Page 43 of The Courtship Trap
“I did,” she admitted, “though I confess, I have always found something rather sad about wild creatures in cages.”
He nodded slowly. “They are trapped, yes. But in a way, they are safer than they would be in the wild. Some of those animals would never survive beyond those bars.”
Harriet turned her gaze to him, studying the thoughtful set of his mouth. “Is that what you believe? That captivity is preferable to danger?”
Sebastian looked at her then, really looked, and for a moment she thought he might respond with truths too raw, too real. But instead, he only offered a faint smile. “It depends on the creature, I suppose.”
The carriage came to a halt, jolting them slightly. Harriet glanced out the window and saw the familiar wrought-iron gates of Hyde Park.
“We are here,” Evaline announced cheerfully, adjusting her gloves.
Sebastian stepped out first, turning to offer his hand. When Harriet placed her fingers in his, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold ran up her arm.
They entered the park, the gravel path crunching beneath their boots. The air was crisp, and though the trees had long since shed their autumn foliage, Hyde Park was still lively. Children bundled in coats and scarves ran ahead of their governesses, laughing as they kicked up the last remnants of frost-covered leaves. A young couple strolled arm in arm, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. A gentleman cantered past on a fine black gelding, his breath clouding in the cold air.
Evaline, ever the sociable one, soon spotted an acquaintance—a matronly woman in a fur-trimmed pelisse, accompanied by a daughter of marriageable age. She paused to greet them, offering Harriet and Sebastian a polite smile before turning away to engage in conversation.
And then, quite suddenly, Sebastian took Harriet’s hand. She barely had time to register the sensation of his fingers curling around hers before he was leading her away, stepping behind the thick trunk of an ancient oak.
“Sebastian—”
And then his firm, warm lips were on hers.
The world tilted.
She gasped, her fingers gripping the lapels of his coat as all sense of cold vanished. This kiss was different from the one at Hatchards—where that one had been impulsive, this one was deliberate, searing, demanding. He pressed her against the rough bark of the tree, his gloved hand cradling her cheek, tilting her face up to him as if he could not bear even a whisper of distance between them.
It was madness.
But Harriet had never felt so alive.
She melted into him, letting herself drown in the taste of him, the feel of his body against hers. The years between them, the regrets, the lies—none of it existed in that moment. There was only this, only him.
When they finally broke apart, she was breathless.
Sebastian’s forehead rested against hers, his breath warm against her chilled skin.
“This is a mistake,” she whispered.
He exhaled, his fingers still tangled in her hair where her bonnet had slipped. “Then why does it feel so right?”
Harriet closed her eyes, her heart pounding like a wild stallion bucking against its master.
If she were another woman, if she had made different choices, she would go with him to Italy. She would leave all of this behind, abandon the burden of her mistakes, and become his.
But she was not that woman.
And she had lied.
The thought sliced through her like a blade, sharp and merciless.
She wrenched herself away, wrapping her arms around herself as if to hold in the ache that threatened to spill over.
“I cannot continue,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Knowing it is a pretense is breaking my heart.”
Sebastian stared down at her for the longest time. Then he said the one thing she had not dared to allow herself to hope for. “What if it is not a pretense?”
Harriet’s head snapped up.
