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And, in truth, if aught could banish,

From my heart thy form divine,

Then all love for worth must vanish ? —

Farewell every Valentine!

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

H arriet’s heart pounded in her chest, a relentless drumbeat of anguish and regret. The cold seeped through the windows, but she scarcely noticed, too consumed by the storm raging within her.

She had ruined everything.

The pain in Sebastian’s eyes when he had stormed toward her, the fury in his voice as he had accused her—it was all seared into her memory. And now, as the carriage rattled back toward home, the enormity of her mistake dragged her down like an iron yoke.

Fool. I have been such a fool.

What had she expected? That she could manipulate fate into giving her a second chance?

That she could control the outcome with a clever scheme?

It was laughable, truly. Sebastian had always been an honorable man, and yet she had sought to ensnare him through trickery.

She had told herself that, given time, he would remember why he had once loved her, that he would forgive the past.

But now, after this morning, that was impossible.

And worst of all, she had no one to blame but herself.

She pressed her gloved fingers to her temples, closing her eyes against the burning sting of regret. She had sought redemption, had spent months trying to be someone better, someone worthy. But what did that matter when she had undone it all with one foolish lie?

A scoundrel. That was what Sebastian had called Lord Saunton. And yet, who had been the true scoundrel here?

She should have trusted him. She should have given him the truth. Instead, she had clung to her fear, her selfishness, and now it had cost her everything.

Her hands trembled as she dropped them into her lap. What would happen now? Would Lord Saunton keep her secret? Or would he break trust and tell Sebastian everything?

And even if the earl did not speak, what did it matter? Would Sebastian leave England thinking the worst of her—that she had been carrying on an affair with his own cousin?

A bitter laugh bubbled up from her throat. Why should that even surprise her? After all, had she not already been with his other cousin?

Perry.

The thought of him struck her like a physical blow.

It had been more than a year, and yet that mistake still clung to her.

She had not sought out Perry, had not meant to fall into that particular ruin, but she had been weak, reckless, and in her despair, she had let herself believe that anything was better than facing her loneliness.

And now, what right did she have to a second chance? What right did she have to love, to forgiveness? She deserved to be alone.

The carriage slowed, and she realized with a start that they had arrived at home. Their new footman opened the door, and Harriet barely managed to step out before her composure cracked. Keeping her chin lifted, she strode inside, her boots clicking against the marble floor.

Mrs. Finch opened her mouth to speak, but Harriet did not stop. She could not. She moved swiftly down the corridor, past the grand staircase, past the portraits of long-dead ancestors from her mother’s side of the family who had likely been better people than she was.

She barely made it to the painted room before her knees gave out.

With a muffled sob, she collapsed onto the settee, pressing her face into her hands as the force of her failure crashed over her. She could not hold it back any longer. The dam broke, and she wept.

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with warmth, but Harriet felt only the hollow chill of loss. She had fought so hard to change, to become someone worthy of Sebastian’s love. And yet, when it had mattered most, she had done what she always did. She had ruined everything.

A quiet movement stirred across the room, and she realized she was not alone. Evaline sat in her usual chair by the fireplace, sipping her tea. She had not spoken a word since Harriet had entered, but now, as Harriet lifted her head, she found her friend regarding her with calm, perceptive eyes.

“Well,” Evaline murmured, setting down her cup, “your meeting went poorly, I assume.”

Sebastian had barely seen the streets of London when his carriage rattled home.

His jaw ached from how tightly he had clenched it, his hands fisting on his thighs as anger and confusion warred within him.

The morning had unraveled everything. He had woken with Harriet in his arms, full of a hope he had barely dared to acknowledge, only for the bitter sting of betrayal to steal it away entirely.

Now, the only thing left was the certainty that he had to leave England.

The moment his carriage rolled to a stop, Sebastian shoved open the door and vaulted down, ignoring the footman as he stalked past. He strode up the steps, his boots striking the stone with hard, deliberate purpose.

Campbell, the head footman who had recently been promoted to butler, inclined his head as he passed, but Sebastian did not slow.

“Milord—”

He did not stop.

Through the hall. Past Lorenzo, who had just emerged from the library. Up the stairs.

“Sebastian?” Lorenzo’s voice carried after him, laced with confusion. “ Dio , what now?”

Sebastian ignored him, reaching his bedchamber and throwing the door open so violently it slammed into the wall. He had to move. Had to pack. Had to put as much distance between himself and this place—between himself and Harriet—as possible before he did something truly foolish.

He yanked open a trunk, thankful he had insisted the servants not stow it away, and shoved folded shirts inside with far more force than necessary.

The repetitive motions soothed nothing. His mind still reeled, caught between the sting of betrayal and the damned, infuriating truth that he still wanted her.

Even now. Even knowing what he knew.

A curse ripped from his throat as he tossed a waistcoat into the trunk. The door opened behind him.

“I assume you’re fleeing the country,” Lorenzo said dryly.

Sebastian ground his teeth, not looking up as he moved to his wardrobe. “Not fleeing. Leaving.”

Lorenzo stepped farther inside, shutting the door with an ominous click. “I see. And what, pray, has prompted this dramatic departure?”

Sebastian grasped a stack of cravats, his hands trembling. “I have had enough of this godforsaken country.”

Lorenzo hummed. “Fascinating. And does this sudden loathing for England have anything to do with Lady Slight?”

Sebastian stiffened. The cravats crumpled in his grip.

Lorenzo sighed. “You are not subtle, amico . You have returned looking like you might strangle the next man who speaks to you. What happened?”

Silence stretched between them.

Sebastian turned, exhaling sharply as he met Lorenzo’s searching gaze. The truth burned on his tongue, his every instinct at war. He did not want to say it aloud. Did not want to acknowledge it. Because once he did, it would be real.

But Lorenzo was relentless.

“Sebastian.”

The name was a command, sharp and unyielding. Sebastian’s hands clenched. His breath came hard and fast.

“She’s having an affair with my cousin,” he bit out.

Lorenzo’s brows lifted. “Which one?”

“Richard,” Sebastian snapped.

A beat of silence. Then … Lorenzo snorted.

Sebastian’s glare could have stripped paint from the walls. “You find this amusing?”

Lorenzo held up a hand, still chuckling. “I find it absurd.”

Sebastian scowled, turning back to his packing. “I saw them. Together.”

Lorenzo’s amusement faded. “Did you see them together, or did you assume?”

Sebastian tensed. “They were alone. She was distressed. He was comforting her.”

Lorenzo sighed. “Sebastian?—”

A knock at the door interrupted them. Sebastian exhaled sharply, grateful for the reprieve. He stalked to the door and wrenched it open.

Campbell stood there, composed as ever, giving Sebastian pause.

“Lord and Lady Saunton are waiting for you in the family drawing room, milord.”

Sebastian stilled. Every ounce of breath left his lungs. The room seemed to tilt. Slowly, he turned to glance at Lorenzo, who had also gone very, very still.

Richard was here.

With his wife.

Waiting for him.

His grip on the doorframe tightened.

So. The guilty party had come to explain himself. Sebastian’s jaw clenched as he forced himself to breathe. “Very well,” he said, voice like ice.

Without another word, he stepped past Campbell, then descended the stairs with agitated strides. He would hear what they had to say. And then, by God, he would decide whether or not to break Richard’s jaw.

Sebastian stepped into the family drawing room, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the doorframe.

The tension in the room was palpable, thick as fog over the wintry Thames.

Richard was pacing the length of the carpet, his movements restless, his cravat visibly loosened as though he had been tugging at it in frustration.

And Richard’s wife, Sophia, sat primly on the settee, her delicate hands fiddling with her gloves.

The firelight cast a warm glow over her flawless complexion, her red-blonde hair shining like burnished gold beneath the soft lamplight.

She was dressed in a blue gown that complemented her striking blue eyes, which lifted to him the moment he entered.

Sebastian was momentarily struck by her serene beauty.

How could Richard—a man who had spent years as a notorious rake, but who now supposedly valued his reformed reputation—be so foolish as to betray such a fine female? A wife like Lady Saunton, graceful, mild, the picture of quiet dignity? The thought only fueled his anger.