Page 48 of The Courtship Trap
Philip’s expression hardened. Darting a glance at Richard, he inclined his head. “As you wish. But I will repeat my warning—the apple does not fall far from the Hargreaves tree.”
Their cousin leaned forward, his tone conciliatory. “And sometimes a person defies expectations by rejecting the example their parents have set.”
Sebastian examined Richard, surprised by the unexpected defense of Harriet. Had the earl truly reformed so thoroughly? Even worse than Richard had been his late father, unfondly referred to as the Earl of Satan in reference to the Saunton title.
Since returning to England, Sebastian had been told about Richard’s conversion to honorable conduct. How was it that Philip could remain close friends with Richard these many years during his licentious activities, but the duke would make no concessions that Harriet might, too, have redeemable qualities?
The earl stood up after his remark, proposing a game of billiards in an obvious ploy to lighten the tension, but the other men declined. The earl had had quite a change in character in the years Sebastian had resided in Italy, acting as peacemaker the entire evening, and raising Sebastian’s suspicions of what his cousin was about. Was he merely trying to ease tensions?
In Sebastian’s experience, Richard was rather self-absorbed with his own pleasures, so it was still startling to see him making an effort to mediate in this manner. Even the lack of a fine French brandy in his cousin’s hand after such a lavish dinner was an unexpected development. What did Richard stand to gain from all this?
Sebastian regretted maneuvering Harriet into attending this dinner in the first place. Everyone had been on tenterhooks, and despite their foreknowledge of her attendance, they had seemed taken aback when she was actually announced. There had been so many undercurrents at dinner, he had worried that Harriet would be pulled into a whirlpool and swept away before he could grasp hold of her.
He took another sip of coffee, but it tasted bitter now.
CHAPTER 10
Beneath the moon’s soft silver light,
We wandered through the tranquil night;
Your hand in mine, our hearts entwined,
In love’s sweet dance, our souls aligned.
The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)
Harriet wrapped her hands around the porcelain cup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as she stared into the fire. The painted room was a sanctuary, but tonight, even its familiar elegance did little to soothe the constriction in her chest. The events of the evening had left her raw, her composure stretched too thin. She had sat through dinner with people who despised her—people who had every right to.
She had smiled, spoken when spoken to, and kept her back straight, but now that she was alone, her past sins crashed downupon her. The guilt was a noxious thing, curling in her belly like smoke from a dying candle. Sebastian. Perry. Brendan. Her cowardice.
Even now, she writhed with remorse over the afternoon she had drunk far too much wine, protesting the loss of another lover to a less sophisticated woman, and had tried to seduce Brendan in his own home. Until his wife had walked in and caught her embracing the panicked baron who had been trying to tear himself away.
How could Sebastian forgive her when he learned the truth? How could anyone forgive her? She had been a terrible person. Now she could only claim to be a regretful person. It was surely premature to claim she had the right to be considered good after all her sins.
A quiet knock at the door startled her. Jem’s small freckled face appeared in the dim candlelight.
“M’lady,” she whispered. “You have a visitor.”
Harriet frowned. “At this hour?”
The girl hesitated. “It is Lord Sebastian.”
Her stomach dropped. Light played over her silk-wrapped knees as she set her chocolate aside, forcing her voice into calmness. “Send him in.”
Jem disappeared, and a moment later, Sebastian stepped inside, closing the door behind him with quiet precision. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, though he had loosened his cravat. His gaze swept over her, from her loose hair to the Parisian negligée peeking from beneath her thick wool wrapper, the lacy garment being one of the indulgences of her old life that she still clung to.
“You should not be here,” she murmured.
“And yet, here I am.”
Harriet tilted her head, studying Sebastian in the glow of the fire in the hearth. He seemed unsettled, his usually sharp gazeunfocused, as if he were warring with thoughts he had no wish to voice. His lips were pressed into a firm line, his hands clenched at his sides, and though he was standing mere feet away from her, he looked as if he were caught in the grips of something far away—something painful.
“Sebastian?” she asked softly, rising to her feet.
He did not answer.
Instead, in two swift strides, he closed the distance between them, his hands framing her face before she could react. His lips claimed hers in a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs, deep and unhurried, as if learning the taste of her, memorizing the feel of her beneath his hands.
