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If only she had realized the mistake she had been making all those years ago.

If only she had eloped with him to Calais.

Surely, she would not now be seeking redemption for the past five years.

Years spent in the high-society prison of her own making.

Her soul would still be intact, not broken into so many pieces that she no longer knew if they could ever be gathered again.

“… serendipitous,” she finished weakly, realizing that Sebastian had raised a quizzical eyebrow when she had failed to complete the sentence.

What would it be like to turn back the clock?

To be married now to the handsome gentleman seated across from her. Would they have had babes of their own by now? The mere thought of it made her eyes burn with unshed tears.

His arrival felt like fate toying with her for its own secretive amusements.

Six months ago, she might have laughed it off, reaching for a bottle of wine to dull the ache.

But now—now, when she was attempting to change the course of her life, when her emotions lay raw and her sobriety was so vital …

It seemed as though the gods themselves had chosen to mock her, presenting her with a tantalizing glimpse of what could have been.

She could almost hear them sneering from their lofty perch: See here, Harriet!

See what you missed out on, you foolish girl!

Sebastian’s face broke into a devastating grin, and Harriet had to fight the urge to clap a hand over her heart, which had lurched painfully in her chest.

“Serendipitous?” His voice held a teasing note. “You mean, of things that are serendipity? You still remember that?”

Harriet blinked, struggling to recover her wits as she considered what he had just asked.

“The anecdote you told … of the writer Horace Walpole?” Her voice remained steady, though it took all the courage she possessed to continue.

“That he shared his coined word with his cronies at his literary clubs, your great-uncle included, in reference to the Persian tale, The Three Princes of Serendip ? There is little I have forgotten of our time together.”

It cost her dearly to make such an admission.

After so many years of glib nonchalance, it was almost painful to allow even a hint of her younger, more candid self to resurface.

But she supposed she owed him at least a modicum of honesty, especially after pretending his gift had been of so little import just the day before.

“Serendipitous,” Sebastian repeated the word, his tone thoughtful, as if experimenting with its new form. “Walpole himself would be envious he did not think to use it in that manner.”

There it was—a hint of appreciation in his expression.

Harriet watched him carefully and guessed the hurt she had inflicted yesterday had now been undone. A relief, because there was no possibility she would relinquish her most prized possession, not even to make amends.

If she gave up the painting, she feared the last splinters of her soul would be scattered beyond redemption.

Anything good she had done in the past five years—every sign she still possessed a heart — had been because of that painting.

It represented reflection, remorse, and an iota of hope that she was not entirely lost, arriving during her darkest hours after she had wed a man as old as time himself, and it had served as salvation from the endless despair of not having accompanied the man she loved.

The mere knowledge that he still existed somewhere out in the world, that he still thought of her with any fondness after all that had transpired, meant more than she could ever confess to another living soul. It was all she had left of … them.

Her lips curled in response, though she struggled between joy and melancholy at being near him after so long apart.

“The thing is, Harry, it turns out the painting was done by my partner’s ancestor. The only painting we know of by Matteo di Bianchi, and Lorenzo is quite frantic to obtain it,” Sebastian declared.

But Harriet barely heard him. Her attention was fixed—utterly and completely—on a single word. Harry . No one had called her that since him. Surely it meant that he still held some fondness for their shared youth?

She was overpowered by memories. Walking through the woods at Avonmead. Exploring the great library within its walls. Routing through the treasure trove of art stored within the attics—paintings of far-off places, dreams captured in oil and canvas.

Spending time with Sebastian had been the happiest moments of her youth. Of her entire life. Why were the gods so cruel as to visit him upon her now?

And then it struck her—an overwhelming desire to experience it all again. To recapture even a moment of the girl she had been, racing about Wiltshire with Sebastian at her side. A time when she had truly believed that one day they would marry and then every moment would be the happiest of her life.

Sebastian rolled his shoulders, his expression clouded with concern, as though he were waiting for her to speak. When Harriet continued to stare back at him, caught in the maelstrom of her memories, he pressed on.

“Could you tell me whom you gave the painting to?”

Harriet tilted her head, the question pulling her back from the past. She went over his last words in her mind, gathering the threads of their conversation once more: “… Harry … the painting was done by my partner’s ancestor … only painting we know of … quite frantic to obtain it.”

The implication struck her. The painting must hold great value. He was determined to reclaim it.

And now—now, Harriet found herself equally determined. Determined to grasp even a glimmer of the joy she had once felt in his company.

“Do you recall whom you gave it to?”

Her scattered thoughts coalesced into a single, bright, resolute purpose. A decision. There would be hell to pay when her Mentor learned of her manipulations, but she could not allow this opportunity to slip through her fingers.

“I do.”

Sebastian leaned forward, his movement drawing the navy wool of his coat taut over his broad shoulders. The motion caught Harriet’s gaze, as she drank in the masculine form that made all other men seem pale by comparison.

“Who is it, then?”

Harriet’s mind raced, calculating how best to present her proposal. Bluntness, she decided. It would have to be bluntness.

He waited for her to speak, watching as her expression shifted, her face settling into soft, resolute lines.

A premonition stirred within him, as though destiny itself was striking, poised to alter the course of both their lives.

“I will tell you where the painting is—if you court me for the holidays.”

Sebastian jerked back in surprise, the back of his skull knocking against the padded chair.

For a moment, he was painfully aware that his jaw hung open, yet he could not recall how to close it.

“Wh … I … you …”

He drew a deep breath, gathering his scattered wits. “I cannot wed you for a painting.”

Harriet broke into a giggle, the sound so light and unexpected that it left him more unmoored than her proposal.

“A wedding? For a painting?” she echoed, her lips curling in amusement. “No. I only wish for a courtship. Just a couple of weeks.”

She paused, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips, a gesture that drew his gaze before he dragged it back to her face.

As though she needed a moment to gather her thoughts, she finally continued.

“I am staying in Town for the holidays, and it is all rather depressing, would you not know it? I thought … perhaps I would like to recapture the magic of our youth.” Her voice softened, tinged with vulnerability.

“Before you return to Italy. You are returning to Italy, are you not?”

Sebastian nodded. “I am.” He wondered if he should pinch himself to confirm whether he was truly awake or trapped in some impossible dream.

“Right.” Harriet’s voice was steady now, her posture poised, and there was a determined tilt to her chin that made him sit up a little straighter. “So, court me until Christmas Day, and I will inform you who currently possesses the painting.”

He sat back, stunned by the request. Court her? The thought echoed in his mind, refusing to settle.

Harriet—Harry—had drawn herself up, shoulders back, her expression fixed with a familiar stubbornness that he remembered all too well. She was prepared to be obstinate, and when Harriet made up her mind, she was a force no man could easily redirect. Still … she wished him to court her?

This was an unexpected revelation. He supposed he should feel vindicated, learning that she regretted the past as much as he did. That she, too, had wondered, as often and as painfully, what might have been if things had turned out differently.

But why now?

Pondering, he searched for any ulterior motive behind such a request. Could it be that she was simply bored?

Or perhaps despondent during the holidays and wished for a bit of diversion?

Perhaps she had no current paramour to liven up the season?

The mere notion of her with a lover troubled him more than he cared to admit.

“I am not willing to conduct an affair, Harry.”

Her face fell slightly, her light dimming to be replaced by an emotion he could not quite place.

“Have you not heard?” A faint smile touched her lips, though it lacked warmth. “Lady Slight no longer has affairs, darling. She has become quite a bore in recent months.”

Sebastian lifted a hand, rubbing it across his face as he tried to make sense of it all.

No longer has affairs?

He remembered her mention of recent changes, but he had not grasped what she meant. Had she truly dismissed her paramours?

By choice? Or necessity?