Page 62 of The Courtship Trap
Sebastian stilled. Every ounce of breath left his lungs. The room seemed to tilt. Slowly, he turned to glance at Lorenzo, who had also gone very, very still.
Richard was here.
With his wife.
Waiting for him.
His grip on the doorframe tightened.
So. The guilty party had come to explain himself. Sebastian’s jaw clenched as he forced himself to breathe. “Very well,” he said, voice like ice.
Without another word, he stepped past Campbell, then descended the stairs with agitated strides. He would hear whatthey had to say. And then, by God, he would decide whether or not to break Richard’s jaw.
Sebastian stepped into the family drawing room, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the doorframe. The tension in the room was palpable, thick as fog over the wintry Thames. Richard was pacing the length of the carpet, his movements restless, his cravat visibly loosened as though he had been tugging at it in frustration.
And Richard’s wife, Sophia, sat primly on the settee, her delicate hands fiddling with her gloves. The firelight cast a warm glow over her flawless complexion, her red-blonde hair shining like burnished gold beneath the soft lamplight. She was dressed in a blue gown that complemented her striking blue eyes, which lifted to him the moment he entered.
Sebastian was momentarily struck by her serene beauty.
How could Richard—a man who had spent years as a notorious rake, but who now supposedly valued his reformed reputation—be so foolish as to betray such a fine female? A wife like Lady Saunton, graceful, mild, the picture of quiet dignity? The thought only fueled his anger.
He hovered near the door, his massive frame stiff with restrained fury. When a man was as large as himself, he could not afford to let his emotions overtake him. Losing his temper had consequences. He had spent years perfecting control, knowing that if he so much as shoved another man in anger, the force could send them sprawling.
But by God, he wanted to pummel Richard.
The pacing. The nervous energy. The guilty fidgeting with his cravat.
Sebastian’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.
He waited. Waited for one of them to speak. Waited to hear whatever excuse Richard had prepared for his betrayal. Butmostly, he waited because if he spoke first, he could not trust himself to do so without his anger boiling over.
Sebastian’s brows lifted in surprise as the countess’s voice, cool and unwavering, cut through the tension in the room.
“My husband has informed me of the misunderstanding that occurred at Hyde Park,” she said, folding her gloves with precise movements before setting them aside. “He has explained to me at great pains that he cannot share the details of his conversations with Lady Slight. And I have informed him that it is time for Lady Slight to forgive herself and that you, Lord Sebastian, are the only one who can help her do so.”
Sebastian stared at her. This was not the quiet, docile gentlewoman he had assumed her to be. There was steel beneath her polished exterior, a formidable strength in her tone that caught him off guard.
Intriguing.
He flicked a glance toward Richard, who looked both miserable and relieved that his wife had taken the lead in the conversation.
Sebastian’s temper, which had been coiled tight as a spring, slowly began to ease. He stepped farther into the room, his large frame filling the space.
Sophia’s blue gaze remained steady, assessing him with a frankness that left no room for pretense. “Sit.”
He arched a brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“You need to hear the truth,” she said, unruffled by his towering presence. “And you need to decide whether you are a real man—one who can take the good with the bad when it comes to the woman you love. Because people are not perfect, Lord Sebastian, and it takes strength to accept both their virtues and their failings.”
Sebastian hesitated, then slowly sank into the nearest chair.
For the first time in hours, he was willing to listen. If he were honest, he was relieved that someone had appeared to take control of the situation that had been spiraling since he had awoken to find the painting hanging above his head. The countess made him, and apparently her husband, feel like a poorly behaved child with her firm tone, but if it calmed the terrible tempest running through his large body, he was all ears.
Harriet curled deeperinto the corner of her settee, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she could hold the broken pieces of her heart together. She should have known better. She had played a dangerous game, and now she had lost. Worse, she had lost him.
She had been granted a second chance at happiness and had wrecked it as thoroughly as she had that final day together when they had celebrated St. Valentine’s. She was a bad person to the core, and she was doomed to a lifetime of unhappiness because of her terrible nature. Perhaps it was in her blood, Bertram Hargreaves’s ultimate revenge for trying to escape his influence to become a better person.
The quiet crackle of the fire was soon drowned out by the sound of determined footsteps. She barely had time to swipe at her damp cheeks before the door to the painted room swung open.
