Page 24

Beneath the moon’s soft silver light,

We wandered through the tranquil night;

Your hand in mine, our hearts entwined,

In love’s sweet dance, our souls aligned.

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

H arriet wrapped her hands around the porcelain cup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as she stared into the fire.

The painted room was a sanctuary, but tonight, even its familiar elegance did little to soothe the constriction in her chest. The events of the evening had left her raw, her composure stretched too thin.

She had sat through dinner with people who despised her—people who had every right to.

She had smiled, spoken when spoken to, and kept her back straight, but now that she was alone, her past sins crashed down upon her. The guilt was a noxious thing, curling in her belly like smoke from a dying candle. Sebastian. Perry. Brendan. Her cowardice.

Even now, she writhed with remorse over the afternoon she had drunk far too much wine, protesting the loss of another lover to a less sophisticated woman, and had tried to seduce Brendan in his own home.

Until his wife had walked in and caught her embracing the panicked baron who had been trying to tear himself away.

How could Sebastian forgive her when he learned the truth? How could anyone forgive her? She had been a terrible person. Now she could only claim to be a regretful person. It was surely premature to claim she had the right to be considered good after all her sins.

A quiet knock at the door startled her. Jem’s small freckled face appeared in the dim candlelight.

“M’lady,” she whispered. “You have a visitor.”

Harriet frowned. “At this hour?”

The girl hesitated. “It is Lord Sebastian.”

Her stomach dropped. Light played over her silk-wrapped knees as she set her chocolate aside, forcing her voice into calmness. “Send him in.”

Jem disappeared, and a moment later, Sebastian stepped inside, closing the door behind him with quiet precision.

He was still dressed in his evening clothes, though he had loosened his cravat.

His gaze swept over her, from her loose hair to the Parisian negligée peeking from beneath her thick wool wrapper, the lacy garment being one of the indulgences of her old life that she still clung to.

“You should not be here,” she murmured.

“And yet, here I am.”

Harriet tilted her head, studying Sebastian in the glow of the fire in the hearth.

He seemed unsettled, his usually sharp gaze unfocused, as if he were warring with thoughts he had no wish to voice.

His lips were pressed into a firm line, his hands clenched at his sides, and though he was standing mere feet away from her, he looked as if he were caught in the grips of something far away—something painful.

“Sebastian?” she asked softly, rising to her feet.

He did not answer.

Instead, in two swift strides, he closed the distance between them, his hands framing her face before she could react. His lips claimed hers in a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs, deep and unhurried, as if learning the taste of her, memorizing the feel of her beneath his hands.

Harriet shuddered, sinking into him, unable to stop the way her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat. It was intoxicating, this feeling of being consumed by him. How many times had she imagined this very moment, alone in the dark with nothing but regret and longing to keep her company?

But this was no dream. This was Sebastian. And he was here, kissing her as if the years apart had never been.

When he finally lifted his head, his breathing was uneven, and she saw the glint of raw emotion.

“How many have you invited to your bed, Harry?”

The question was a blade, slipping between her ribs and lodging itself in her heart.

She stiffened, but she did not look away.

“Too many. Less than people think.”

Sebastian’s jaw tensed. “How many?”

“Why does it matter?” she whispered.

“How many, Harry?” he repeated, his voice low, unrelenting.

She hesitated, but then, what was the point of lying? Here was a small truth she could give him when there were so many secrets to hide.

“Seven or eight,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “I always imagined they were you.”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. The grip he still had on her loosened, his thumb stroking idly over her cheekbone.

“Does that include Horace?”

She snorted inelegantly, some of the tension in her chest easing. “My late husband could not remember his own name, never mind that he had a bride lurking in his halls. I stayed out of his way until he departed.”

“Ruthless.”

“It was,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But I am no longer proud of that. I should have taken a chance on you. On us.”

Sebastian’s expression darkened.

“What about you?” she asked, the words leaving her before she could stop them.

He exhaled, stepping back slightly, as if putting space between them would soften the blow of whatever he was about to say. “It is hard to tell. Fifteen? Twenty, perhaps? I was foxed most of the time until Lorenzo convinced me it was time to stop.”

Harriet swallowed against the jealousy that surged within her, unwelcome but undeniable.

She had no right to it—after all, she had tried to drown her own pain in the arms of others after a healthy dose of alcohol to make her forget the one she truly loved.

But hearing him say it made it real in a way she had never allowed herself to think about before.

She had spent so many years trying to forget him, numbing herself with wine and empty affections. But he had done the same, had tried just as hard to erase the past with women who would never mean anything.

“We were a world apart, yet we spent our time doing the same thing,” she murmured, half to herself. “Trying to forget.”

Sebastian reached out, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Spirits and bed sport do not heal a broken heart.”

“No,” she agreed, voice thick with regret. “They do not.”

For a long moment, they simply stood there, the fire crackling in the hearth the only sound in the stillness between them. Harriet felt raw, exposed, as if the small part of her burden had been lifted but there were so many more parts to contend with.

And, in that moment, she did not feel entirely alone. Sebastian had carried his own burdens. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could find a way to set them down. Together.

Sebastian’s gaze darkened as he watched her, golden light casting against his sharp cheekbones and firm mouth.

He reached for her, his hands steady yet urgent, settling on her waist with a possessive familiarity that sent a shiver of anticipation skittering down her spine.

Even through the thick layer of wool and the thin silk beneath, his warmth seeped into her, setting every inch of her skin alight.

He drew her close, and she swayed into him, her body responding with a will of its own.

His hands slid lower, over the curve of her hips, down to cup the soft swell of her derriere.

Harriet gasped at the intimate caress, her fingers tangling in his hair, tugging as if to anchor herself against the storm of sensation rising within her.

Her stomach tightened, desire pulsing low and insistent in her belly. The scent of him—clean linen, a hint of sandalwood, a thread of musk purely masculine and uniquely Sebastian—wrapped around her, stirring memories she had long since buried.

“You are playing with fire,” she whispered against his lips, but she made no effort to pull away.

“I have been burning for years,” he murmured in return, and then his mouth was on hers again, deep and searching, coaxing her lips apart until she trembled against him.

She scarcely noticed when he began to untie the belt of her wool robe, only realizing its absence when cool air licked against the thin silk of her negligée.

He spread his hands over her back, his touch gentle, molding her to him as his fingers traced the delicate curve of her spine.

She gasped as he reached the small of her back, then lower, until his palms pressed against the flare of her hips, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them and she could feel the hard length of his arousal against her quivering belly.

Sebastian’s lips abandoned hers, traveling downward, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat, his tongue searing heat against her chilled skin.

She arched, a moan slipping from her lips, granting him better access.

He lathed the sensitive skin of her neck, his breath hot against her ear as she shuddered in surrender.

He stepped her back and then lowered her down onto the rug in front of the fire, stretching her out beneath him before leaning back to shrug out of his winter overcoat and his evening coat beneath until he was down to his linen shirt and waistcoat.

His hands splayed over the delicate silk covering her body.

Harriet felt his ravenous gaze as he took in the sight of her, almost laid bare, her chest rising and falling with each breath.

His fingers skimmed her shoulder, slipping beneath the delicate strap of her negligée.

Slowly, excruciatingly, he eased the fabric downward, baring one shoulder, then the other, until the silk pooled around her waist. The air kissed her skin, sending a fresh shiver through her even as his gaze burned over her exposed flesh.

“You are magnificent,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with interest far deeper than desire.

His hands followed the path of his eyes, cupping her breasts, his palms warm against her skin. Harriet gasped as his thumb brushed over the tight peak, sensation shooting straight through her. Her body responded instinctively, arching toward him, seeking the heat of his touch.