Page 42 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

Miss Whitley answered, “I do not know. We must not build our hopes upon anything until I can see some certain means of achieving it for ourselves.”

Emelia’s expression shifted, hope dimming into something subdued. She inclined her head as though to hide it, then hastened forward to join Jane and Sarah.

Miss Whitley deliberately slowed until she walked beside him. “I must thank you for today, my lord,” she said softly.

He glanced at her.

“They are delighted,” she continued, her voice gentle despite the restraint beneath it. “You have my deepest gratitude, my lord. More than I can properly express.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “It was a simple enough expedition. Their pleasure requires no thanks.”

“For you, perhaps,” she said with a small smile.

There was no bitterness in her tone. His gaze moved ahead to her sisters, their heads bent together, their voices animated, and their steps light with discovery. Their unguarded delight stirred him. “They wish to belong to this world.”

“They expect nothing from you, my lord,” she hastened to assure him, alarm sharpening her voice as though she feared he might believe they meant to fasten themselves upon him.

“They are daughters of an earl,” he said with cool detachment. “It is only natural they should wonder what it might be like to live as privileged young ladies.”

Miss Whitley remained silent for a time before replying, her voice quieter. “Perhaps they do. I have often seen them seated at the windows in Russell Square, watching the ladies pass and inventing stories about their lives. One can hear the longing in their voices and the imagination with which they give it shape. I cannot fault them. “We lived very simply in the country, and London has a way of awakening desires one never knew one possessed.”

“And what has London taught you to want?” he asked.

She hesitated, clearly taken aback. “I wish only for my sisters to be well.”

“Liar,” he said softly.

She gave a startled gasp, a faint flush rising as a frown touched her features. “I am not lying.”

“Everyone wants something, however modest,” he returned. “I cannot credit that duty has consumed every desire of your own.”

She stared at him as though the question was foreign, perhaps because no one had ever put it to her. Miss Whitley held his gaze for only a heartbeat before looking away, as though uncertain whether she ought to answer at all.

“Once,” she said slowly, “before everything changed, I imagined a very ordinary life: a home of my own, a husband, and children. I liked to sing, to write verses, and to paint. Nothing grand. Nothing especially ambitious.”

“Then everything changed.” She drew in a quiet breath. “Now I wish only to see my sisters secure and settled. Perhaps, when that is accomplished, I may allow myself to consider what remains for me to desire.”

The modesty of her former hopes struck him more forcefully than any grand ambition might have done. Nor was a life lived for others as foreign to him as he first supposed. He had been raised to understand that duty and affection were often intertwined. From boyhood, he had been taught that one day he would bear responsibility for many—his mother and sister, a future wife, his tenants, and even the broader obligations expected of him in the House of Lords. The burden was inseparable from loyalty and care.

Miss Whitley’s devotion to her sisters was not so different. Those girls were his sisters as well. By every measure that mattered, they fell within the scope of his duty and, more troubling still, increasingly within his regard.

“That is the life you once imagined,” he said. “What have you desired since coming to London?”

“Only the simplest of things. Hardly worth pondering, much less telling.” A wistful smile touched her lips before she lowered her gaze, as though she could conceal the longing that had so plainly found its way into her expression.

That smile tugged unexpectedly at his chest. “I would hear them nonetheless.”

Her startled eyes flew to his. “Why?”

“I find myself uncommonly curious about you.”

She laughed softly. “From your tone, I should think you rather dislike the very notion of it.”

He made a noncommittal sound, not liking her perceptiveness. “I entreat you to indulge my curiosity.”

Miss Whitley smiled. “I have always wished,” she said at last, “to attend a society ball, properly dressed in a beautiful gown, and dance the night away. I have watched ladies and gentlemen depart for such evenings and wondered what it must be like to be among them.”

She gave a small, self-conscious laugh as she tucked a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. “It is rather foolish, I suppose. I should also like to attend the theatre and see a play. To stroll through Hyde Park with no purpose other than to admire the lawns and flowers.”