Page 28

Nay: if ’tis a crime to love thee,

Then no lot’s so hard as mine.

H arriet’s hands trembled in her lap as she sat rigidly in the carriage. This time it was not passion that made them shake, but deep regret. She had ruined everything.

Sebastian had looked at her this morning as though she had shattered whatever fragile bonds had begun to form between them. And now, she was certain she had lost him forever. The burden of her poor choices pressed down upon her, suffocating and inescapable.

When Lord Saunton rode up alongside her carriage, his expression shifted immediately from casual curiosity to concern.

He reined in his horse and dismounted with fluid ease before striding toward the carriage door.

She barely waited for him to assist her before stepping out onto the cold ground, the air biting at her skin even beneath her gloves.

“Lady Slight?” Lord Saunton’s voice was low and careful, but the keen perception in his gaze told her he had already deduced that something was amiss.

She swallowed, wrapping her arms around herself, seeking comfort where none was to be found. “I have made a terrible mistake.”

Lord Saunton frowned, his gloved hands settling on his hips. “That much is clear. But which mistake in particular are we discussing?”

Harriet laughed, a sharp and humorless sound.

“I trapped Sebastian into a courtship in exchange for a painting he once gave me. I told him I no longer had it, and that I would tell him who did if he pretended to court me until Christmas. But I did have it, and now he knows and I … I spoiled everything.”

The earl’s brows shot up in unmistakable dismay. “You what?”

She nodded miserably. “I … I know it was wrong. I knew it when I did it. But I thought … I thought if I had time, I could make him see—” Her voice broke.

“That you belonged together?” he guessed, his expression sympathetic.

“Yes.” The admission scorched her throat.

He ran a hand down his face, frustration plain. “And instead, he has discovered the truth, and now you are standing here like a lost child, trembling over the consequences of your choices.”

She flinched. “I did not mean to hurt him.”

“No, I imagine you meant to secure your own happiness first and foremost,” Lord Saunton said, his voice firm.

Harriet turned away, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I know I have done wrong. But you have been my Mentor these many months. Advised me on making amends for my past behavior. Until now, I did everything you told me to do, and I am terribly sorry I did not tell you what I was about. But, please, tell me how to fix this?”

The earl was silent for a long moment before he spoke again.

“Lady Slight … once one starts on the path of honesty, it is imperative not to stray from it. You cannot simply confess one truth and expect all else to be forgiven if you continue down the road of deception. I am afraid you have not heeded my advice in this regard.”

She turned back to him, desperation clawing at her chest. “Tell me what I can do. You are the only one I know who managed to find your way back. You … and Perry, whom I cannot ask to help for obvious reasons.” She could hardly ask her former lover to advise her on redemption, which was why she had sought out not him, but Perry’s brother back in August when she had made her decision to change her circumstances.

His jaw ticked. “You already know what must be done. This path requires commitment. You cannot mend a broken foundation by stacking more stones atop it.”

Harriet nodded, barely breathing.

She knew.

She had always known.

She would have to confess all her secrets to Sebastian.

Her affair last year with his cousin Perry.

Her affair with the duke’s brother-in-law, Brendan, earlier this year, followed by her betrayal when he was arrested.

The awful facts of her attempt to seduce him as a married man, and how Lily had caught her in the act.

Was she brave enough to do it?

The admiring glances he had given her this past week would turn to condemnation, and she would lose all possibility of ever claiming her place at his side.

But if she withheld the rest of her secrets, she stood no chance of winning him back.

She was damned if she did and damned if she did not.

A jail of her own making that she could have eased by not telling the lie about the painting he wished to acquire for his friend.

Sebastian had always been loyal. And in her case, his desire to be loyal to her had been his only mistake.

Sebastian saw red as he watched from nearby. The couple were too absorbed to notice his presence a mere thirty feet away, and the winter landscape around him seemed to mirror the slow, creeping cold crystallizing in his chest.

The towering oaks and elms, stripped of their summer finery, stood desolate against the overcast sky, their barren limbs reaching toward the heavens like pleading supplicants.

Frost clung stubbornly to the shaded hollows at their roots, while the brittle remnants of autumn’s fallen leaves crunched underfoot when the occasional walker passed along the distant paths.

A biting wind swept through the park, rattling the bare branches, tugging at the few withered leaves that clung desperately to the trees—just as he had once clung to the illusion of Harriet’s honesty.

The distant surface of the Serpentine reflected the bleak sky, its edges lined with a thin crust of ice that had begun to spread overnight, a silent testament to the deepening cold.

Sebastian forced himself to breathe deeply, his gloved hands flexing at his sides.

He should not feel betrayed—not after all her deceptions—but the storm inside him raged nonetheless.

The cold had never bothered him before. He had spent years in Florence, under the warm Mediterranean sun, but now, standing in the heart of a London winter, he had never felt more frozen. Or hot.

His fury had simmered beneath the surface all morning, ever since he had stormed out of Harriet’s house. He had told himself he was done with her. That he would not let himself be lured back into her tangled web.

Yet here she was—again—slinking about London in her discreet dark blue walking dress, just as she had the last time he had followed her. And this time, she was meeting his own cousin.

He still could not credit it—Richard Balfour, the Earl of Saunton.

The man who had so diligently played peacemaker at the duke’s dinner the night before.

The man who had shielded Harriet with careful words when she had been under scrutiny in the men’s gathering after dinner.

And now, the man who had the audacity to meet her alone in a secluded part of the park.

Richard was betraying both his graceful wife and Sebastian. Did Philip know about this? Was this the source of his brother’s disapproval?

Sebastian launched toward them, the sheer force of his rage propelling him like a cannon shot.

Richard had just placed his hand on Harriet’s arm in a steadying manner, and Sebastian did not stop to consider that it might have been an innocent gesture.

All he saw was betrayal. Betrayal from the woman he had loved. Betrayal from his own blood.

With long, punishing strides, he closed the distance between them. Harriet gasped as she caught sight of him, but before she could say a word, Sebastian grabbed Richard by the lapels of his greatcoat and yanked him forward, bringing them nearly nose-to-nose.

The difference in their sizes was almost comical.

Sebastian towered over his cousin by a solid five inches, his broad chest and thick arms making Richard seem almost boyish in comparison. The usually unshakable earl looked genuinely alarmed, his emerald eyes going wide.

“Sebastian,” Richard choked out, his hands coming up in startled protest. “This is not what it looks like.”

“Not what it looks like?” Sebastian snarled. “Then do tell me, cousin , what exactly does it look like?”

Harriet surged forward, grasping Sebastian’s arm, which, despite everything, made him want to turn and pull her into an embrace so she could comfort him and tell him that his heart was not breaking for the third time.

“Have you been following me?” she demanded, her voice sharp with disbelief.

Sebastian barely spared her a glance, his fingers tightening in the fabric of Richard’s coat. “And if I have?” he snapped. “It seems I had good reason.”

Harriet’s cheeks flushed darkly. “You had no right?—”

“I had every right,” he growled, jerking his chin toward Richard. “It appears I am the only one in this situation who does not know what the hell is going on.”

Richard grimaced, attempting to pry himself free. “I swear to you, this is not an assignation.”

Sebastian gave him a hard shake. “Then what is it?”

“I-I cannot say,” Richard stammered, looking to Harriet with desperation.

“How convenient.” Sebastian’s lip curled in a sneer. “The great scoundrel of London, sworn off his wicked ways, but still unable to keep his hands off my woman.”

Harriet stiffened beside him. “Your woman?” she repeated, her voice quiet but vibrating with undefined emotion.

Sebastian turned on her, his fingers finally unclenching from Richard’s coat. “You demand trust,” he bit out. “And yet all I ever seem to find are secrets. Lies. Clandestine meetings.”

Harriet’s mouth tightened. “Perhaps,” she shot back, “if you had a bit more trust, I would not have to keep so many secrets.”

Sebastian flinched as if struck. Something sharp and cold slid through his gut at her words. Had he prevented her from telling him the truth? Had he failed her in some way—now and … then?

Harriet stared at him, her breath unsteady, her eyes burning with a mix of hurt and defiance.

For a moment, it was just the two of them, locked in battle, standing at the edge of something neither of them knew how to navigate.

Then, with a swift pivot, she turned on her heel and strode toward her carriage.

Sebastian was frozen, caught between wanting to call her back and wanting to walk away from her forever.

Richard exhaled heavily, rubbing at his throat as if still feeling the imprint of Sebastian’s grip. “That was not necessary.”

Sebastian gave a humorless laugh. “No? Then explain.”

Richard hesitated. “I cannot. Lady Slight’s confidences are not mine to repeat.”

Sebastian let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Of course you cannot.” He cast him a scathing look. “A rake does not change, Richard. Perhaps you have reformed enough to wed, but that does not mean you have changed. You are no better than your depraved father, after all—the Earl of Satan lives on!”

Richard’s jaw tightened, but he did not respond.

Sebastian clenched his fists, his rage still simmering, but what use was it? Harriet was gone. The truth—whatever it was—remained out of reach.

Sebastian walked away, his boots crunching against the frozen ground, the cold air biting at his face.

He should have felt victorious—he had finally pried himself free of the spider’s web Harriet had spun around him.

No more half-truths. No more watching her dance around his questions with coy evasions.

No more wondering if she had ever truly cared for him.

He should have felt relief. Instead, all he felt was bone-deep exhaustion.

The carriage ride back to the Scott townhouse passed in a blur of gray skies and damp streets, of fog curling around lampposts and pedestrians bundled against the frigid air. The city felt hollow, as if it reflected the emptiness yawning inside of him.

England had always felt like a place of constraints.

Duty. Expectations. A cage built of propriety and familial obligations.

It had taken him years to break free, to carve out a life in Italy that was his and his alone.

And yet, here he was, once again shackled to the past, to a woman who had owned his heart since they were barely more than children.

Damn her.

Damn himself for loving her still.

Because despite the morning’s revelations—despite the lies, the manipulations, the endless string of secrets—he knew the truth with startling, painful clarity. He would always love Harriet. And that meant he had to leave.

If he stayed in England, he would never walk away from her. He would never be free of her smile, of her maddening ability to make him feel both utterly alive and utterly destroyed in the same breath. He would never stop looking at her and thinking, What if?

He had spent years living with the fact she had betrayed him once before. And now, she had done it again.

His carriage pulled to a stop before the townhouse, the iron-wrought lanterns casting weak halos of light against the deepening gloom of afternoon. His decision settled over him, heavy and suffocating.

It was time to go home.

To Florence. To the life he had built for himself. To a place where Harriet did not exist in every shadowed memory and stolen dream.

He stepped down from the carriage, his movements stiff, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Inside, he would inform Lorenzo of his decision, who would have to visit Harriet and ask to view the painting himself. Sebastian would arrange for his own passage out of England as soon as possible.

And he would never look back.