Page 26

As morning light doth chase the night away,

Your love dispels the darkness from my day;

With every dawn, my heart anew doth sing,

For you, my love, are life’s eternal spring.

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

DECEMBER 19, 1821

H arriet awakened as the pale light of morning filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over her bedchamber.

A deep warmth curled through her limbs, the lingering sensation of last night’s intimacy wrapping around her like the heavy coverlet.

She turned, reaching out instinctively, eager for the solid warmth of Sebastian beside her.

But her searching fingers found only cool, empty sheets.

Blinking, she propped herself up on one elbow, pushing her tousled hair from her face. The remnants of the candle they had burned low the night before sat in a pool of hardened wax, its feeble light having long since extinguished.

The fire had burned to embers, leaving only a faint glow in the grate. The air in the room was thick with the mingling scents of spent wax, lingering smoke, and something more intimate—the musk of their passion still clung to the sheets.

A thrill of memory coursed through her. She had brought him up to her rooms—heedless of consequence, heedless of everything but the aching need to be close to him.

They had undressed each other again by candlelight, their fingers exploring, their movements slow and deliberate.

Even now, the ghost of his touch lingered on her skin, as if his hands had left invisible brands upon her.

But the warmth of recollection faded the moment she spotted him.

Sebastian stood near the fireplace, fully dressed save for his coat, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression carved from stone.

His piercing gray eyes, always so full of depth and hidden emotion, were overtly ambivalent as they bored into her.

“You lied to me.”

The words landed like a slap, striking her deeper than she thought possible. Harriet’s lips parted, but no sound came. Her body, languid and content just moments ago, stiffened in alarm. His gaze shifted past her, toward the wall behind her head. A slow, dreadful realization curled in her gut.

No.

Whipping around, she followed his gaze.

And there it was. The painting.

Matteo di Bianchi’s lost work, the one she had sworn to him she no longer possessed, hung in plain sight above her bed. A cruel, damning revelation framed in gilt and shadow that in the low glow of a single candle and the heat of passion might as well have been invisible last night.

Her breath caught. How could she have been so careless? When she had led him upstairs, her mind had been a whirlwind of desire, of yearning. She had thought of nothing but him—never once considering that her newest deception loomed over them as they tangled in the sheets.

“I … I could not let it go,” she whispered.

Sebastian let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as if the sight of it was too much to bear.

“No,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less cutting. “I suppose you could not.”

She sat up fully now, clutching the sheet to her chest, shame pooling in her stomach like lead. “Sebastian, please, let me explain?—”

“Explain?” He scoffed, pacing away only to whirl back to face her. “Do you think there is anything you could say that would undo this? That would make me believe you meant anything you have said these past couple of weeks?”

His anger, sharp as a blade, sliced through her, and Harriet flinched.

“It was never about the painting,” she said desperately. “Not truly.”

“Then why lie?” His voice was raw now, stripped of the patience he had once offered her so freely. “Why deceive me, Harriet? Have you no faith in me at all?”

Tears burned at the backs of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

“I was afraid,” she admitted. “Afraid that if I told you the truth, you would take it from me. And I could not bear to lose it.”

“Not even for me?” His voice was quieter now, but there was no mistaking the bleakness beneath the question.

Harriet swallowed past the ache in her throat.

“I have lost everything before,” she whispered. “This was all I had left.”

Sebastian’s lips pressed into a hard line before he gave a single shake of his head. “You could have had me .”

And then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the bedchamber door.

Panic seized her, the significance of her choices crashing down upon her like an unforgiving tide.

“Sebastian, wait— Once we made our arrangement, I planned to give it to you on Christmas Day.”

Sebastian stopped, his hand hovering over the door handle. His shoulders were rigid, the taut lines of his back betraying the effort it took to contain his temper.

Slowly, he turned, his expression unreadable. “Planned to?” he echoed.

Harriet nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. That was always my intention. I only wanted—” She hesitated, her hands gripping the sheets as though they were the only thing keeping her from unraveling. “I only wanted a little more time.”

His mouth twisted. “Time for what?”

“For us,” she whispered.

Silence hung between them, heavy with things unspoken. The dying embers in the grate crackled, as if to punctuate their conversation.

Sebastian exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair, his movements tight with frustration. “Damn it, Harriet,” he ground out. “You speak of time as if it were something we could steal back. But time was stolen from us long ago—by you . And now, once again, you have chosen secrets over trust.”

She flinched at the accusation, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “I was going to tell you,” she insisted. “I never meant to deceive you, not like this.”

Sebastian’s laugh was low and humorless. “Not like this? Then how, exactly?” He gestured toward the painting. “You let me believe it was gone. You lied to my face. How am I supposed to believe anything you say now?”

Harriet’s fingers curled into the sheets, nails pressing into her palms. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“And yet, you have.”

His voice was quiet, but there was an emotion far worse than anger in his tone now. Disillusionment. Disappointment.

Her chest ached as she sat up straighter, pulling the sheet tighter around herself. “You think I do not regret it? That I do not hate myself for not telling you the truth sooner? You cannot imagine what it has been like—to feel as though every choice I make only drives you further away.”

Sebastian shook his head. “No, Harriet. That was your own doing.” His voice was hoarse with emotion, and his hands flexed at his sides. “All I ever wanted from you was honesty.”

A lump formed in her throat.

“I thought if I gave you the painting too soon,” she confessed, “you would leave. I thought once you had it, there would be nothing left to hold you here.”

Sebastian’s breath caught, old hurts flittering behind his gaze. “You truly believed that?”

She nodded, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. “Yes.”

His jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he simply looked at her. The fury was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else lurked beneath it now—something more vulnerable.

“Do you think so little of me?” he asked finally.

Harriet’s heart clenched. “No,” she said fiercely. “Never.”

I think so little of myself , was the errant thought she had been fighting all these months as she walked the path of sobriety and tried to find a return to the happiness she had shared with Sebastian so many years ago.

Sebastian exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples as though trying to will away his frustration. “You could have told me,” he said, his voice quieter now, the edge of anger dulling. “I would have understood. But instead, you chose to deceive me—again.”

Harriet’s throat tightened. “I did not mean?—”

“But you did,” he cut her off. “You always mean to, whether you admit it or not.”

She shook her head. “I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of losing you,” she admitted, voice breaking.

Sebastian let out a ragged breath, and for a moment, he looked as though he might soften. Then his expression hardened once more. “You never had me to lose, Harriet.”

The words were a death knell. She sucked in a sharp breath, the pain of them cutting deeper than she could have anticipated. Sebastian turned back toward the door, his hand clenching into a fist before he let it fall open again. He hesitated for only a moment, then grasped the door handle.

“You asked for more time,” he said without looking at her. “But time is the one thing I can no longer afford to give you.”

With quiet finality, he strode through her private drawing room and then stepped out into the hall beyond it, closing the door behind him.

Harriet sat frozen in place, the sound of his retreating footsteps echoing in her ears.

She supposed she should be concerned that the other women in the house would be alarmed by his presence.

About their own security if Harriet ruined her reputation.

But in that moment, she could not find the will to care.

The room felt impossibly empty without him.

She turned slowly, looking over her shoulder at the painting that had betrayed her.

No. That was not right. She had betrayed herself.

And once again, there was no one to blame but her.

Sebastian stormed into the Scott residence, barely acknowledging the footman who opened the door before shrugging out of his coat and tossing it over a chair in the entryway.

His boots struck hard against the polished floor as he strode down the corridor, his fury barely contained beneath the surface.

Damn her.

Damn her lies, her secrets, the way she had looked at him with those wide, pleading eyes as if she had not just shattered whatever trust had been growing between them.