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Have pity on your constant swain,

And release him from his pain;

Cast him not like shells away;

But fix upon a joyous day,

When we to church shall trip away.

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

D espite the impropriety of it all, the women rose to their feet as one, standing shoulder to shoulder with Harriet. Finch, naturally, was the first to speak, her stout figure braced like a general about to lead a charge.

“Well, m’lord?” she demanded, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Ye come stormin’ in ’ere like some bleedin’ conquerin’ ’ero, but what I wants to know is—what’re yer intentions toward our lady?”

Sebastian lifted a brow, clearly amused by the inquisition but entirely undaunted. His gaze flickered across each woman before settling on Finch with a measured patience.

“My intentions,” he said slowly, “are my own to discuss with Lady Slight.”

Finch let out a huff, unimpressed. “Ain’t good enough, m’lord. We all knows ’ow men work—ye’ll say all them pretty things, make yer promises, then scarper soon as ye’ve ’ad yer fill.” She folded her arms. “Oi’ll not ’ave our lady left ’eartbroken on my watch.”

Harriet, still reeling from Sebastian’s sudden appearance and his words, barely managed to find her voice. “Finch?—”

But the older woman was undeterred.

“Ye ain’t got the foggiest what she’s been through,” Finch continued, her voice thick with conviction. “Ye don’t know ’ow ’ard she’s worked to turn things ’round. So if ye’re just ’ere to muck about with ’er, ye can turn right ’round an’ shove off out that door.”

Sebastian did not so much as flinch at the scolding. Instead, he inclined his head, as though he had expected no less from the formidable woman. “I assure you, I do not intend to toy with her.”

A delicate throat-clearing sounded beside Finch, and Evaline, ever the picture of grace and refinement, clasped her hands before her.

“My lord,” she said, her voice smooth and composed but no less resolute, “it is not simply a matter of whether you intend to cause pain but whether you are prepared for all that loving Harriet entails.” She tilted her head, scrutinizing him with an assessing gaze.

“You may think you know her, but people change. Life changes them. You have spent years apart, and now you have only had a handful of days together. Are you certain you understand what you are asking for?”

Harriet’s heart pounded. Evaline’s words, spoken with quiet authority, struck true.

Did he truly understand?

Sebastian was silent for a moment. Then, at last, he spoke.

“I know her well enough to understand that I love her,” he said.

A ripple of reaction passed through the room.

Harriet inhaled sharply, her stomach twisting into knots.

He loves me.

Finch and Evaline exchanged glances, but before they could respond, Belinda stepped forward, her gaze piercing.

“And yet you did not trust her,” Belinda pointed out, her words laced with skepticism. “You accused her of unfaithfulness. You stormed out.” She raised a brow. “What has changed?”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. “I was angry.”

“That much was clear,” Belinda murmured.

He rolled his shoulders, his tension visible. “I was angry because I have spent years trying to forget her. And the moment I stopped resisting, the moment I allowed myself to believe in a future, I discovered she had deceived me again.”

Harriet looked away. He had every right to say it. Every right to hold that grievance close to his heart. But his next words made her breath catch.

“I left because I was afraid,” Sebastian admitted, his confession settling over the room.

“Afraid that I would never be able to trust her. Afraid that she would never trust me. Afraid that after everything, I had come back for a dream that had already crumbled.” His voice turned hoarse. “But I was wrong.”

A hush fell.

Harriet swallowed past the lump in her throat.

Sebastian took a step forward.

“Harriet, I know we cannot erase the past,” he said. “I know we have made mistakes—both of us. But I also know that I am not willing to let you go. Not again.”

Jem, standing by Harriet’s side, her little hands balled into fists, finally spoke, her young voice quiet but firm.

“Then don’t.”

Sebastian turned his gaze to the girl, which Jem met without flinching.

“If ye love ’er, then stay.”

The simple words, spoken with such certainty, sent a fresh wave of emotion washing over Harriet.

Stay.

She looked to Sebastian, her heart hammering. The room was silent, waiting. Waiting for her to decide. Waiting for her to believe. She took a shaky breath. And then, voice trembling but firm, she spoke.

“There are things I have done. Things you do not know about.”

Sebastian’s gaze focused on her, and he smiled in a way that made her heart flip over in her chest.

“When you are ready, you will tell me these mistakes that you regret. Until then, I accept you as you are because living without you is … I cannot do it again, Harry. It will kill me to walk away a second time, so take mercy on this wretched man who has loved you since the moment I first met you as a green youth in Wiltshire and have never stopped.”

He stepped forward, respectfully making his way through the women who stood between them. Once he reached her, he lifted his hand to her cheek and tilted her head back to stare deep into her heart.

“Let me love you, Harry.”

Tears spilled, but this time they were tears of gratitude. Gratitude for the man who knew her to her very depths. Knew her flaws. Knew about her secrets. And had always loved her anyway.

Sebastian used the pad of his thumb to wipe the moisture away from her cheeks, lowering his head to settle his lips against hers, and Harriet felt the pieces of her soul slowly pulling together into one whole.

A flawed whole, but if a man as true as Sebastian could accept her as she was, perhaps she could, too.

“Right, then,” Finch said, clearing her throat and folding her arms across her ample bosom. “This is all very sweet an’ teary, but dinner ain’t gonna serve itself, now is it?”

Harriet let out a breathless giggle against Sebastian’s mouth, the tension of the moment giving way to sheer, giddy relief. The women chuckled amongst themselves before retreating, their skirts rustling as they dispersed, murmuring about roasts and puddings, no doubt eager to grant them privacy.

Sebastian lifted his head, gray eyes warm and fixed on her as the last of their audience slipped away.

“There are things to settle between us,” Harriet said softly. “But”—she bit her lip, hesitant, but she knew what she wanted—“may I come to Italy with you? Perhaps we can wed in Calais?”

A slow, wondrous smile spread across his face. He nodded, then leaned down to kiss her again, more gently this time, as if sealing a vow.

Before she could take another breath, he bent and lifted her into his arms as though she weighed nothing. Harriet gasped, laughing as she instinctively clutched his shoulders. “Sebastian!”

“I have wasted enough time, Harry,” he murmured, striding out of the painted room and toward the staircase.

Her mind whirled, half in awe that this was real.

Could it truly be happening? The thought of leaving England—of starting fresh, of standing beside Sebastian in Italy, of finally being free of all the burdens she had carried—sent a thrill through her veins.

Perhaps she might ask Belinda if she wished to leave England as well, to go where her past reputation would not hinder her, and she would be free to be Miss Belinda Cooper or Miss Bélise Coupier as she pleased, and Bertram Hargreaves’s disapproving presence could no longer touch either of them.

And, here in London, Evaline would take care of her odd little household in her absence.

Then, as the warmth of Sebastian’s body pressed against hers, a more sobering thought crept in. She winced slightly, knowing that sooner or later, she would have to tell him everything. Confess her sins. Lay bare the worst of herself so she never again had to flinch at the shadows of her past.

It should be soon. It should be now. But just as quickly as the thought arrived, it was vanquished when Sebastian’s lips found hers again, hot and demanding, scattering all reason as he carried her through the halls of her home.

There was no past, no regrets—only the steady strength of his arms and the promise of new bonds, unbreakable bonds.

For, as evening approached, there was only them.

Sebastian was euphoric. All the doubts, the anger, the past arguments—none of it mattered anymore. Harriet had chosen him. She wanted to come to Italy. She wanted him.

For the first time since that fateful St. Valentine’s Day, he was truly happy.

He held her close as he carried her up the stairs, savoring the soft warmth of her body against his chest, her breath feathering against his neck.

She was his. After all the years apart, the regrets and misunderstandings, the barriers between them had finally crumbled.

Whatever troubles they encountered, they would navigate them together .

Happiness was possible. Even in the bad times, even when life was imperfect, he would have her by his side.

For years, he had hardened himself against hope, against the foolish notion that he could ever reclaim what he had lost. But now, for the first time in forever, he allowed himself to look forward to the future.

A future with Harriet.

Passion coiled hot and insistent through him as he ascended the last step, his grip tightening around her as he reached her rooms. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, stepping inside her private drawing room.

He had no wish to think of anything else. Not the quarrels. Not the past. Not even the painting that had begun the argument earlier this day.

There was only Harriet.