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When first our paths in life’s vast maze did meet,

I felt the hand of fate had led my feet;

No chance, but destiny, had brought you near,

To be my own, my dearest, ever dear

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

DECEMBER 9, 1821

H arriet had not slept a wink.

Evaline’s news that Sebastian Markham had returned to England had sent her reeling, memories flying in every direction as she realized she would be forced to confront her first major misstep. She was not ready to face him.

If only she had more time—time to make amends for the many mistakes she had made since that fateful St. Valentine’s Day—then perhaps she might find it easier to confront him. But she had only just begun her crusade to set things right.

Had she already succeeded in finding and assisting Belinda Cooper with her predicament, Harriet might have summoned the extra courage required for this unexpected meeting.

The older woman needed her, and Harriet felt the situation was personal.

A chance to stand up to her father after too many years of cowardice.

“He gave no indication of what he wanted?”

It was the eleventh time she had asked since coming downstairs to break her fast, yet Evaline, to her credit, showed not a whit of impatience.

Then again, she had long mastered the art of forbearance in the presence of irascible companions.

Her late husband had been a brute of a man, from what Harriet had heard.

“Merely that he had a question to pose to you,” Evaline responded, setting down her fork to converse properly. “Something about your youth.”

Harriet shook her head in agitation.

The only question about their youth that came to mind was the one she dared not think about. The one that had haunted her for years. Her faithless behavior as a young lady had shadowed her every step since. But surely, he was not coming to ask her … that.

Pushing her eggs around her plate with the tines of her fork, she finally abandoned the pretense of eating.

“I will be having tea in the painted room,” she declared, pushing her chair back.

Jem appeared at her elbow, her big, expressive eyes peering out from beneath a mop of thick hair. The sight softened Harriet’s pounding heart, for the girl looked up at her with such profound admiration to which Harriet was still growing accustomed.

“Oi’ll get the tea, m’lady.”

Harriet smiled to show her appreciation. The young foundling had turned out to be a hard worker, and Mrs. Finch was well pleased with her addition to their rather unusual household of characters.

“Thank you, Jem.”

Soon, Harriet was seated in the painted room, breathing deeply and sipping her tea as she did her best not to anticipate Sebastian’s arrival.

Should she ask Evaline to join them?

No. That would only make their discussion all the more stilted.

While she waited, Harriet discovered—to her dismay—that her mind had begun to play tricks on her.

Optimistic thoughts toyed with her composure. Perhaps Sebastian did wish to resurrect the past. Perhaps, now that she was a widow, he intended to pursue what they had once shared.

She shook her head and leapt to her feet, pacing the room. But the space was small, and after only a few strides, she was forced to stop. Turning to the window, she gazed out toward the street.

Perhaps she should leave for the day, avoid this meeting altogether.

But her treacherous heart yearned to glimpse the man who had once loved her so thoroughly.

And then, her thoughts turned to their last day together.

“Come with me, Harriet! Leave with me in the morning, and we will wed in Calais. I have an allowance to maintain us, and we shall take my Grand Tour together.”

She had been carried away, speaking of plans as if she truly intended to meet him.

But she had been afraid—terrified—of walking away from the marriage her father had arranged to Lord Slight.

To turn her back on wealth and status, all the while knowing that Sebastian’s brother might very well cut him off once he learned that his younger brother had wed the daughter of Lord Bertram Hargreaves—a match to which he had been firmly opposed.

So she had pretended. She had spent that last wonderful St. Valentine’s Day with the man she loved, all the while knowing she would never summon the courage to leave Wiltshire with him.

A decision she had regretted ever since.

The clatter of carriage wheels brought her back to the present, and she tilted her head to watch as the vehicle rolled to a stop before her home. The coat of arms was vaguely familiar, but it did not belong to the Duke of Halmesbury or the Markham family.

Nevertheless, it was Sebastian who alighted from the darkened interior, and she inhaled sharply—fascinated to see him after all this time.

He was tall, his too-long mane of hair sun-bleached and his skin bronzed by the faraway sun of Tuscany.

He was lean and muscular in his buckskins and coat, his white cravat loosely tied.

Sebastian had matured into the casual perfection of a god—one stepped straight from the pages of a book on Norsemen, those infamous marauders who had sailed the seas in search of plunder.

Her heart skipped a beat.

And just as they had the day before, her palms grew damp. But this time, it was with excitement rather than the dread her father had provoked in the pit of her stomach.

Looking down, Harriet fussed with the folds of her gown before walking toward the elegant settee that commanded the center of the room.

Her painted retreat had been designed to accentuate her as a woman.

Her vanity might be slowly withering in the pursuit of a greater purpose, but she needed this boon to her confidence for the meeting ahead.

Settling down, she carefully spread her skirts to their fullest advantage, wondering—perhaps foolishly—if she ought to have worn one of her older, low-cut gowns from the Season.

She had dithered over the decision that morning, but in the end, embarrassment had won.

The thought of Sebastian witnessing her past incarnation as a Merry Widow had been too much to bear.

He had never known that version of her, and she had decided he never should because, deep down, she feared the judgment she might glimpse in those gray eyes—eyes that had once captured her very soul.

Sebastian had never looked at her with criticism. And if he ever did, Harriet was certain she would incinerate to ash.

Pulling her shoulders back into perfect posture, Harriet wondered where Sebastian was staying.

The coat of arms on the carriage made it clear he was not at Markham House, where the duke resided with his duchess.

With the duchess’s father having died earlier this year in London, Harriet hazarded a guess that the young woman had elected to bear her second child in Town because word was that the ducal couple had not returned to Avonmead despite the holidays.

But it appeared Sebastian was not a guest at their townhouse.

Waiting for her visitor to be announced, Harriet stilled her agitated fingers, which had been restlessly rubbing the fabric of her silk gown. Leaning forward, she took up a teacup and saucer, giving her hands something to do as she poised herself and sipped, composed in appearance if not in spirit.

What if he is here to propose a courtship? Now that we are both free to pursue the marriage of our choice.

She squashed the thought—the romantic musings of a girl who had long since ceased to exist, despite her best efforts to rise from the grave and plague Harriet with lamentations of what could have been.

But if I mend enough of my past mistakes … Perhaps there is a possibility of ? —

Harriet seized the thought and shoved it into a dark room in her mind, bolting the door before it could escape—before it could unravel her carefully composed demeanor with foolish hopes and long-forgotten dreams.

She was some sort of addlepated fool to believe that one could undo so many lost years and so many poor decisions in a single meeting.

Mrs. Finch appeared in the doorway, and Harriet drew in a steadying breath, bracing herself.

Sebastian stepped up behind the housekeeper.

“Lord Sebastian be ’ere for ye.”

With that blunt announcement, Mrs. Finch turned and brushed past their guest, slipping through the narrow gap between him and the hall wall before disappearing in the direction of the kitchens.

Harriet colored at the crude reception. Her new servants were competent in their duties but unpolished in their manners. She and Evaline had learned to take their rough charms in stride, but it was still a tad mortifying to receive Sebastian with so little aplomb.

Forcing a smile, she set her cup and saucer aside and rose gracefully to her feet.

“Sebastian, you look well.”

“Lady Slight.”

He bowed politely, and Harriet fought the urge to screech in frustration at the formal address. Were they to behave as polite strangers, then?

Clearly, she had been correct not to get her hopes up.

“Please, come in. Have a seat,” she finally offered, licking her dry lips as she gestured toward a matching armchair.

He did not move, lingering in the doorway with an uncomfortable expression on his handsome face, his square jaw tight with tension.

“Should Lady Wood join us?”

Harriet quelled a frown at the request for a chaperon, choosing instead to smile despite the thoughts crowding her mind.

“I thought perhaps you would prefer a measure of privacy. To put your question to me?”

Sebastian rolled his broad shoulders, the motion drawing Harriet’s gaze to his lean form, the powerful thighs encased in his buckskins.

Her fingers itched to reach out and touch him as she once had, to trace the changes the years had wrought upon his frame, to press her lips to his. But she remained still, her feigned smile as unmoving as she was.

“I am here to put a request to you.”