Page 5 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

The weather has played the tyrant with the post, and only this morning did your letter reach my hands. I wish I could be with my family this Christmas Day to see our girls around the hearth. I miss Emelia’s sensible smile, Jane’s quick curiosity, and dear Darcy, whose care so sweetly steadies the younger two. Pray tell me the parcels pleased them. I long to picture their faces when the ribbons were untied, and each treasure made its appearance. I fancied Jane would lay immediate claim to the pencils, while Emelia would divide the comfits with judicial fairness and then scold Darcy for pretending she wanted none.

You chide me unjustly when you suppose I am disappointed for want of a son. I am perfectly satisfied, more than satisfied, to be blessed with daughters only. God be praised, our newest little one has come safely into the world. If it pleases you, grant me the honor of calling her Sarah, for her grandmother. The name has long lived in my thoughts, and I should count it a privilege to bestow it upon our child.

I am grieved beyond measure to have been absent during your confinement. Forgive me for not being by your side. I miss you more than is seemly to confess, and I loathe that business keeps me so long from our little household. The cares of town and the duties of the earldom are obligations only; my true comfort is with you in the quiet of the country, where the evenings fall gently, and the girls’ laughter makes a music no London concert can rival.

Take care of your strength. Sit by the fire when the wind rises, take broth, and let the nurse carry Sarah to you only when you are rested. Send to me at once for anything you lack. I will contrive it, however tiresome the town may prove. Kiss each girl for me and tell them their papa thinks of them every hour and keep them in his prayers.

Ever your devoted,

James

Sebastian read the lines again and again.

I wish I could be with my family on this Christmas Day.

I miss you more than is seemly to confess, and I loathe that business keeps me so long from our little household.

The words struck like ice. In his father’s sentences, London and the earldom, his mother, his sister, and Sebastian himself were reduced to business, while the hidden household in the country was the true and cherished family. Cold bitterness spread in Sebastian’s chest until even the fire in the room offered no warmth. He set the letter upon the desk with care, as if gentleness might undo what he had learned.

Why did this knowledge sit upon his chest like grief?

The rain kept up its soft assault upon the glass; the longcase clock ticked with maddening civility. Sebastian pushed from the desk and strode into the hall, taking the curve of the staircase two at a time. He was a fool for having allowed them even a night. He owed them nothing. He did not know them, and he did not wish to. Servants gossiped; London lived upon whispers and scandal; a single careless word could find its way into a scandal sheet by morning and ride the first post to Bath. His mother’s heart had broken once already when his father died, and she had not yet recovered. He would not permit anything that might break it again.

How had his father contrived such a life? The man whose steadiness he had sought to imitate in every vote and speech had written of another hearth as home. Had duty been no more than a mask worn with perfect ease? Had affection been so divisible? The questions pressed until Sebastian’s chest ached. He reached the eldest girl’s door and opened it without knocking, careless of courtesy. Sebastian halted halfway to the bed. All four lay asleep together, curled about the eldest as if she were the tree that kept them rooted and safe.

He stood for a long moment, then turned away, unable to comprehend the impulse that had driven him up the stairs. It felt as if he needed to fight and rail, to give voice to his fury in a manner wholly unbefitting an earl. With a harsh breath, he left the chamber and walked to the east wing. In his own chamber, he crossed to the bed and let himself fall upon it. Sleep kept its distance for a long while before, at last, darkness closed over him.

CHAPTER 3

Darcy stirred and gently freed herself from her sisters’ limbs. She had slept a little, yet dread still rested on her shoulders and would not let her lie long. She looked about the bedchamber and realized she had never seen such opulence. Earlier, she had been too overwhelmed to notice. A small coal fire ticked and settled in the grate; the scent of beeswax and clean linen lingered in the air. Chintz curtains in rose and cream framed a window beaded with rain. Beyond the glass, the square lay drowned in lamplight and shadow, water coursing along the cobbles like quicksilver. Two candles burned in brass sconces, their light soft upon a carved walnut bedstead and a counterpane white as new snow.

Darcy sat upon the edge of the bed and gripped the stitched border until her knuckles ached. Thankfully, her sisters still slept. She could not let them see her worry, else they would fret themselves into a state. A shudder moved through her. For a moment, the steady hiss of the downpour seemed to wash through her chest and carry off the worst of her fear. She had endured the packing of their few possessions, the selling of what little remained, the long road from Hertfordshire in a hired conveyance that smelled of damp wool and tired leather. Twice she had told the driver to turn back. Twice she had remembered the solicitor’s cold voice and colder proposal, and she had set her teeth and faced forward.

Not even the house that had seemed theirs in childhood could shelter them. It had never been theirs at all. The solicitor had unfolded the estate papers with dry fingers and a bored expression, delivered the notice of eviction, then observed that an arrangement might be made if she were willing to be agreeable. His glance had stripped her more cruelly than poverty. Darcy had refused him. She would refuse a hundred such men before she allowed her sisters to see her fall. The notion of appealing to the Earl of Raine had been reckless and desperate, yet hope had risen when Darcy remembered a father who, in his visits, had been kind, gentle, and generous. Perhaps character might pass from parent to child. Perhaps the son would show a measure of the same heart.

Darcy had not prepared herself for the man who met her at the door. Beauty could be a kind of shock. His eyes were a dark, level blue that stripped away her pretense at calm. Handsome or not, his coldness struck harder. The way his attention had settled upon her, then dismissed her with a single glance, had felt like the shutting of a door. A soft rustle behind her told Darcy that someone was awake. Emelia shifted and sat beside her.

“You cannot sleep either, Darcy,” she murmured, stifling a yawn.

“I am thinking about how forthright I ought to be with Lord Raine tomorrow. I believe he would see through any falsehood at once. I shall be honest in every particular.”

Emelia sighed. “I know we did not keep to the plan. I am sorry.”

“I shall explain to the earl in the morning,” Darcy said softly. “I am not his sister. Only you three are.”

“No, please,” Emelia said, her eyes dark with worry. “If you tell him that, he will send you away. You are our sister.”

“But I am not his,” Darcy answered, gentler still. “It would not be right to allow him to believe it, and the consequences when he discovers it would be more than we could bear. The earl already does not trust us; this will make it worse.”

Emelia shook her head. “Do not tell him, please. He will make you leave. I can tell. He is not like Papa.”

A tight ache arose in Darcy’s throat. “We are not even certain Lord Raine will help you, Jane, and Sarah. We might all have to leave and throw ourselves upon the mercy of the world.”

“That is why we must say nothing,” Emelia begged. “Please, Darcy. We cannot lose you, either.”

Darcy’s chest ached. “You will not lose me.”

“Once his lordship learns there is no blood connection between you, he will send you away,” Emelia whispered.