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He hovered near the door, his massive frame stiff with restrained fury.

When a man was as large as himself, he could not afford to let his emotions overtake him.

Losing his temper had consequences. He had spent years perfecting control, knowing that if he so much as shoved another man in anger, the force could send them sprawling.

But by God, he wanted to pummel Richard.

The pacing. The nervous energy. The guilty fidgeting with his cravat.

Sebastian’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.

He waited. Waited for one of them to speak. Waited to hear whatever excuse Richard had prepared for his betrayal. But mostly, he waited because if he spoke first, he could not trust himself to do so without his anger boiling over.

Sebastian’s brows lifted in surprise as the countess’s voice, cool and unwavering, cut through the tension in the room.

“My husband has informed me of the misunderstanding that occurred at Hyde Park,” she said, folding her gloves with precise movements before setting them aside.

“He has explained to me at great pains that he cannot share the details of his conversations with Lady Slight. And I have informed him that it is time for Lady Slight to forgive herself and that you, Lord Sebastian, are the only one who can help her do so.”

Sebastian stared at her. This was not the quiet, docile gentlewoman he had assumed her to be. There was steel beneath her polished exterior, a formidable strength in her tone that caught him off guard.

Intriguing.

He flicked a glance toward Richard, who looked both miserable and relieved that his wife had taken the lead in the conversation.

Sebastian’s temper, which had been coiled tight as a spring, slowly began to ease. He stepped farther into the room, his large frame filling the space.

Sophia’s blue gaze remained steady, assessing him with a frankness that left no room for pretense. “Sit.”

He arched a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“You need to hear the truth,” she said, unruffled by his towering presence.

“And you need to decide whether you are a real man—one who can take the good with the bad when it comes to the woman you love. Because people are not perfect, Lord Sebastian, and it takes strength to accept both their virtues and their failings.”

Sebastian hesitated, then slowly sank into the nearest chair.

For the first time in hours, he was willing to listen.

If he were honest, he was relieved that someone had appeared to take control of the situation that had been spiraling since he had awoken to find the painting hanging above his head.

The countess made him, and apparently her husband, feel like a poorly behaved child with her firm tone, but if it calmed the terrible tempest running through his large body, he was all ears.

Harriet curled deeper into the corner of her settee, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she could hold the broken pieces of her heart together. She should have known better. She had played a dangerous game, and now she had lost. Worse, she had lost him.

She had been granted a second chance at happiness and had wrecked it as thoroughly as she had that final day together when they had celebrated St. Valentine’s.

She was a bad person to the core, and she was doomed to a lifetime of unhappiness because of her terrible nature.

Perhaps it was in her blood, Bertram Hargreaves’s ultimate revenge for trying to escape his influence to become a better person.

The quiet crackle of the fire was soon drowned out by the sound of determined footsteps. She barely had time to swipe at her damp cheeks before the door to the painted room swung open.

Evaline entered first, a determined set to her mouth. Behind her, Finch carried a heavily laden tray, Jem trailing behind with a second. And Belinda—Belinda, who should have known better than to fuss over her—shut the door firmly behind them, sealing her fate.

Harriet sighed. “I am fine.”

No one responded. Instead, Finch set down the tray with an air of finality, the delicate china clinking softly.

Jem hurried forward, arranging plates of refreshment and bowls of sugar lumps beside the steaming pot of tea.

The young maid might not have perfected the etiquette of an upper-class household, but she had certainly learned her way around a tea tray.

The little York biscuits were delicate round confections, golden-brown and lightly dusted with fine sugar.

Harriet had always relished their crisp exterior that gave way to a buttery, crumbly center, the richness melting on the tongue with just a hint of lemon zest and nutmeg.

A plate of them sat in the center of the table, arranged neatly beside a dish of preserved cherries and a small bowl of clotted cream.

They were the kind of biscuits that one could mindlessly nibble on while deep in thought, their sweetness offering a fleeting comfort.

But today, Harriet doubted even the most perfect pastry could soothe the gnawing ache in her chest.

Evaline, Finch, and Belinda exchanged a look—one of silent conspiracy. Then, as though they were a single organism, they pulled chairs closer and sat.

Evaline sat poised on the edge of her chair, the very picture of refined delicacy.

She was draped in a soft wool gown of dove-gray, its high waistline accentuated by a narrow band of embroidery, and the pale blue ribbons of her sleeves trailed as she idly toyed with the fabric of her skirts.

Her fine-boned hands smoothed over the folds with an absent grace, as if she were composing herself.

Her golden curls, always so artfully arranged, framed her face like the delicate filigree of a porcelain doll, and her pale blue eyes—so wide and guileless—were filled with what Harriet suspected was guilt.

When Harriet shot her an accusatory stare, Evaline threw her a small helpless smile, followed by a look of apology far too innocent to be genuine.

“I thought you needed reinforcements,” she admitted, her voice as gentle as falling snow. “To aid you against your own decline.”

Harriet exhaled sharply, glancing at the assembled women—Finch, Jem, and Belinda, all sitting together like a united front. It seemed her stubbornness had been outmatched.

Mrs. Finch sat with the air of a battle-tested general surveying the field, her generous figure unyielding as if she had been carved from the same stone used to fortify castles.

She was a woman built for endurance, her ample frame wrapped in serviceable brown wool, the severe lines of her bodice accentuating the breadth of her shoulders.

If Napoleon himself had stormed the sitting room, she would have met him head-on with nothing more than a sharp glare and an iron-clad sense of duty.

Her face, weathered by years of managing unruly taverns and unrulier patrons, was set in the stubborn lines of a woman who had never once lost an argument—nor intended to.

Her mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line, though her dark eyes, shrewd and knowing, carried a glint of something softer.

Not sympathy—Mrs. Finch had no patience for self-pity—but an unspoken understanding.

She had seen the wreckage men left behind, and she was not about to let Harriet sink beneath it.

With a decisive nod, she adjusted the folds of her apron as if preparing for war. “Right, then,” she declared, her voice sharp as a musket crack, “let’s get on wiv it.”

Shifting her gaze to Belinda, Harriet saw not the woman her father had cast aside without a second thought, but one who had seized the opportunity given to her with quiet determination.

Belinda sat with her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, the very image of composed elegance.

Though she was dressed modestly, her natural refinement could not be disguised; she had a way of carrying herself that spoke of someone who had once been accustomed to luxury and had learned, through necessity, to survive without it.

The firelight played over her dark brown hair, gleaming where it was pinned into a neat coil at the nape of her neck, and her hazel eyes—once dulled by resignation—now held a spark of purpose.

Harriet had given her a way out, but Belinda had taken that path on her own terms. There was no simpering gratitude in her expression, no trace of self-pity.

She was a woman who had been wronged, yes, but she refused to allow the past to define her.

She was forging ahead, stepping boldly into a new life, and Harriet could not help but feel a swell of admiration.

“Well,” Belinda said, tilting her head slightly, her voice smooth and composed. “Are we to sit here all day, or shall we set about putting you to rights?”

It was a simple statement, but in it lay the firm resolve of someone who understood the necessity of resilience. Harriet had saved Belinda from ruin, but perhaps, in this moment, it was Belinda who might save her.

Even little Jem, the waiflike girl who had somehow wormed her way into Harriet’s heart with her artless affection, had pulled a chair over—though it was far too large for her slender form.

She sat with a resolute set to her face, her mop of unruly hair barely tamed by the simple ribbon she had tied it back with that morning.

Her freckles stood out starkly against her pale skin, and her gray maid’s uniform only emphasized the fragile delicacy of her frame.

Yet despite her diminutive stature, there was nothing hesitant about her presence. She had the air of someone who had made up her mind and would not be swayed, her hands clenched into small fists atop her lap as if she, too, were bracing for a battle.

Harriet almost smiled. Apparently, her status as an important viscountess was not sufficient to cower her own staff into leaving her to her misery.

Evaline had invited them in with her dainty concern, so her band of rescues had all gathered—Finch with her unshakable stubbornness, Belinda with her quiet strength, and Jem, the smallest of them all, who had chosen to plant herself firmly in solidarity as though she, too, would stand guard against Harriet’s despair.

Harriet stared at them. “I do not require a council of war.”

“Nah, what ye need’s a cuppa tea,” Finch said matter-of-factly, pouring a cup and thrusting it into her hands.

“Ye should eat summat, m’lady,” Jem added, her usual meekness replaced by quiet insistence as she nudged the biscuits forward.

“Men are cruel,” Belinda declared, as if that alone would mend everything.

But Harriet’s chest ached because she knew that was not true.

Sebastian was not cruel.

He had never been.

Most of what had gone wrong had been her fault.

Or at the very least, a consequence of her own choices and the circumstances that had shaped her.

Maybe the truth was that she had never deserved him.

She had never been strong enough, never been honest enough, never been good enough. He had always been too good for her.

And now, she had lost him forever.