Page 85 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

“Mother,” he said, stepping forward at once. “Are you well?”

He reached her and drew her into his arms with a firmness that bordered upon urgency. For a moment, she rested against him, one hand upon his shoulder in a gesture that felt almost fragile. Only then did he notice the lady descending several steps behind her. Something about the woman seemed faintly familiar, though he could not place her.

His mother withdrew from his embrace and smiled faintly.

“Sebastian, allow me to present Miss Frances Briar,” she said. “She has been engaged as my companion during my stay in Bath.”

Miss Briar curtsied with quiet grace. “My lord.”

He inclined his head in polite acknowledgment, offering a brief greeting before turning his attention back to his mother.

“Come,” he said, his tone gentler now. “You should not remain standing.”

He guided her toward the Rose Room, his hand steady at her arm, aware of the slight hesitation in her step.

Caroline exchanged a glance with Miss Briar before allowing Sebastian to lead their mother away. Relief softened his sister’s expression. His return had lifted a burden from her shoulders, and the responsibility had passed to him once more, as it always did.

Sebastian settled his mother upon the sofa within the Rose Room, taking a seat opposite her, his gaze intent, searching.

“What has caused this?” he asked quietly. “You do not suffer such distress without reason.”

His mother’s fingers tightened upon her gown. Without warning, her composure fractured. Her breath hitched, and a strangled sound escaped her as tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks.

“How could you?” she cried, her voice thick and shaking. “How could you parade about with that woman’s daughter?”

The words struck him with such force that Sebastian went utterly still.

That woman’s daughter.

The truth settled into him with cold, inexorable clarity. His mother had known of her husband’s betrayal, not as a passing suspicion, but with enough certainty to recognize Darcy Whitley by name.

He saw the depth of that knowledge in the tremor of her hands and the anguish twisting her features. Sebastian moved to her side at once.

“You knew,” he said, his voice rough with disbelief. “You knew of Father’s affair.”

“Affair?” she repeated, her voice rising with sharp, wounded fury. “Do not insult me with that word. That was no mere affair. He had another family.”

The accusation hung heavily between them. Sebastian absorbed it in silence before asking, “When did you discover the truth?”

Her gaze dropped as she drew an unsteady breath. “After his death. I was spared the knowledge while he lived, spared from looking into his eyes and knowing that some part of his devotion belonged to another woman.”

Her voice faltered, and she closed her eyes briefly, as though the memory itself were a wound that had never healed.

“I found the letters,” she continued, her voice quieter but no less charged with pain. “They were hidden in a box within his study. “I read every one, though with each letter, the wound seemed to cut a little deeper.”

A heavy, unrelenting pressure settled upon Sebastian’s chest.

“I learned her name,” his mother said. “Mary Whitley. A widow.” Her lips trembled. “And I learned that she had a daughter.” Her gaze lifted sharply to his. “Darcy Whitley.”

The name landed between them with quiet finality.

“When the scandal sheet appeared, I paid it little heed at first,” she continued. “Such gossip is constant and frequently without merit. But Miss Briar has correspondents in London who take an unwholesome interest in society gossip. She told me that Lord Raine appeared quite enchanted with a Miss Darcy Whitley.”

Her expression hardened, grief giving way to something far more cutting. “There could be no such coincidence,” she said.

Sebastian did not deny it. Yet the objection came swiftly and fiercely. His father and Mary Whitley had broken those vows, not Darcy. She bore no guilt for the circumstances of her birth and deserved none of the blame. But his mother’s hand trembled against her chest, and this was neither the time nor the moment to challenge her grief with a truth she was not yet prepared to hear.

“Mother—”