Page 10 of The Courtship Trap
But she had been afraid—terrified—of walking away from the marriage her father had arranged to Lord Slight. To turnher 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 agreater 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 risefrom 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.
