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She waited for him to continue, alarmed by the clamoring of her foolish heart. All the signs indicated that this had nothing to do with their long-ago connection, yet she yearned for him to seize her, to declare himself.

“I sent you a painting some years ago.”

And just like that, all her hopes came crashing down, deafening her with their roar of I-told-you-sos. At last, she accepted the truth. This was not a second chance at the past. Nay, this was merely a momentary encounter before they each resumed the paths they traveled now.

“I hoped I might prevail upon you to return it to me.”

She drew a slow breath, staring at him.

The painting.

The one that had arrived after the death of her elderly husband, as if to taunt her with what might have been.

Gradually, though, it had become something else—a relic of her past, a meaningful solace when she had needed it most.

Just like Sebastian’s letter.

The one she kept folded in the journal beside her bed.

The one he had written when he had gifted her the unsigned Italian masterpiece.

The one she had read a thousand times in the dark of night.

But she refused to choke on the lump rising in her throat.

If she were a good person …

But she was not.

She was merely a work in progress, trying to become a good person while battling her baser instincts—the ever-present urge to protect her own selfish interests.

What he asked was too much, too high a price, even as she sought her road to redemption.

So she reached a decision—to lie.

It was what she knew.

There was no doubt her Mentor would take her to task for it. They would debate the morality of her actions until he argued her into a corner, but at this moment, she had no desire to reveal the truth. She would put off that quarrel for another day.

The painting was hers, she reasoned. Sebastian had gifted it to her. It was her last remaining connection to the girl she had once been, and the thought of giving it up was more than she could bear.

So she pasted on a brilliant smile, even as her stomach clenched with the bitter knowledge that any last hope of reconciliation was shattered beyond repair. If Sebastian sought the painting back?—

“That whimsical phantasy? I rid myself of it years ago, darling.”

Sebastian gradually realized he had not imagined the dismissive words.

Harriet was even more beautiful than he remembered, and it had left him distracted during their awkward exchange.

Her auburn hair was elegantly coifed, her ice-blue eyes as riveting as the vision that visited his dreams, her delicate features perfectly sculpted, reminiscent of a masterpiece from ancient Rome.

She had matured into a lovely young woman.

He had been watching her so closely that he caught the slight narrowing of her eyes, the shift from ice blue to frozen frost when he had posed his question, followed by her haughty dismissal.

Even after all these years, he could still read the transitions of her mood. She had always possessed a volatile temper, even in their youth, and he knew he had upset her—though in what way, he could not quite place his finger on.

Unfortunately, not nearly as much as she had upset him.

To learn that his most valued possession—the painting that had stoked his love of art, set him on his current career with Lorenzo, and remained his constant companion across countries and months of travel—was now gone?

The very piece he had treasured for years, until the memories it evoked had become too unbearable to face. Until he had made the agonizing decision to send it to the woman he had once loved, accompanied by a letter meant to close the door on a past that still tormented him.

Only to now be told she had given it away?

And in that moment … He hated her.

Hated her with the burning passion of a spurned lover who had never forgotten a single second of their time together.

Hated her with the fury of a bottomless ocean, bent on destroying the mortals who dared to traverse its depths during a violent storm. Much like the day he had sailed from British soils to begin a new life without her at his side.

Sebastian found he had nothing to say in response—nothing that would not leave him riddled with regret if he allowed the words to escape his lips.

So he turned and walked away.

As he sank into the well-padded squabs of the Scotts’ carriage, Sebastian’s mind churned with restless fury.

Unfortunately, he needed to clear his head because he had made the greenhorn error of agreeing to meet with his brother immediately after this call on Harriet.

There would be no time to cool the rage bellowing through his veins, no reprieve before facing yet another battle.

His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against his knee as he forced his thoughts elsewhere—toward the things that made him happy.

He imagined walking the narrow streets of Florence, his boots clicking softly against centuries-worn stones, polished smooth by countless footfalls.

The city would be alive with the hum of conversation, the distant trill of a violin, the scent of warm bread drifting from a bakery tucked beneath an ochre archway.

Yet it was not the bustle of the streets that drew him back again and again.

It was the art.

The soul of the city, immortalized in fresco and marble.

The Piazza della Signoria—where Perseus stood in defiant splendor beneath the Loggia dei Lanzi.

How many hours had Sebastian spent here, sketchbook in hand, capturing the dramatic tension in the lines of Medusa’s lifeless form?

He had gone there as a younger man, restless and searching, and found solace from the personal history pressing upon his shoulders.

In his mind, he turned toward the Uffizi Gallery, that hallowed temple of genius where Botticelli’s Birth of Venus still stole his breath.

He had studied her countless times—the delicate arch of her wrist, the ethereal way her golden locks curled about her shoulders, as if the wind itself were in love with her.

It was here, beneath the soft glow of candlelight reflecting off gilded frames, that he had first understood the power of color, of form, of light and shadow whispering stories only the soul could hear.

Yet of all the places that belonged to him in this city, it was the quiet halls of San Marco that beckoned most.

Here, masterful frescoes adorned the cells of long-departed monks, each painting a private window into devotion.

He had stood in the silence of those narrow chambers, the scent of old plaster and incense clinging to the air, and traced his fingers just above the painted surface—never touching, only feeling.

Florence was a city of masterpieces, but it was also a city of discovery.

Of dreams he had once chased … and perhaps still did.

And though he had left, though his loyalty to Lorenzo had drawn him back to England, he knew that no matter where he wandered, Florence would always be waiting for him.

When the carriage drew to a stop, Sebastian opened his eyes, a small measure of peace restored.

He had traveled so far, yet he had never found another woman who captured his heart as Harriet once had.

But that was the past. A past he suspected, unfortunately, he would be forced to revisit when he spoke with Philip.

His brother had insisted they meet in private, something Sebastian was loath to do. The duke would demand to know why he had returned to London. And he would not like the answer.

Alighting from the carriage, he strode up to Markham House. Best to get it over with. He knocked on the door.

Soon, he was ushered into the study by Clinton.

Tall and slim, with a distinguished air and graying hair, the butler had greeted him with a glimmer of humor, likely recalling the many scrapes he had rescued Sebastian from as a boy.

Sebastian vaguely realized he was musing to distract himself from the conversation ahead.

Philip stood at the window, staring out at his private garden, hands clasped behind his back.

This was Sebastian’s second visit to Markham House, but they had exchanged few words the last time.

That visit had been about meeting the new duchess—an intelligent young woman with chestnut hair and brandy eyes, already well-rounded with their second babe.

He had also spent time with his nephew, Jasper, who shared his mother’s coloring.

Sebastian had wondered whether the boy would grow to match his father in stature, and then, before he could stop himself, his mind had strayed to another possibility.

What if Harriet had left for Calais with him all those years ago? Would they have had a son or daughter by now? Would their child have shared Harriet’s auburn hair and ice-blue gaze?

Apparently, hopes for the past still lingered in the present.

Philip turned, his expression stern as he crossed the room.

He greeted Sebastian with a clumsy pat on the upper arm.

“Thank you for coming.”

The corners of Sebastian’s mouth flexed in the hollow imitation of a smile.

He and Philip were similar in build, his brother taller by an inch, and looking at each other was like staring into a mirror. Except staring into a mirror did not usually unsettle him as much as this.

“Of course.”

The duke’s study was a sanctuary of quiet elegance, a place where power was wielded not with swords, but with ink and careful deliberation.

Lined with towering walnut bookshelves, displaying a wealth of leather-bound volumes, the room bore the unmistakable scent of aged parchment, polished wood, and the faintest trace of coffee from afternoons spent in contemplation.

African masks were mixed with ormolu clocks and marble statues, speaking to their family’s storied legacy.

A large, ornately carved desk of dark mahogany commanded the center of the room, its surface impeccably arranged—a heavy silver inkstand, stacks of correspondence meticulously aligned.