Page 5 of The Courtship Trap
Sebastian exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening over the letter.
Curse the compact world of the British aristocracy—fate, it seemed, was the cruelest of mistresses indeed.
CHAPTER 1
In vain I seek to calm my mind,
And reason’s aid implore;
For still, alas! I find
Thy image haunts me more.
The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)
DECEMBER 8, 1821, LONDON
Sebastian drummed his fingers against the arm of his padded chair, doing his best to keep his voice low in respect for their host’s home. He and Lorenzo had arrived in England a mere ten days ago, along with their Italian friends, Marco and Angelo Scott, after Marco had recently revealed himself to be heir to an English baron. Sebastian supposed he and Lorenzo should move into theduke’s townhouse now that Marco had wed the day before, but the thought of being in such proximity to his older brother simply squashed any inclination to be considerate to the Scott household.
So he and Lorenzo remained, likely outstaying their welcome, especially when they continued to quarrel with such regularity. Drawing a deep breath, he restated his position in Italian. There were footmen in the breakfast room beyond the connecting doors to be mindful of.
“You must be patient, Lorenzo.”
Lorenzo spun on his heel to face him with a glower, throwing out his long, lean arms in an effusive gesture that spoke to his dwindling patience. Not that Lorenzo was patient at the best of times.
The truth was that they were at a deadlock. Lorenzo had managed to convince Sebastian to come to London, but now that he was here, he had no desire to meet with the woman who had possession of the painting that Lorenzo was so frantic to view. His friend’s obsession to uncover the truth about his ancestor had reached new heights in the past month, matched only by Sebastian’s increasing reluctance to approach the widow.
“We have been here an eternity! Our friend has met a maiden and married, while you continue to delay!”
An eternity was a hyperbole. Only ten days, but Lorenzo was agitated, so Sebastian suppressed a grimace of guilt. Their lucrative partnership was straining as his friend was growing ever more frustrated, but … Sebastian growled, mindful of the servants in the next room as he replied in his accented Italian.
“The time is not right.”
Lorenzo sucked in air deeply, his exasperation written in every line of his tall form.
“The time is never right! What is it about this … this … this bit of muslin that has you hiding under the stairs like a schoolboy?”
Sebastian straightened in warning. Harriet was no bit of muslin, and he would not stand for any insult of her in his presence.
“Watch how you act!”
Lorenzo shook his head vehemently, his rapid Italian rising in volume to Sebastian’s embarrassment as he glanced toward the doors. Grabbing a spindly chair from the corner, Lorenzo dragged it over to plop down with an earnest expression.
“No! Not this time, Sebastian! You keep delaying, and it is unlike you to behave so cowardly. We need that painting if I?—”
Lorenzo broke off, his expression that of defeat. Sebastian knew it was momentary, and his friend would not let this matter go. But how was he to explain the torment of losing the woman he loved? How long it had taken for him to carve out a sliver of peace in Florence?
He did not wish to recall the dark days when he had left London in a heartbroken rage so many years earlier. When he had run from his past—from what could not be because he had been powerless to affect the rigid constraints of polite society in pursuit of his heart’s desire.
If not for Florence, Sebastian well believed he would have just kept running until he had found the edge of the earth and dived into the infinite abyss. His return to London was as difficult as he had anticipated. Perhaps more so.
On the other hand, his conscience remonstrated that he had made a commitment to Lorenzo to assist him with the painting, and despite his troubles, he could acknowledge that he had been dragging his feet.
“You are right. My apologies, Lorenzo.”
Lorenzo, wordless but fuming, scraped his chair back abruptly so that it teetered on its back legs. Sebastian hastily reached out to grab it as his friend stormed out, his footsteps sounding loudly as he retreated down the hall.
With regret, Sebastian took to his feet and made for the breakfast room, worried about the potential scene that had unfolded to those within earshot, and to his disappointment, he found Marco sipping on a cup of coffee. Stalking over to the sideboard and rifling around, Sebastian turned to take a seat at the table with a laden plate.
