Page 4 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

“Enough,” he snapped. “I will not hear another word of this blasted tale!”

She flinched. The youngest gave a soft, wounded sob. Miss Whitley glanced at the girls and gathered them closer with trembling hands.

“Our mother died two years after your father,” she managed, as if steadied by will alone. “As the eldest, I did my best to care for my sisters. I had no choice but to seek you out for help, my lord.”

“For what, precisely?” His tone cut like ice. “Did you imagine I would throw wide my doors to strangers and call them kin? That I would welcome into my home those hidden from me all my life like some foul, shameful secret? For all I know, you are a resourceful impostor seeking to fasten a claim upon my family.”

A single tear traced her cheek. “I am sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I was as shocked to learn of your existence as you are by ours. I did not know that the connection between our parents was not… respectable. We are alone, without family or funds, and I did not know what to do.”

So the connection had not been respectable; her mother had been his father’s mistress. Sebastian curled his hands into tight fists to resist the urge to slam them into the wall. How could his father have conducted himself in a manner that allowed this woman to believe her parents had been properly wed? That suggested family dinners and celebrations. That implied his father had been a constant presence in their lives. How in God’s name had his father maintained a second family for so many years without his own son suspecting? The longer Sebastian considered it, the more suspicion rose alongside his disbelief.

They had to be charlatans; it was the only explanation he could bear.

“You claim a connection to my father. If there is any truth in what you have said, you will provide names, dates, every particular, and whatever proof you possess.”

“I have some measure of proof,” she said quickly.

“Some measure?” A harsh sound escaped him. “Do you take me for a fool, Miss Whitley? Nothing short of certainty will do.”

Miss Whitley reached into her pocket with a trembling hand and drew out several envelopes, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a frayed ribbon. She crossed the room toward him. The ribbon rasped softly as she offered the bundle. His temper surged anew at the treacherous memory of the awareness stirred by the tilt of her mouth and the lush curves of her figure.

Bloody hell! If this were true, he had stood in that bedchamber and desired his own damned sister. He ruthlessly thrust the memory aside and accepted the packet. The paper lay cool against his palm, faintly scented of dust and lavender. Sebastian drew a long breath and banked the fury burning in his chest.

“I will allow you to stay the night.”

Visible relief swept through them. “Thank you, my lord,” Miss Whitley said. “We⁠—”

“You will not call yourselves my sisters in this house,” he said quietly.

The youngest’s eyes filled with tears. He looked away before the resemblance could work upon him further, then fixed the eldest with a hard gaze.

“You will speak to no one outside this room of the purpose of your visit. If a whisper of this tale reaches the servants’ hall, society, or, above all, my mother, I will know where it began, and I will not hesitate to crush you. Do you understand me?”

Miss Whitley nodded, tears held fiercely at bay, but her mouth trembled when she replied, “Yes, my lord. We will not speak of this to anyone. You have my word.”

He rang for Gerald. When the butler appeared, carefully impassive, Sebastian said, “There shall be no discussion among the servants concerning my guests. No one is to speak of their arrival or speculate upon it. You will ensure that Miss Whitley’s claim of kinship goes no farther than this room. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Gerald said, and bowed.

“And Gerald,” he added, still watching her, “have Peabody attend me first thing in the morning.”

“Very good, my lord.” Gerald withdrew.

Sebastian held her gaze. “Tomorrow at ten, you will come to my study and give me a complete account of your lives. You will answer every question I put to you. If I determine your tale is false, you will depart my house at once. If it proves true…” He stopped, his throat tightening around words he could not yet shape. “Then we shall speak of what is to be done.”

Miss Whitley inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Do not thank me,” he said with bare civility. “Thank the rain.”

She nodded and ushered her sisters away. The youngest cast him a last, searching glance. In profile, the cleft at her chin looked more pronounced; his heart gave a betrayed thud. When the door closed behind them, the room felt too large and too quiet. He stood a long moment, the rain whispering at the panes, the clock marking out seconds.

Sebastian went to his private study, set his shoes by the hearth, and flung his jacket across a chair. His cravat hung loose at his throat. Rain brushed against the tall windowpanes, and the fire burned low and steady, casting a dull glow across the grate. Leather and old paper scented the room.

All the letters bore his father’s seal. The wax had long since been broken, yet the signet’s impression remained clear. The hand was unmistakable, the same measured strokes he had seen in ledgers and a hundred notes. Sebastian chose one of the later letters. The paper had softened at the folds, the edges furred where fingers had worried them, as if the message had been read until it learned the reader’s touch.

His throat burned as he read.

My dearest Mary,