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With gentle words and glances sweet,

Our lips in tender union meet;

A kiss bestowed with love’s pure art,

A silent vow from heart to heart.

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

DECEMBER 12, 1821

H arriet sat at the breakfast table, stirring her tea with slow, thoughtful movements. The house felt different this morning—subtly, but undeniably so. Belinda was in residence. As a result, some of Harriet’s conscience had eased as she had hoped it would.

The older woman had returned with her the night before, slipping into the townhouse under the cover of darkness. No grand announcements, no fuss, just a woman reclaiming a measure of dignity after weeks of precarious survival.

Harriet had instructed Mrs. Finch to prepare a small room for her on the upper floor. Finch, ever the model of discretion, had made no remark about the late-hour arrival, though her sharp eyes had taken in Belinda’s elegant appearance with a wary glance.

Now, in the light of morning, Harriet could not help but feel a quiet sense of satisfaction. She had done good—twice over, in fact.

Because the letter had already been sent.

A simple request to a veterans’ charity, inquiring about honorable men seeking respectable work.

The idea had come to her the moment she had looked at Fletcher, standing sentry outside Belinda’s lodgings, ever watchful and steady.

She needed footmen—strong men, but moderate ones.

And who better than those who had served their country?

She had felt strangely light after writing the letter, as if she had taken one step further away from the selfish girl she had once been.

Fletcher was to help her interview the prospects, being experienced at hiring men for the stables.

A reliable man of vast experience, he would know how to read the character of those who applied.

“You look quite pleased with yourself,” Evaline remarked from across the table, cutting into a warm roll with practiced precision.

“I am.” Harriet sipped her tea, then set the cup down with a decisive nod. “Two problems solved in one day. A rather productive stretch, if I do say so myself.”

Evaline dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I assume one of those problems was Miss Cooper?”

“Miss Bélise Coupier now. We have a French lady’s maid to do for us,” Harriet corrected with a playful smirk.

Evaline blinked, then let out a small, surprised laugh. “You are serious?”

Harriet spread her hands. “It is the done thing, is it not? If one must assume a new position in society, one must have a suitably mysterious name.”

Evaline shook her head in amused disbelief. “I can only imagine what she thought of that particular notion.”

“She found it ridiculous,” Harriet admitted, “but I think she rather likes it.”

“Then I suppose that is one matter handled. And the other?”

“The grooms are moving the tub back to my rooms. Fletcher assures me he can keep them in line, so they will help with hauling hot water for us, but I have a more permanent solution.” Harriet sat back in her chair, proud of her ingenuity.

“I have sent word to the veterans’ charity I have been supporting recently, requesting recommendations for footmen. ”

Evaline’s brows lifted slightly. “That is an excellent idea.”

Harriet nodded. “I thought so, too. Our coachman, Fletcher, was my inspiration. There are so many honorable men who have returned from war with no place to go. I requested men of good character, strong enough for their duties but not so severe as to frighten our staff. I stipulated that injuries or appearance were not a disqualification, thinking there might be some excellent candidates who would not usually be considered for footmen.”

Evaline’s gaze softened. “That is rather inspired.”

Harriet gave a small shrug, trying to appear unaffected. “It is practical. And it is only fair, given what they have sacrificed.”

Before Evaline could respond, the front door knocker sounded down the hall, the loud rap startling in the quiet of the morning. Someone knew about her shortage of staff, and that they needed to be heavy-handed with the brass ring if they wished to be attended to.

Harriet straightened instinctively. A moment later, Mrs. Finch entered, her ever-stern expression in place. “Lord Sebastian’s ’ere.”

Harriet’s heart gave a small, unwelcome flutter. She had not expected him so soon. She and Evaline rose, dabbing their napkins to their mouths before making their way to where Sebastian waited in the entrance hall.

Impeccably dressed as ever, his navy coat fit snugly over broad shoulders, his snowy cravat in the same loose knot that she assumed must be a style from Florence.

His gray eyes flicked to hers immediately, scanning her face in that way he always had, as if she were a puzzle he could solve, if only he studied the pieces long enough.

He bowed slightly. “Good morning, ladies.”

“Good morning, my lord,” Harriet replied smoothly.

A pause. A hesitation, almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless. Then, his voice dropped to a quieter register.

“And how did you spend your evening?”

Harriet’s stomach tightened. She had no intention of telling him about Belinda. The last thing she needed was Sebastian prying into her affairs, casting judgment where it was not wanted about her goings-on. So she smiled—a slow, practiced smile—and said, “Oh, I spent a quiet evening at home.”

Sebastian’s expression darkened. Something passed through his gaze, something sharp.

“You did not go out at all?”

“No,” Harriet said lightly, forcing a casual shrug. “I was rather tired after our visit to the museum.”

His jaw ticked. She had not expected him to look so dissatisfied.

Evaline cleared her throat delicately, cutting through the tension. “I believe we are ready?”

“Of course.”

Sebastian’s gaze lingered on Harriet for a beat longer before he nodded once, curtly. Harriet and Evaline donned their overcoats, gloves, and bonnets. When she had assembled herself, Sebastian offered her his arm and she took it, even as she wondered why he seemed so very displeased.

Sebastian sat stiffly in the carriage, his arms crossed as he studied Harriet from the corner of his eye.

She had lied to him. The way she had smiled—too poised, too smooth—when she told him she had spent a quiet evening at home. The slight hesitation before she answered. The way her chin lifted ever so slightly in defiance, as if daring him to challenge her.

He had spent years navigating the cunning twists and turns of art dealings, spotting forgeries at a glance, reading the nuances of deceit in a seller’s tone. Not to mention he had stooped to the ignoble behavior of following her to St. James’s Market. Which meant he knew Harriet was lying.

About what, precisely, he could not yet say.

But it bothered him. Far more than it ought.

Sebastian exhaled through his nose, staring out at the streets of Mayfair as the carriage rocked forward. He had no claim on her whereabouts, nor any right to expect the truth. She was no longer the girl who had once promised him everything, only to leave him waiting.

And yet …

He turned his attention back toward her.

Harriet was sitting beside Lady Wood, her gloved fingers tracing a pattern over the top of her reticule as she stared out the window, her auburn lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks.

He could not interpret her expression, but her lips—damnable lips, still as lush as he remembered them—curved in a faint smile.

A woman with secrets.

But was she the same woman he had known all those years ago? Or was she someone entirely different now?

Sebastian clenched his jaw. He had vowed to keep his heart guarded this time. He had vowed not to be lured in again. But then she spoke, and the irritation faded—just a little.

“I have neglected my reading these past years,” she murmured, almost as if to herself. “It is time to fill my library again.”

Sebastian arched a brow. “Was it ever empty?”

She tilted her head, giving him a sidelong glance. “Not empty, no. But neglected. A library is a living thing, is it not? It must be tended, refreshed, filled with new voices. Otherwise, it becomes little more than a mausoleum for old words.”

Sebastian smirked. “You always did enjoy dramatic declarations.”

“And you always did enjoy needling me about them,” she shot back, but there was no bite to her words. Only warmth.

He leaned back slightly, tapping a gloved finger against his knee. “What sorts of books do you intend to buy?”

Harriet sighed, her breath fogging lightly against the cool carriage window. “I do not know yet. Writings to stimulate the mind, perhaps.”

“No scandalous novels?” Sebastian teased.

She grinned. “I have read my share, of course. But it would not do for Miss Bélise Coupier to find such stories beside my bed, would it?”

Sebastian blinked, momentarily thrown. “Miss who?”

Lady Wood, who had been quietly reading, glanced up in faint amusement.

Harriet’s eyes glittered with mischief. “My new lady’s maid.”

Sebastian frowned, the name sparking a distant memory, but before he could question her, Harriet waved a hand.

“Never mind that. Back to books—what do you recommend, my lord?”

He studied her for a moment, then decided to let it go. For now.

“Well,” he said at last, settling deeper into his seat. “If you truly wish to exercise your mind, I suppose I should steer you toward histories.”

Harriet made a mocking grimace. “Must I?”

Sebastian chuckled. “If only for balance. What was it you told me once? ‘All knowledge is worth having’?”

Harriet sighed dramatically. “Did I? How insufferable I must have been.”

“I shall not argue that.”

She gasped in mock outrage and leaned over to swat at his arm.

Sebastian laughed, and for a moment, it was as though no time had passed at all—as though they were still young, still carefree, still standing in Avonmead’s library making lists of all the places they would go, all the books they would read. The thought made his chest tighten.