Page 36 of The Courtship Trap
Harriet inhaled sharply, the world outside suddenly overwhelming. The streets bustled with life—carriages rolling past, street vendors calling out their wares, gentlemen tipping their hats to passing ladies. It was familiar, all of it, but in this moment, she felt unmoored. As if she had stepped out of time itself.
She had been a girl again just moments ago, her heart light with possibility, the future sprawling before her like an open road. Now, she was a woman grown, a woman who had made mistakes, who had burned bridges, who had lied.
The scope of her mistakes pressed against her chest.
She had lied. Again. What a terrible decision that had been. She had told Sebastian she did not have the painting. And because of her past betrayal, only compounded by her recent lie, this—whatever this was—could go no further. Because no matter how much he might still feel for her, no matter how much she might still long for him, the moment he learned the truth, it would be over. She had done this to herself, ensuring her own heartbreak by breaking trust with him a second time.
Swallowing hard, she let Evaline take her arm, guiding her toward the waiting carriage. She would enjoy this charade while it lasted. Pretend, for a little while longer, that she had not already ruined everything.
CHAPTER 7
That heart appealing word, “Obey,”
Drives half thy loveliness away;
Turns thy warm heart as cold as clay.
The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)
The carriage rattled over the cobbled streets of Mayfair, its interior warm and quiet, yet Harriet could not summon any sense of comfort. She sat with her hands folded primly in her lap, but her mind raced like a horse bolting toward a precipice.
Sebastian sat opposite, speaking with Evaline, and Harriet did her best to focus on their conversation, but her thoughts would not still. Every time she dared glance at him, at the strong lines of his face, the way his cravat was slightly loosened as if he had already run a hand over his throat in exasperation, the memory of his kiss burned through her like a brand.
A kiss like that should not have happened.
Not after everything. Not after she had deceived him.
Her fingers curled into her skirts, and she turned to look out the carriage window, the passing townhouses blurring together. How had she let it come to this? She had told herself that she had only meant to indulge in a sliver of nostalgia, to recapture a fragment of the past, and yet her heart beat like a drummer marching into battle.
Foolish. It was all so foolish.
She had spent the last few months trying to be someone else, trying to be stronger, wiser, and better than the idiotic girl who had let him go. And yet, the moment he had touched her, she had felt undone, unmoored, as though no time had passed at all.
And the worst of it? Her fresh falsehood stood between them.
If it had only been the past to contend with, she might have dared to hope. But she had committed an act so inexcusable that there could never be anything real between them. Not now.
The painting.
Her throat tightened. He trusted her, even now. Despite everything, he trusted her enough to enter this strange courtship with her. And she—wretched fool that she was—had looked him in the eyes and told him a lie. An untruth she could not undo.
She forced herself to listen to the conversation between Sebastian and Evaline, desperate for a distraction.
“… your husband died?” Sebastian was asking.
“He did,” Evaline answered, her voice light despite the morbid subject. “Shot in a drunken brawl with his own pistol.”
“My condolences, Lady Wood. Your husband was …” Sebastian stopped as if he were struggling to find pleasant sentiments about the brutish Lord Wood, infamous for solving his arguments with his very large fists. “Excellent at pugilism.”
Evaline let out a small breath, her lips quirking. “A diplomatic phrasing.”
Harriet finally turned her head, grateful for something else to focus on. Presumably, he had heard something of the matter, considering his family connections, but he had been in Florence at the time so perhaps did not know the full story. That Evaline mentioned the scandal at all meant that she had decided to relax the proprieties with Harriet’s lofty suitor—a high compliment from such a proper woman.
“Sebastian has only heard whispers, I imagine. He does not know the full tale.”
Evaline hesitated, then set aside her embroidery and met Sebastian’s gaze with a wry quirk of her lips. “Well, my husband—rest his soul—was a proud man, but not a wise one. He had a rather spectacular gift for making enemies.”
Sebastian arched a brow. “I gathered as much.”
