the edge of his desk to steady himself.

“My lord⁠—”

“I have heard enough, Miss Whitley. You will break your fast in the morning and then quit my house.”

Her face drained of color. The youngest flinched at his tone, and the middle two pressed closer as if seeking shelter from their eldest sister.

“Please, my lord, allow me to explain all that I know of this matter. Perhaps then, you⁠—”

“I have no wish to hear another word,” Sebastian said. He would not allow anything to harm his mother and sister. “Press me further, and you will leave tonight.”

Tears sprang into Miss Whitley’s golden-brown eyes; her lips trembled, and she whispered, “Please.”

The single syllable carried enough fear and desperation to echo in the spaces between them. Sebastian’s jaw flexed. He could not endure the sight of those girls shrinking into themselves, nor could he stomach turning them out into the street at this hour in such weather. Yet he could not allow one breath of scandal to touch his mother, his sister, or his family’s legacy.

“We have nowhere to go,” Miss Whitley said quietly. “That is why I risked the journey to London with my sisters. Your father… he is our father, too. He cared for us as best he could, and then he died, and Mama… Mama could not endure⁠—”