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“That is one way to describe it,” he teased. “If I recall, you once declared in a fit of pique that anything beyond the borders of England was bound to be dreadfully inconvenient and full of strange customs.”

She huffed a small laugh. “I was young and foolish.”

“Young, certainly,” he conceded. “But never foolish.”

A pause. A moment of quiet understanding.

Across from them, Lady Wood continued with her novel, choosing not to interrupt their exchange.

The journey continued with pleasant conversation, their discussion drifting through old memories and musings about what additional books ought to be deemed essential for a proper library. The warmth of the carriage made the outside world seem distant, a fleeting unreality beyond the frosty windows.

Before long, the carriage slowed, and Sebastian glanced out to see that they had reached their destination.

The Royal Menagerie at the Tower of London had long been a fascination for the curious-minded. Though its heyday as a grand attraction had somewhat faded, it still held an air of mystique—particularly in winter, when fewer visitors braved the cold.

Inside, the space smelled of straw and damp stone, with the occasional sharp tang of animal musk. The echoes of distant growls and calls reverberated through the corridors, punctuated by the occasional rustle of unseen movement.

Sebastian watched as Harriet moved through the exhibits, alight with curiosity.

There was something fierce about her, something untamed beneath the polished veneer of her societal role.

He had always known her to be a woman of intelligence and boldness, but this Harriet—this woman who had shed some of her former coquettish airs—intrigued him in a way he had not expected.

They paused before the lion’s enclosure, where a great beast lounged upon a raised platform, watching them with lazy indifference.

Harriet tilted her head, studying it. “Magnificent, is he not?”

“Indeed,” Sebastian murmured. “Proud. Regal. But dangerous, if one does not understand its nature.”

Her lips curved slightly. “Are we speaking of the lion, my lord, or something else entirely?”

He met her gaze, his expression carefully composed. “Perhaps both.”

She did not look away. The moment stretched between them, taut with things unsaid.

Then Lady Wood cleared her throat, breaking the spell. Harriet turned back to the lion, her demeanor shifting into something more contemplative while Sebastian let out a slow breath, adjusting his gloves.

Perhaps it was the atmosphere of the menagerie—the lingering scent of the wild, the way the air seemed thick with an ancient, primal energy—but for the first time in years, he felt as though he was standing at the edge of something unknown.

Something that, despite his better judgment, he wanted to explore.

As the carriage rolled away from the Tower, the imposing stone fortress receding behind them, Harriet pressed her gloved hands against her lap, willing her emotions to settle.

The Royal Menagerie had been an interesting distraction, but Sebastian’s lingering presence beside her, so close and so warm in the winter chill, unsettled her more than the sight of the great beasts pacing behind their iron bars.

She had expected this courtship—this playacting—to be a simple matter. A few outings, a few stolen glances, and then a graceful parting when Christmas arrived, as if they had never been more than polite acquaintances.

But Sebastian had kissed her. And the memory of it burned through her like mulled wine, warm and heady.

He sat opposite her now, the winter sunlight filtering through the glass of the carriage, catching on the clean, striking lines of his face. He appeared pensive, as if he, too, was troubled. Evaline sat beside her, blissfully unaware of the silent war raging within Harriet’s chest.

Their destination was Hyde Park, a perfect place for a gentleman to promenade with a lady on his arm. Harriet had walked there many times, but not like this. Not with Sebastian.

Not with her heart in shambles.

London bustled outside the carriage, the streets teeming with life as the city prepared for the afternoon’s business. The wintry air carried the scent of roasting chestnuts from a street cart, mingling with the ever-present tang of soot from chimneys.

Sebastian broke the silence first. “Did you enjoy the menagerie?”

“I did,” she admitted, “though I confess, I have always found something rather sad about wild creatures in cages.”

He nodded slowly. “They are trapped, yes. But in a way, they are safer than they would be in the wild. Some of those animals would never survive beyond those bars.”

Harriet turned her gaze to him, studying the thoughtful set of his mouth. “Is that what you believe? That captivity is preferable to danger?”

Sebastian looked at her then, really looked, and for a moment she thought he might respond with truths too raw, too real. But instead, he only offered a faint smile. “It depends on the creature, I suppose.”

The carriage came to a halt, jolting them slightly. Harriet glanced out the window and saw the familiar wrought-iron gates of Hyde Park.

“We are here,” Evaline announced cheerfully, adjusting her gloves.

Sebastian stepped out first, turning to offer his hand. When Harriet placed her fingers in his, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold ran up her arm.

They entered the park, the gravel path crunching beneath their boots.

The air was crisp, and though the trees had long since shed their autumn foliage, Hyde Park was still lively.

Children bundled in coats and scarves ran ahead of their governesses, laughing as they kicked up the last remnants of frost-covered leaves.

A young couple strolled arm in arm, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.

A gentleman cantered past on a fine black gelding, his breath clouding in the cold air.

Evaline, ever the sociable one, soon spotted an acquaintance—a matronly woman in a fur-trimmed pelisse, accompanied by a daughter of marriageable age. She paused to greet them, offering Harriet and Sebastian a polite smile before turning away to engage in conversation.

And then, quite suddenly, Sebastian took Harriet’s hand. She barely had time to register the sensation of his fingers curling around hers before he was leading her away, stepping behind the thick trunk of an ancient oak.

“Sebastian—”

And then his firm, warm lips were on hers.

The world tilted.

She gasped, her fingers gripping the lapels of his coat as all sense of cold vanished.

This kiss was different from the one at Hatchards—where that one had been impulsive, this one was deliberate, searing, demanding.

He pressed her against the rough bark of the tree, his gloved hand cradling her cheek, tilting her face up to him as if he could not bear even a whisper of distance between them.

It was madness.

But Harriet had never felt so alive.

She melted into him, letting herself drown in the taste of him, the feel of his body against hers. The years between them, the regrets, the lies—none of it existed in that moment. There was only this, only him.

When they finally broke apart, she was breathless.

Sebastian’s forehead rested against hers, his breath warm against her chilled skin.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered.

He exhaled, his fingers still tangled in her hair where her bonnet had slipped. “Then why does it feel so right?”

Harriet closed her eyes, her heart pounding like a wild stallion bucking against its master.

If she were another woman, if she had made different choices, she would go with him to Italy. She would leave all of this behind, abandon the burden of her mistakes, and become his.

But she was not that woman.

And she had lied.

The thought sliced through her like a blade, sharp and merciless.

She wrenched herself away, wrapping her arms around herself as if to hold in the ache that threatened to spill over.

“I cannot continue,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Knowing it is a pretense is breaking my heart.”

Sebastian stared down at her for the longest time. Then he said the one thing she had not dared to allow herself to hope for. “What if it is not a pretense?”

Harriet’s head snapped up.

He was watching her with an intensity that sent her pulse into a wild, desperate rhythm.

For one glorious, reckless moment, hope blossomed in her chest.

But then, reality returned like a bitter wind.

She had lied about the painting. Then there was her shameful behavior these past years for which she was attempting to make amends. If Sebastian knew the half of it, he would be repulsed by her base nature and desert her.

He was a foolish dream, a glimpse of the life she could have led if she had been a better person.

And after all she had done to him in the past, he could never be so forgiving as to allow her another deception.

Whatever spark had rekindled between them would be extinguished the moment he discovered the truth.

She forced a smile, though it felt brittle on her lips. “I think,” she said carefully, “we should return to Lady Wood before she notices we have gone.”

Sebastian studied her. “And I think we should make this courtship a genuine exploration of a shared future.”

Harriet stared up at him, searching for any sign he was funning her, but he seemed sincere. Her breath caught, and she nervously licked her lips. She wanted so badly to say?—

“Yes.”

She blinked, uncertain if she had truly consented. Then, in affirmation that she had indeed spoken out loud, Sebastian gave a slow nod and offered his arm. She hesitated for only a moment before taking it.

As they stepped back onto the path, Harriet forced herself to do what she had done for years.

She buried the ache, smothered the longing, and vowed to enjoy the courtship as long as it lasted.

Because once Sebastian learned the truth—about the painting, about her repellant entanglement with his cousin Perry last year, about her disloyalty with the duke’s brother-in-law Brendan earlier this very year—there would be no more kisses beneath the trees, no more glances filled with unspoken promises.

And she had no one to blame but herself.

But for now, every impossible dream had come true until brooding reality inevitably returned. The only man she had ever loved was courting her!